Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2)

by Tony Black

  ‘If you’re looking for the latest on Jim Gallagher, you’ll have a long wait,’ said Brennan. He walked towards the coat stand and fished in the pockets of his overcoat for cigarettes, but found none.

  Collins walked towards Brennan with an outstretched hand; as the DI looked down he saw the packet of cigarettes and a plastic Bic lighter. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘So, what now, boss?’ said Collins.

  Brennan removed a cigarette from the packet of B&H, looked at the clock on the wall. He knew what he wanted to be able to say, but it relied on one more person offering him the support he needed. ‘Where’s Elaine?’ he said.

  ‘Erm,’ Collins seemed unsure of his response. ‘Good question.’

  As the room turned, started to hum with possibilities, the WPC and DS Stevie McGuire walked through the door; they were smiling together, but the smiles evaporated as they came into contact with the others’ stares.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said McGuire.

  Brennan lit his cigarette, blew smoke into the room. He set his gaze on Elaine, ‘I need a volunteer, I need a WPC to tease out our suspect.’

  McGuire turned from Brennan and walked towards his desk; the DI tipped back his head as he awaited a response. ‘Well, do you think you’re up to it?’

  Elaine nodded briskly, ‘Yes, sure … What do I have to do?’

  As she responded, Brennan felt his pulse settle, he brought the cigarette towards his mouth and inhaled deeply. ‘That’s great, Elaine. I’ll fill you in on the logistics soon,’ he flicked ash from his cigarette tip onto the carpet tiles, ‘but you’ll be impersonating our recent victim, playing possum at her flat.’

  She smiled, ‘Will I need my high heels, sir?’

  ‘You just might.’

  Brennan patted Elaine’s shoulder, returned the cigarettes and lighter to Collins and walked towards McGuire’s desk. The DS was poring over a folder, making annotations in the margin with a Biro.

  ‘Stevie, got time for a word?’ said Brennan.

  The DS dropped the pen, slapped the folder closed, and stood up. He made no eye contact with Brennan as he quick-stepped towards his office at the end of Incident Room One. As Brennan watched McGuire, he felt as if he had made a miscalculation somewhere along the line, but he wasn’t sure where. In his office, Brennan closed the door gently, then walked around to the other side of the desk, said, ‘Take a seat, Stevie.’

  ‘I’d sooner stand … sir.’

  Brennan turned down the corners of his mouth, ‘Suit yourself.’ He watched as McGuire turned away from him, folded his arms. It seemed a petulant stance, like one a teenager would adopt. It was tempting to slap sense into the lad thought Brennan, and then he calmed his spirits. ‘Is there something bothering you, Stevie?’

  The DS sighed audibly, ‘Oh, let me see … Now what could that be, sir?’

  ‘She’ll be perfectly safe, she’ll be wired.’

  McGuire leaned forward, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty … Is that going to make an ounce of difference?’ He turned his shoulder, raised an arm towards the incident room, ‘Have you seen those pictures up there on the board? … What chance is she going to have against that bastard?’

  Brennan placed his elbows on the desk, locked his fingers together. He allowed a few seconds of silence to settle in the room, gave McGuire a moment of reflection. ‘I wouldn’t put her in any danger; come on Stevie, I don’t see Elaine complaining.’

  McGuire reeled back, placed his hands on his hips, ‘That’s because she’s too fucking ambitious for her own good … And you’re just taking advantage of that!’

  ‘No, I’m not. She’s been working the clubs with Collins and she’s proven herself … She’s the best person for the job.’

  McGuire stared at Brennan, lifted his hands from his hips and smacked them off his thighs, ‘Fuck the job!’

  Brennan rose from his chair; he could see eyes directed at him through the glass. ‘Stevie, now calm down.’

  ‘I’m serious; look at the state of this case: Gallagher’s made cunts of us all and now all you’re concerned about is getting him back, righting wrongs any old way …’

  ‘Stevie, that’s not true.’

  ‘Bullshit! … I thought you would never put your team in danger, thought you looked out for people, but I was wrong.’ He turned for the door, yanked the handle. As he exited, the door swung behind him then clattered into the frame.

  Brennan pressed his fingernails into the edge of the desk, lowered himself into his chair. He watched McGuire stride through the office at pace, all heads turning towards him; as he left the main door of Incident Room One the DS had lost none of his fervour.

  Chapter 48

  DI ROB BRENNAN travelled in the front of the van with Collins driving; there was a hint of rain in the air outside but the threat of more to come hadn’t materialised by the time they reached the roundabout at the Playhouse Theatre. There was already a number of people queuing in the taxi rank – young girls in short skirts and young boys looking them over, digging elbows in each other’s sides as they went. Brennan felt a shudder of despair as he looked out at the familiar landscape of the Edinburgh streets. He was tired of the city, nothing there offered him any surprises now. In another hour or so the shivering teenage girls would be holding their shoes in their hands, staggering and puking into the gutter. The boys would be throwing fists and holding burst noses or pissing against shop doorways. Edinburgh never changed; the city was like a production line throwing off skinny, spotty yobs who blocked the streets and cells and made the DI wonder when or if he would ever be free of it. He knew he was being hard on the place, but it was his job to know the real city behind the Georgian façade of the New Town and the whisky-soaked bonhomie of the Old Town. Brennan recalled the statistic that in London you were never more than six feet from a rat; in Edinburgh, he knew, the same distance could be applied to junkies, pimps and pushers with some degree of accuracy.

  ‘The state of that,’ said Collins, nodding towards a drunk negotiating a zigzagging path towards the traffic lights.

  ‘He’ll not last the night,’ said Brennan.

  ‘He’ll be lucky to last to the end of the street before some wee ned has him pummelled …’ Collins turned briefly to face the DI, ‘rite of passage these days, isn’t it.’

  Brennan watched the drunk hanging on to the light at the pedestrian crossing, but didn’t answer Collins. He started to roll down his window and took out a cigarette from a new packet of Embassy Regal. The cold wind from the street filled the cab and sent Collins reaching for the heater. Brennan took the hint and rolled the window up a little but left enough of a gap for him to knock the ash from the tip of his cigarette onto the road. As the van rolled onto Leith Walk, he thought about his temporary lodgings on nearby Montgomery Street and wondered what there was to keep him in the city now. He knew, of course, the answer was his daughter. Sophie was still here and she needed him, even if she didn’t know it and would certainly never admit it. As he took stock of his life’s worth, Brennan knew it was a thin tally to account for his time on the planet; he hoped for better for his daughter, didn’t all fathers?

  Brennan knew Angela Mickle had deserved better too, as had Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. None of them deserved what their tragically short lives had amounted to. It gored Brennan to think of the way they had suffered, how their families had suffered. None of it was remotely comprehensible to the DI, but then he knew that was the way it should be – it would take a sick mind to understand the likes of Crawley. The teacher had preyed on youngsters in his care and moulded them into objects of his sick fantasies. Brennan knew there would be lawyers and psychiatrists who would try to explain away Crawley’s actions, but the thought of any kind of clemency for him made Brennan’s guts tighten. He felt only revulsion for the man. There were two clear sides: the victims and the perpetrator, and Brennan knew which side of the chalk line he stood on. He felt his jaw locking tight as he thought of Crawley; there had never been a time when h
e had strayed completely from his duties as a police officer but Brennan knew he would reverse all of that to give Crawley a glimpse of the true terror he had brought to those young lives. The case had worked its way under Brennan’s skin; had he grown too close to the investigation? he wondered. Yes, probably. But he was only human, he had seen the faces of those victims, heard the cries of grieving parents – how could it not affect him? As they turned off Leith Walk, the DI knew for certain that if he failed to catch Crawley the job was over for him; too much damage had been inflicted on him already, another blow would be his last.

  Brennan threw his cigarette butt from the window, and pointed Collins towards a gap in the traffic. ‘Pull in there.’

  As Collins parked up, Brennan looked out towards the grey tenements sitting under the fast-darkening sky. He tapped a fingernail off the dashboard and turned round towards the back of the van, ‘You guys set?’

  The pair monitoring the wire nodded, raised thumbs. ‘Sir.’

  Brennan turned to Collins, ‘Right, let’s join them.’

  As they moved towards the back of the van, they collected headsets – the DI spoke into his, ‘Stevie, you in position?’

  The line crackled, ‘I’m on the back green.’

  ‘What’s the SP?’ said Brennan.

  ‘No movement, I have WPC Docherty in plain view …’

  Brennan nudged himself up in the back of the van; it was cramped with four grown men in such a confined space but he hoped they wouldn’t be there for too long. The DI had gambled on Crawley taking the risk of tackling Angela Mickle to remove the diary that Henderson had flaunted in front of him. It was, he knew, a long shot; but Crawley’s profile indicated a strong risk-taking streak and he had already approached the victim with threats. Brennan knew there was also the fact that both Lorrimer and Wullie had confirmed his own fear that Crawley was destined to kill again – had an urge to – and he had a ready-made target in Angela Mickle, knew she could offer little resistance.

  Brennan spoke into the microphone, ‘Elaine, can you hear me all right?’

  A whisper, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. We’ll keep contact to a minimum. If he shows, don’t try to engage him physically … If he speaks, we’ll be listening in, but the second he gets actually threatening you know what to do.’

  The WPC’s voice was soft, low. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bluebell … Just say the panic word and we’re in there.’

  Brennan looked out towards the tenement through the one-way glass on the side of the van; he could see the WPC standing in the window, staring down at the street. She was in the same style of black dress that he had seen Angela Mickle wearing on the day she was found in the field out at Straiton. Her hair had been styled in the same, unkempt fashion as the murder victim; as she brought a cigarette up to her mouth, Brennan felt the similarity between the two young women strike him; he suddenly felt the unease of another life on his conscience.

  ‘OK, Elaine, move back from the window and put the light on,’ said Brennan. ‘After that, you can pass the window, but don’t get up too close …‘

  There was no reply. The men in the van waited for the light to go on in the flat; as it illuminated the room, Collins spoke, ‘Showtime.’

  Brennan pushed the back of his head against the side of the van, sighed. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Collins covered his microphone as he engaged the DI, ‘Do you think he’ll appear?’

  Brennan shrugged. ‘There’s a hope.’

  ‘He’s never been to the flat before, how will he find it?’

  ‘He found her on the Links … And she was a brass turning tricks at home, how hard can it be?’

  Collins removed his hand from the front of the mike, craned his neck towards the street. A man driving a blue Fiesta was pulling into a parking space on the other side of the road. ‘What kind of car does Crawley have?’

  ‘A silver Corolla,’ said Brennan.

  ‘Nah, that’s a Fiesta.’

  The DI looked at his watch; the iridescent flashes on the hands shone out. He knew it was still early, but already a void of tension had set up in his chest. Outside the van, the full gloom of the night sky settled over the street and the rooftops. The orange haze of street lamps burned against the black road and a thin moon reflected on the scene. Brennan listened to the hiss of static on the wire but heard nothing; he felt an urge to prompt the team but stilled it as he became distracted by noise beyond the van. A woman’s laughter came interspersed with loud clacking heels on paving flags but was quickly drowned out by a booming stereo from a passing car. The fast-moving vehicle shook the van where it sat in the street and prompted Collins to roll his eyes.

  ‘Some wee boy racer.’

  Brennan nodded. The laughing woman came into view, held up by a man in a business suit; his florid tie caught the wind and came to rest on his shoulder. The occupants of the van watched as the pair lolled down the street, stopping every few steps to grab handfuls of flesh and press their mouths together in violent gulping motions.

  ‘Someone’s on a promise,’ said Brennan.

  Collins broke into guffaws, ‘Going to be a knee trembler tonight.’

  The officers watched as the man positioned his hands on the woman’s backside, allowed one to stray beneath the line of her skirt. ‘Well, it’s good to know romance isn’t dead,’ said Brennan.

  ‘Jesus, get a room,’ said Collins, ‘… A close at least.’

  The man in the business suit let his second hand join the other one beneath the woman’s skirt; as he did so, the woman started to raise her leg, hooked it round the back of the man’s knee. For a moment the eagerness of the coupling intensified, both heads thrashed backwards and forwards like a drunken Punch and Judy show. The woman teetered on her one heel and dropped the leg she had raised; as she stepped back she ran hands down the man’s shirt front, then started to unbuckle his belt.

  ‘Fucking hell, she’s only getting him out,’ said Collins.

  The wire operators leaned closer to the window, ‘Should have cameras on this, it’s urban porno!’

  Brennan creased his brow as he felt the van start to dip to one side; he pressed his hand against the ceiling as he attempted to raise himself in readiness for an outburst, and then the wire lit with the sound of movement from the flat. WPC Elaine Docherty spoke, ‘There’s a knock at the door.’

  Brennan clamped down the motion in the van, ‘OK, Elaine, go to the door, answer it … but remember what we said.’

  The occupants of the van fell into a tense silence as they monitored the wire; Brennan felt the skin tightening on his forehead as he brought a hand towards the earpiece and frowned. A green light flashed on the radio equipment in front of him and a jagged line was traced from one side of a small, flat screen to the next. The sound of the door’s lock turning was the first thing the DI heard and then the hinge creaked, quietly at first, and then noisily. A thud like a board being kicked echoed down the line and then the hinges screamed once more and the door was slammed hard against the frame.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ The voice was Crawley’s.

  The team waited for Elaine’s reply; it came after a pause, her words quivering over the wire, ‘Are you looking for business?’

  ‘Where’s Angela?’

  There was a rustle of clothing, like an outdoor jacket, an anorak. Footsteps trailed along exposed boards.

  ‘S-she’s out.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Crawley’s voice was high-pitched and sharp, he sounded agitated.

  ‘Just … out.’

  The sound of the anorak rustling came again, there was a muffled burst and some static on the line and then nothing.

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Brennan.

  One of the operators leaned forward, flicked a switch. The jagged line disappeared from the screen then he flicked the switch again and it reappeared as a single straight rule dissecting the screen. ‘Don’t know … Hang on.’

  DS Stevie McGuire spok
e, ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘Hold tight, Stevie.’

  McGuire’s tone pitched up a notch, ‘I’m going in. Fuck this!’

  ‘Stevie, stay in the back … Do you hear me? Stay where you are.’

  The operators worked over their equipment, pressed buttons, turned dials. Their arms jumped between the various controls, smacking into each other as they went. Neither seemed able to return the WPC’s voice to the line.

  Brennan removed his headset and said to Collins, ‘We’ve fucking lost her … Come on.’

  The van doors flew open as the officers ran into the darkened street. Collins shouted into his radio, ‘We’re going in. That’s a go.’

  Lou and Brian ran from further down the street as Brennan raced for the front door of the tenement. ‘Stevie, where are you?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Shit!’ The DI entered the stairwell, reached out and grabbed the banister, took two steps at a time as he lunged upwards. His heart was pounding, a million thoughts rushed through his mind – predominant being where the hell was WPC Elaine Docherty?

  At the first landing, Brennan leaned into the curve of the stairwell, looked upwards; he saw DS Stevie McGuire racing ahead of him. He knew this meant the back door was unguarded; he switched his point of view, turned eyes downwards but saw no more movement. As Collins caught up with him, Brennan straightened and threw himself back into the chase. He paced the hallway, then ran for the steps once more. He felt the sweat breaking on his chest and back. Collins was close behind him.

  At the final landing, he saw the door to Angela Mickle’s flat lying open. Brennan pushed himself, panting and out of breath, towards it. His lungs twinged, the air felt hot around his head as he entered the front room and took in the sight of DS Stevie McGuire knees bent, sitting on his haunches, holding his hair bunched in a fist.

  ‘They’re fucking gone!’ he said.

  Brennan wheezed forward, ‘What?’

  McGuire rose, fronted his superior. ‘I said Elaine’s gone … He’s fucking taken her!’ He pointed a finger, forced it into Brennan’s chest, ‘I told you, I fucking told you this would happen!’