by Tony Black
‘Oh well that’s all right then isn’t it.’ Sarcasm was a hard act to pull off thought Brennan — his wife was an expert at the dark art but Benny could do with taking a few lessons from her.
‘When I spoke to the Sloans they were hardly loquacious… I didn’t see this coming.’
The Chief Super paraded the length of his desk, turned briskly. ‘And did you warn them not to speak to the press?’ his tone was brusque.
Brennan played it straight, ‘No.’
‘ No?’ He made a show of almost choking on the word.
‘I didn’t think it was necessary.’
A loud tut. ‘Well this article,’ he pointed to the newspaper where Brennan had placed it on the edge of his desk, ‘… shows how wrong you were.’
Brennan watched as Benny’s face flushed, his neck muscles looked tense above his collar. ‘I would take the same decision again; as I said, the Sloans were deeply traumatised when I spoke to them, I never imagined for a second…’
Benny cut in, ‘That they might unburden their grief on a sympathetic journalist!’
‘Exactly. It seems out of character for them both.’
‘But not out of character for you, Rob.’
Brennan felt a pressure forming behind his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I follow your reasoning, sir.’
The Chief Super folded his hands behind his back, loomed over Brennan. ‘I mean you have hardly been on top of this investigation from the start.’
Brennan felt the urge to leap from his seat, clamp a fist round Benny’s pencil neck and squeeze till the lead popped out the roof of his head. He watched him, held his gaze firm, then released a slow trickle of words. ‘Again, sir, I’m not sure I follow your reasoning… Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation a little later on, when you’ve calmed down.’ He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, made to ease himself up.
‘Sit down, Rob!’ Benny’s eyes glowed; Brennan could see he’d pushed a button in him. When he spoke again, he was pointing at the DI with his outstretched index finger, ‘Need I remind you of your little overtime stunt, which you undertook contrary to my expressed wishes… And then there’s the matter of drawing a profiler from Strathclyde when you know full well the procedure we are operating in these straitened times is a quid pro quo with Northern… And now, this…’ He reached out for the copy of the News, raised it in the air and then slapped it down on the desk, in front of Brennan.
The DI pushed himself further back in the chair; he crossed his fingers together but remained silent. He had overextended himself with his last remark and he regretted it now. The trouble was that he was irritated by Benny, he felt the man diminished the role of Chief Superintendent with his presence. Brennan had taken orders from people he didn’t rate in the past, shiny arses, careerists, people who would have been better suited to the board of Markies, but he had never taken orders from anyone like Benny. The man was as prepossessing as a maiden aunt; he lacked the muscle for the job. When he thought of his situation, Brennan felt it was like being reprimanded by an effete children’s entertainer, the type he had watched on television with his daughter years ago. Had it come to this? Is that really what was flying up the ranks these days? Brennan found himself staring out the window, switching off to the monotonous tirade that was being lavished on him.
‘Are you listening to me, Rob?’ said the Chief Super.
Brennan drew back his gaze, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you will understand my predicament, will you not?’
‘Predicament, sir?’
Benny exhaled a long breath, ran a thumb over the edge of the desk and removed himself to his seat. ‘DI Brennan you are presiding over an investigation which is descending into farce.’
‘I would dispute that entirely.’
‘Would you now?’
‘Certainly.’
Benny leaned back in his chair, he picked up a yellow pencil with a rubber on the end, twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s your opinion.’
Brennan smiled, a wide one. ‘I’d be happy to have the case, and my management of it, looked at by an independent source if you are so dissatisfied.’
The Chief Super stopped moving the pencil, seemed to stare through Brennan. He knew that Benny had no real grounds to criticise, the investigation was going as well as could realistically be expected in the circumstances; his complaints were pettifogging and if he brought in the officers’ rep he would be a laughing stock. Brennan knew also that the last thing anyone wanted in the force was to be looked at too closely; you never knew what they might turn up.
‘Is that a veiled threat, Rob?’
Brennan slackened his grin, unhooked his fingers and splayed his palms forward. ‘I don’t know what you mean… sir.’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean, but let me tell you this, Inspector… I will not be undermined in my authority, be it overtly or covertly, do I make myself clear?’
Brennan remained still.
Benny continued, ‘I have now pointed out to you three matters of a disciplinary nature that have come to my attention. You have a shaky record on this force and if there is a fourth incident you can be assured of some serious action.’
Brennan lowered his hands, placed them on his knees. ‘Serious action… By that I presume you mean you would put Jim Gallagher in charge of the murder squad.’
Benny smiled now. He leaned back in his chair and patted the trim of the desk with his fingertips. ‘I don’t need any excuse to put Jim in charge immediately.’
‘I don’t understand. This is my investigation.’
The Chief Super folded his arms, pitched himself forward. ‘No Rob, on my force, they are all my investigations.’
Brennan felt his temperature rise, the pressure behind his eyes became a slow, persistent thud that made him grip his back teeth in an effort to still the beat. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I think we need some new blood, Rob… And I think Jim could be just the man to inject that.’
Brennan felt himself drawing fists beneath the line of the desk; he stared at Benny, smirking before him, and felt an urge to rise from his chair and slap him about the head. He knew the game he was playing, his predecessor Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway had played it too — it was called divide and rule. If Benny thought he was going to get away with that though, he was mistaken; Rob had anticipated the move, and set up a road block of his own.
‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’
Benny laughed, ‘Oh really, Rob.’
Brennan rose, started to button up his jacket. ‘You see, I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow. I’ve got the Sloans appearing centre stage — alongside myself, as investigating officer — and we’re going to make a televised plea. Now, I’m no expert on the media, sir, but if you were to shuffle the deck right now I’d say there’d be a few hacks asking why it was Jim and not me fronting that up.’
The Chief Super’s face stilled, for a moment his jowls hung grey and limp, and then he shook himself back to life. ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this?’
Brennan turned for the door, ‘You just were, sir.’
Chapter 28
Neil Henderson stood outside the gates of Edinburgh High and watched as the last of the school’s pupils headed for home. He had watched the succession of family cars, saloons and 4x4s, coming to collect the pupils and felt something like envy creep into him. Everyone, it seemed, had a comfortable place in the world, except him. When he weighed his lot — thought of the grimy flat in Leith that he shared with Angela — he felt left out. The game of life had short-changed him.
How could it have been any different though? he wondered. As a boy, Henderson had followed his mother around the town like a beaten dog; she had no interest in him, he was merely an inconvenience — something that got in the way of drinking bouts and boyfriends. He didn’t like to be reminded of those days, tried never to think of them, but the visit to the school grounds had brought them back. He was
spending a lot of time looking into his past now and it did nothing but make his heart pound and head hum.
Henderson lit a cigarette, his first since arriving at the school — the rain had prevented him from smoking for the best part of an hour. He was wet, his hair sitting in dark rat tails above his damp collar. He let his fingers linger over the lighter flame for a moment, then quickly buried it in his pocket. The tobacco tasted good, calmed him. The smoke seemed to swirl around his head, block out his thoughts. He took some more deep inhalations, filled his lungs on every gasp.
Henderson knew there was a risk attached to what he was about to do. He had just left prison; if the filth were to hear of his actions, he’d be looking at another stretch. Would that be so bad though? he wondered. His life hadn’t exactly played out as he’d hoped since he got out. It was early days, of course it was, but his appraisal of the future didn’t look any brighter. Angela was in no shape to be walking the Links, she was an overdose waiting to happen, couldn’t be relied upon. And his debt to Boaby Stevens was being called in. The passing image of Shaky’s pug-faced enforcer felt like a dig in the ribs. The next encounter would be worse, he knew it, and the picture it put in his head played as clearly as a movie now. Henderson felt a quake pass through his body, shook him to the bones. He brought the cigarette close again, snatched three quick draws and exhaled the white trail of smoke through his nostrils.
At the time the debt had seemed manageable to Henderson, and it was — with two girls on the Links every night. But not now, not with Ange in her advanced state of atrophy, with her mind and body shot. It was a miracle she was bringing any money in at all; he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t fucking pay for that,’ he muttered to himself.
Henderson knew he needed to find Shaky’s money, fast. The film spooled in his mind again, showed him lying beaten and broken, bones poking through his skin. He’d had beatings before, for a time when he was a youngster they were a daily occurrence, but he’d moved on from them quickly. As a bullied young boy, Henderson had learned that if he couldn’t beat the bullies, he could join them; and he dispensed a more brutal form of beating than he’d ever been exposed to himself. He smiled as he remembered the torture he’d doled out as a youngster, and later, to the women on the Links.
‘The fucking tarts.’ He wasn’t going to be brought down with Ange, or snuffed out by Shaky. ‘No fucking danger.’
Henderson started pacing the gates; he was growing impatient, wanted to get it over with. He always felt this way before an act of violence, it was as if the impending thrill built up in him and then it could only be released by committing to the damage he had promised to deliver. He scented the blood, he was sure of it.
At the school the cleaning staff started to arrive, old women in tabards with water-bag legs pushing mops and buckets around the place. Henderson sneered at them, they were trash. His mother had cleaned offices in the city, she had worked her fingers to the bone for a pittance; he wasn’t going to follow her. He’d had it good before and he would again; all he needed was a break.
He knew the minute he had started to read Angela’s diary that there was a chance for him to make a few bob for himself. This was a teacher she was going on about, a square peg. Henderson remembered the teachers from his school days: they were all full of themselves, thought they were better than him, thought they were better than everyone. He still despised them. The same social worker that had described him as ‘self-loathing’ had also detailed his ‘reluctance to accept authority’ — he agreed with her. He didn’t like being told what to do by stuck-up twats who looked down their noses at you. And here was one of them, trying it on with a schoolgirl. Even though it was only Angela, and in Henderson’s eyes she was worthless, the teacher, Crawley, had no idea about that. As far as Henderson saw it this was a square peg acting out of turn and he was going to have to pay the price for it; his price.
Henderson watched as the teaching staff started to exit the school building. They were just as he remembered them, just as they always had looked. It was all jackets and ties, pinafores and packed-lunch boxes tucked under the arm with a copy of the Guardian. They all headed off to their Volvos and their Audi estates, some clutching armfuls of exercise books that they’d spend the night poring over with a red pen. He remembered the way they went on about that, the marking. How they’d spent their whole night on it and how disappointed they were with some of the work. They always meant him, thought Henderson. They always hated him. He smiled, it didn’t seem to matter that much now. It might have then, years ago, but things were different. He knew what they were really like, he’d seen through them.
As he stood at the gates he felt a speck of rain fall on his face, he looked up to the sky. Dark clouds had gathered over the roof of the school and perched there like gargoyles; there was another downpour on the way. He put up the collar on his denim jacket, it felt cold and damp against the skin of his neck. He didn’t want to get another soaking but Henderson knew he had to see this job through now. He couldn’t wait any longer, he had waited long enough. There was the problem of people losing interest too; he hadn’t seen or heard any more on the television or in the newspapers about the murder out at Straiton. People were funny these days, they had short attention spans. All it took was a new signing at Hibs, or someone to make an arse of themselves on Britain’s Got Talent, and the news was full of nothing else. He shook his head at the idea of more middle-class men in suits from the press attempting to thwart his plans.
He leaned in closer to the wall, tried to shelter himself as the rain picked up its pace, fell harder. He had asked Angela for a detailed description of Crawley. She had been reluctant at first, even the thought of it seemed to rattle her out of her wits, but she conceded in the end, with some encouragement. He hadn’t even needed to take his belt off again.
Angela said Crawley was a games teacher, always wore a tracksuit and was lanky. He had large hands that looked too big for his long arms and they flapped about when he spoke and when he walked. He sounded odd, like he would stick out.
Angela had said, ‘He is — he looks like a rat — he’s got a rat’s face, pointy.’
Henderson replayed her description now, tried to make sure he had all the information in place. He couldn’t afford to mistake him for someone else, or, worse, miss him entirely. There was too much at stake for that.
‘He’s got pale hair, it’s thin and wispy, and sits low on his forehead. And he sweats a lot, like he’s just been out for a run. His hair’s always sticking flat to his forehead too, when he’s sweating…’ She trailed off then.
Henderson had watched her start bubbling with tears, and when he asked her for more of a description she folded over on the mattress and held her sides. He realised that was his lot. It would have to do.
The main door of the school building opened and a man carrying a gym bag appeared; he wasn’t wearing a tracksuit but Henderson was sure of his identity at once. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his foot, and started to cross the car park in pursuit of the man. He put his hand in his pocket, gripped the Stanley knife’s haft. He watched his subject pitch up on his toes to manoeuvre himself around the wing mirrors of two closely parked cars, then he placed his bag on the ground in front of the driver’s door of a silver Corolla.
Henderson watched and followed in silence. He let Crawley open the door, shove his gym bag over to the back seat, and then get inside the car. He broke into a jog as he heard the ignition being turned. As he reached the side of the vehicle he grabbed the handle of the Corolla’s passenger’s door and stuck in his head.
‘Mr Crawley?’ he said.
A wide-eyed stare greeted him. ‘Yes.’
Henderson had the Stanley blade out of his pocket as he jumped into the front seat. He took the blade, forced its edge into Crawley’s line of vision — made sure he had a good look at it — then rested it on the pink flesh of his neck. ‘We’re going for a wee drive, Mr Crawley.’
The teache
r’s face lost all its colour, his thin lips began to tremble. Henderson noticed he did indeed sweat a lot, a line of perspiration rolled towards the Stanley blade.
‘ W-what?’ he said.
‘You fucking heard…’ Henderson drew back his fist, put the butt of the knife into the cheekbone. Crawley yelped in pain and dropped his head towards the wheel. ‘Now get fucking moving before I take your throat out with this.’ Henderson shook the blade before the teacher’s face.
Crawley settled his hands on the wheel, engaged the clutch.
Chapter 29
Neil Henderson kept the Stanley knife tight in his hand as Crawley drove out of the school gates. His palm grew sticky around the warm piece of metal, he felt his fingers ache. There was a passing moment when he wondered if he had done the right thing, or if he had made a mistake that was going to deliver him straight back to the prison he had just left. The thoughts goaded him, raced around inside his head so fast that he started to feel a dull ache in the back of his skull. What choice did he have? he asked himself. He couldn’t rely on Angela to come up with enough money to keep Boaby Stevens quiet, for even a little while, and he had no other prospects. Henderson felt forced into his actions, driven by circumstance: he had to free himself of Shaky; maybe after that he could think about what he was going to do with his life. Right now it wasn’t an option — he almost laughed at the thought of backing out. Options like that were for other people, the square pegs; folk like teachers. Though not Crawley, he had no options left.
Henderson gripped the knife even tighter, but his whole hand stiffened; he shifted the blade into his other hand and stretched out his fingers on the stiff one. As they pulled into the traffic, he caught sight of Crawley moving his eyes towards him. He didn’t like Crawley looking at him, he didn’t like Crawley full stop; he had a face like a rat, pointy; just like Angela said. ‘You just keep watching the fucking road,’ he roared, smacked the Stanley blade off the dash; the noise made the teacher flinch.