by Tony Black
‘You okay, son?’ said Wullie.
Brennan felt his throat go dry; his head felt hotter than a coke kiln. As he lifted his gaze to the sergeant a tremor passed through him from the ground. When it reached his knees they seemed to lose all their strength, folded beneath him. He couldn’t remember his head hitting the floor.
It was a dark, dank lane. Not the place for a party. Not the place for a carry-out, dodging the school, getting drunk with friends. It was private, though. Brennan knew privacy had a high value amongst teenagers; in Muirhouse, a dark lane where they put the bins out was somewhere no one was going to bother them. He put himself in the girls’ mindset for a moment; poor girls, he thought. A few cans, a laugh, bit of messing… They wouldn’t forget this day for the rest of their lives. He hoped it didn’t scar them too much. But then, where they came from, they had every chance of more of the same to follow. Brennan knew it was the other girl he really needed to feel sympathy for — she wouldn’t get any more chances.
The SOCO spoke, something trite about it being a sad way to meet her end; Brennan switched off. Words had no place here. Not at this point. There were no words to explain away what had happened. It seemed shameful to speak; beyond pointless. A life had been taken, in brutal fashion, and disposed of without any concern for the innate value of being. In situations like this, there was no humanity. There was no need for the pretence of civility, for language. Explaining away how we came to this pass was someone else’s job. Evaluating man’s inhumanity to man was an intellectual exercise that had no place in a dark lane where a young girl lay, lifeless, draped in her own blood.
Broken glass crunched under Brennan’s feet as he neared the white tent the SOCOs had erected over the dumpster at the bottom of the lane. There was a man clad head to foot in white, a hood on his head, exiting the tent. He put eyes on Brennan then looked away.
‘Minute… Gimme those.’ Brennan pointed to the box he held. It looked like tissues but held disposable gloves. The detective grabbed a pair, said, ‘Thanks.’
The atmosphere inside the tent was foetid. There was a reek of cheap lager and sugar-rich fortified wine that had mingled with the sweet smell of blood and the sweat of grown men, overdressed in too many layers of protective clothing. Brennan was used to the stench. He pulled on the gloves, snapped them onto his wrists.
He could feel people watching him as he moved. This was his show. He was the main act, the one who would make sense of this mess. Brennan slowly paced back and forth, always keeping the dumpster in the corner of his field of vision. He looked at the ground, sat on his haunches and scraped at the terrain. ‘This footprint’s been cast, has it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A SOCO photographer came into the tent holding a large Nikon with a mounted flash; he looked at Brennan and turned around.
‘Just a minute.’
The photographer returned. ‘Sir.’
‘Let me see that.’ Brennan took the camera from him. He flipped it over, pointed the long lens to the ground and looked at the small screen on the back. The camera had stored the crime scene perfectly. As Brennan spun the wheel he kept looking around, checking nothing had been missed. He handed the camera back.
‘Get those back to DC McGuire.’
The SOCO raised the camera, spoke: ‘I wanted to get a few more with the new card in…’
‘After I’m done. Wire those to the station now.’The SOCO seemed to be processing the request. ‘Now, officer.’ Brennan kept a stare on him; the man backed out of the tent.
‘You.’ Brennan pointed to another suited-up officer, on his haunches holding a small brush. ‘This printed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan stored the response, then ignored the officer. Prints were rarely of any use in this kind of situation, but a necessity. Brennan knew the number of murder cases he’d made use of prints was a low scorer. They were nearly always partials — a bit of a thumb, a palm. The good prints — the full hands, the clearly identifiable fingertips — were only useful if their holders were on record. Fine, if you were working housebreakings, where the local skag-heads and scrotes were always slipping up; but murder, that was different. Killers knew the stakes were higher. Even in a state of panic, they knew to clean up, cover their tracks.
There was a swish on the tent flap. DS Collins appeared. He had one hand in a protective glove and was wrestling the other one on.
‘Fucking things, hate them… Like johnnies.’
Brennan turned. He didn’t appreciate the stilled ambience he’d created being disrupted. ‘They irritate pricks, you mean.’
Collins grinned. ‘Yeah, something like that, sir.’
The DS walked towards the dumpster, jerked open the lid, flicked his head. ‘You seen our stiff?’
Brennan felt a flicker in his chest. He turned towards the bin. When he drew even with Collins, he shook his head. ‘Your mother must have been a lovely woman.’
The DS frowned, clearly confused. Brennan took the weight of the lid from him, pushed him aside.
As he looked inside, Brennan exhaled slowly. The girl was small, tiny. Her flesh was pale; white. Dark welds had been made at the corners of her mouth; black contusions detailed where her teeth had been clattered. Her mouth presented a dark rictus; dried blood sat at its edges and pooled in the hollow of her neck. Brennan was disturbed by how still she looked. She was almost peaceful, at rest.
‘I hear Ian Lauder’s gunning for you, boss,’ said Collins.
Brennan stared at the girl. ‘That so?’
‘Fair pissed you turfed his shooting out the big room.’
Brennan huffed, ‘Tough shit.’ He put a stare on Collins. The DS was chewing gum; it annoyed Brennan. He waited until his jaw stopped moving and then he pulled his gaze back to the girl.
There was a deep incision on her forehead, running round to her temple. Her pale blonde hair had been matted by dark blood which had stuck her to the black refuse sack she lay on.
Brennan reached in, moved some of the rubbish around her. He saw her milky-white body, arms truncated at the shoulders. ‘Do we have her arms?’ he said.
‘Nope.’
‘How do we know they’re not in here, then?’
‘We don’t.’
Brennan lifted the edge of a black plastic refuse sack. The raw butt where her arm once sat seemed to have been ripped and torn by a jagged edge.
‘What you think — saw?’
Collins leaned in. ‘Fucking cheapo one… Not electric — too rough.’
‘Why go to the bother?’
‘Doesn’t want her ID’d, obviously.’
‘If she’s from the scheme we’ll ID her without prints.’
‘Might take longer though. That’s what they’re thinking, I’d say.’
Brennan delicately lowered the black plastic. ‘That’s a lot of thinking for a pack of skag-boys.’
Collins didn’t seem to be giving the DI his full attention. He started chewing on the gum again. ‘Look, maybe it’s a trophy take.’
‘Fuck off, Collins, you can’t draw that from one corpse.’
The DS exhaled loudly, reaching into his pocket for a packet of Embassy. He took one out the pack and wrestled the rubber gloves off. ‘Well, what do you reckon, sir?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Panic, probably. If she’s local, and she’s been offed by another local, and our murderer had a bit of nous, they’d want to make it look different to every other square-go gone wrong.’
Collins moved out to the flap over the entrance. He had a cheap plastic lighter in his hand, shook it as he spoke to Brennan. ‘Maybe. Maybe… But you’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What?’
‘That girl wasn’t killed around here… There’s not enough blood for this to be the crime scene and the time of death doesn’t tally.’ Collins lit his cigarette and stepped out of the tent.
It riled Brennan, but the DS was right. ‘So the girl was hacked up to make her easier to move.’
‘Put a body in a bag, it’s gonna stand out.’
‘But put it in two or three… could be anything.’
Chapter 7
Brennan stood looking at the silent, cold body of the dead girl. She couldn’t have been much older than Sophie. He felt a strange urge to check where his daughter was; it made his heart quicken for a moment and then it passed. It was instinct, a mad spiralling of thought that denied the solipsist in him. He brushed it aside: Sophie was safe and sound. Brennan knew that it wasn’t her lot to end up in a dumpster at the end of a dark lane in a grim public housing scheme. He knew it was the fate of the poor, the indigent. They lived the types of disorganised, chaotic lives that led to heavy drinking, promiscuity, crime, violence and a higher likelihood of murder. The facts couldn’t be denied. It didn’t mean she deserved any of it.
‘Right, get that girl out of there,’ he hollered. ‘I want that bin tipped and every inch of it gone over… Anything that even looks like it might have been a murder weapon — including a ginger bottle — I want it tested.’
The SOCOs stood up, watched Brennan cutting the air with his palms. ‘And if there’s so much as a jaggy steel comb I want it looked at… She’s had her fucking arms sawn off — where are they?’
Brennan slapped the bin. ‘Come on. Move it.’
The group moved to the dumpster, white-suited arms tucked into rubber gloves gesticulating over how best to remove the debris. Brennan watched for a moment, then left them to their work. Outside the tent he followed Collins down the lane.
‘Bri, hold up,’ he said.
The DS removed the filter tip from his lips, spun on his heels. ‘What’s up?’
Brennan resisted the urge to state the obvious, said, ‘I think you’re right.’
‘Sir?’
‘My gut says she’s local.’
Collins looked around him, flagged an arm to the high-rises. ‘Welcome to the Killing Fields.’
‘Until we have an ID we need to go with what we have.’
‘We’ve got fuck all.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, leaned towards Collins. ‘We think she’s local… Most murder victims know their killer very well. If we have to shake up every bastard within a country mile of her, we will.’
Collins scratched his head, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Look, shouldn’t we wait and see what the SOCOs turn up?’
‘We don’t have time on our side, Bri… Get your boys knocking on doors now.’
As Brennan walked away he heard Collins mutter something, but he couldn’t make it out. When he turned round the DS was flicking ash onto the ground and kicking at a pothole. Brennan removed his left hand from his pocket, looked at his watch. ‘Find out when those bins were last emptied,’ he pressed his points home with a finger in the air, ‘quiz all the taxi drivers, any that were out here between the time of death and the discovery, bring them in… If anyone on the scheme still gets milk delivered, I want to know what their milkman had for breakfast… Get searching every verge, hedge, gutter, gully and fucking rabbit hole from here to the black stump. And when you’ve done that, you can turn over the tramps.’
Collins swayed where he stood, staring at the pothole. ‘Anything else, sir?’
Brennan smiled. ‘Not just now… But don’t make any plans for the weekend, eh.’
When he reached the end of the lane the reporter was still there. Uniform were keeping a close eye on her now. She spotted Brennan and started to shout at him. He missed what she said because his attention was distracted by a press photographer leaning over the roof of a squad car to get a shot of him. Brennan upped his pace towards the blue-and-white tape, ducked under and started to make his way towards McGuire’s car. As he unlocked the door he felt relieved to be leaving the scene, but couldn’t resist a final glance towards the lane. The thought of the young girl lying in the dumpster jabbed at his heart but he knew any emotional response had to be locked away. Emotions had their place, but they got in the way of rational thinking. There was a killer out there, and it would take a slow, methodical approach to catch the bastard.
Brennan turned the key in the ignition and engaged the clutch. As he turned at the end of the street he spotted a small child, two, three maybe, peering through the palings of a poorly maintained fence. The child had a colourful ball in her hands. When she saw Brennan staring back at her she dropped the ball and smiled, a wide heart-melting smile. For an instant, Brennan forgot where he was, why he was there. The future seemed full of possibilities for the small girl; life was an adventure that had just begun for her. As he pressed the accelerator pedal and sped past the child, he looked into the mirror. She was staring, waving now. Brennan lost his smile about the same time as his vehicle drew even with the lane’s opening.
‘Where’s the fucking justice?’ he muttered.
On the road back to the station, Brennan lit a Silk Cut. The taste was minimal, but he needed something to stop him grinding his teeth. It felt good to be back on the job, to be off desk duty, but he knew this case was going to test him. It was a feeling, a sense of uncertainty. Wullie had said he knew the tough cases within the first five minutes. It was an exaggeration, but Brennan knew what he meant. This job, this life, was all about following your instincts. Your head was prone to distractions, and your heart wasn’t to be trusted.
Brennan’s gut told him there was more to the young girl’s demise than was first apparent. There were too many factors at odds with each other. He felt as if he’d entered a familiar room, but some of the furniture had been rearranged — and he’d been blindfolded. He hadn’t had a case for over six months, since Andy’s death, but something told him that had nothing to do with how he felt about this case.
Brennan hadn’t wanted the leave; the Chief Super had insisted on it. She’d wanted to put him out because he wasn’t a yes-man. Galloway was a typical careerist: she surrounded herself with the types that were no challenge to her. People like the boy, Stevie McGuire. He was a no-hoper, perfect material for promotion in Galloway’s ranks. More like McGuire beneath her and her ascent was assured, carried high on their shoulders. Providing she could keep the likes of Brennan in check, that is. She still needed to rely on someone providing the clear-up rates if she was to get the Chief Constable’s job.
Galloway was going to be watching him closely, he knew that. It was all about the long game with her. All about the mental battle, wearing people down, bending them to her will. It was a power struggle, and she wanted to man the controls. That’s what the leave had been about. Brennan knew that the Chief Super wanted to break him — time off wasn’t good for someone like him. Time to yourself wasn’t good, it wore you down, made you morose. Too much time made you introspective, made you question your motives, your past, your future.
Brennan lived for the job. The job kept you busy, stopped the mind’s relentless need to go over old ground. It was impossible to replay alternative scenarios when you were holding down a DI’s job. Galloway knew he’d collapse under the weight of all that free time, thought Brennan. She knew what she was playing at from the start; it was all part of a plan.
He tried to figure out what her next play would be, but stopped himself. That’s what she wanted, surely. To have him checking himself, to have him editing his every move, second-guessing what her response was going to be. There was only one way to play it — to do what he always had done. No changes. No genuflecting to her. He knew everything rested on this case, but it was small feed in comparison with finding justice for the girl in the dumpster. No one had been looking out for her. Brennan could be the last man on earth to care about her passing. The thought leapt in him.
As Brennan pulled into the station he checked the car park for Dr Lorraine Fuller’s black Audi but couldn’t see it. When he switched off the ignition, he took out his mobile phone. There were no messages. He wet his lips, toyed with the idea of calling Lorraine, but couldn’t quite summon the strength. He knew he needed to speak to her. He knew she’d been in to see Gallowa
y and he wanted the inside track on their meeting — what had been said. What her plans were. What she was playing at now. But he knew any delving into those waters would mean diversions into choppier currents. Lorraine wanted to talk, and so did Brennan, but the conversations they wanted to have wouldn’t come to the same conclusions, he was sure of that.
At the stairs, the desk sergeant called out, ‘Rob… got a minute?’
Brennan stepped down, turned towards the front of the building again. ‘What is it, Charlie?’
The older man stroked his moustache, leaned over the counter. ‘I was up the stairs earlier…’
Brennan nodded, saw he was waiting for confirmation. ‘And?’
‘There was a ruckus… Lauder and-’
Brennan tilted eyes to the ceiling, took off. ‘Bollocks to Lauder.’
Charlie ran to the end of the counter, lifted the lid and waylaid Brennan at the foot of the stairs. ‘He was raging and calling you for all you’re worth.’
Brennan stopped, put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Thanks… but I’m not worried.’
‘I know… I know, but…’ Charlie touched his mouth, wiped a wrinkled hand down his cheek. Brennan was close enough to count the liver spots.
‘What is it, mate?’
Charlie lowered his voice, looking up the stairs. ‘Lauder was in with herself raising merry hell.’
‘About me?’
‘Everyone heard it… Couldn’t miss it.’
Brennan turned for the stairs again. ‘Is that so?’ He was used to being the fount of gossip and knew how to release the tension from these little crises. He kept his expression stone, eyes front, as he went up.
On the top floor, he approached the vending machine, dropped in a fifty-pence piece and selected a black coffee. The cup was still being poured when Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway appeared in the door of her office.
‘Rob, in here.’
He looked up from the cup, pointed to the coffee pouring in.