Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1

by Tony Black

  Chapter 26

  Brennan jotted down the names listed as Carly’s ‘known associates’. He halted before placing a full stop, touched his tongue with the tip of the pencil, then planted it in the notebook.

  ‘Right, listen up,’ he addressed the team.

  The room fell quiet.

  ‘DC McGuire and myself are going to be out of the office for a day or so…’

  McGuire perked up as his name was mentioned; Brennan hadn’t told him he was going to Pitlochry.

  ‘We’re leaving for the north and we’ll be tracking down some of Carly Donald’s known associates, seeing what we can find. I do not want to hear anything second hand. I repeat: anything comes in, you dial this!’ Brennan held up his mobile phone. ‘You tell me right away if there are any developments in my absence. Got it?’

  Together: ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lou and Dave… I want you to handle the media.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Brennan frowned, shook his head. ‘Now, what do I mean by that? This: you take it straight to the press office… After you’ve told me, of course.’

  Both grinning: ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I don’t need to remind you the media are going to start jumping up and down as soon as they discover we have a missing child on our hands. We want to delay that eventuality for as long as we can. Hopefully, the first the press know about it will be when we announce the child is safe and well, but we have to be prepared for the worst. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Brennan tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket, threw the jacket over his shoulder and paced for the door. ‘Come on, Stevie, we can collect your Clearasil on the way…’

  The team jeered the DC. ‘Go get ’em, Stevie… Shag a sheep for me, mate!’

  Brennan allowed himself a smirk. The way things were progressing on the case, there would be precious little room for laughter. He knew if he didn’t find Carly’s child soon the chances were slim that he ever would. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t have another young life on his conscience. He felt a surge of pity and tapped at his breast pocket where he kept the scan picture Lorraine had given him.

  In the station foyer Brennan was stopped by the desk sergeant. ‘How’s it going, Rob?’

  Brennan inverted a smile. ‘You know, Charl.’

  Charlie leaned over the desk, acting conspiratorial. ‘What’s Princess Prada saying?’

  He knew better than to feed office gossip. ‘Just the usual.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  Brennan motioned McGuire to get the doors, threw him the car key. ‘Bring round the Passat, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the DC left, Brennan leaned over the counter, lowered his tone. He could see Charlie’s eyes lighting up. ‘You know Lauder thinks she’s got a thing for him.’

  ‘That right?’

  Brennan showed teeth. ‘I shouldn’t say, but I heard him talking about her coming on to him.’

  ‘Get away.’ Charlie’s mouth drooped.

  Brennan straightened himself. ‘Probably just idle chatter — wouldn’t pay it any heed.’

  The desk sergeant nodded. ‘You’re right. That’s how rumours get started, mate.’

  Brennan winked at him as he headed for the door. Charlie’s old face was unreadable; like a piece of clay on a potter’s wheel, it waited for a new form to emerge.

  Outside the wind cut. Brennan buttoned his jacket, stamped his feet on the pavement. He could smell the brewery on the breeze; he hated the smell. It was the city’s scent, the defining characteristic that seemed to sum the place up for him. Where he grew up the air was clearer; Ayr was famous for it. The wind that washed over the Irish Sea brought clarity, the smell of seaweed and promise. Edinburgh had none of that. It was the smell of squalor and confusion and desperation that summed up the city for Brennan. They said it was warmer on the east coast but he didn’t believe it. Growing up in Ayr it seemed to have been all sunny days, golden summers and smiling and joking with Andy. Those days were gone.

  McGuire lowered the window on the Passat as he pulled up. ‘Ready to go, boss. Want to drive?’

  Brennan walked to the passenger side, stayed quiet. When he was in he put on his seat belt and nodded. ‘Come on, then, let’s get going.’

  It took them an age to get out of the city, onto the main road. When they started to pick up speed, Brennan opened his window a few inches. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Because if you do, there’s always the bus.’

  McGuire nodded. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  Brennan took out his cigarette packet, looked at the purple square on the front and frowned. ‘Got to get some proper fags.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Silk Cut… Think they’re for folk with sore throats.’

  ‘Trying to give up?’

  ‘Cutting back.’

  ‘They’ll kill you, y’know.’

  Brennan pushed in the cigarette lighter, said, ‘There’s a lot of things that’ll do that.’

  McGuire nodded. He put on the blinkers to overtake a heavy goods vehicle. There was an unfamiliar expression on his face. ‘Sir, can I ask you something?’

  The lighter pinged; Brennan removed it. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Why did you join the force?’

  Brennan lit his cigarette, held it between his fingers and exhaled his first drag slowly. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  McGuire took his eyes off the road, glanced at the DI then back to the car in front. ‘Most of the people I ask these days talk about the pension, or some bullshit about never seeing a policeman lose an argument… But I’d say you were different.’

  Brennan took another drag, squinted at McGuire through the cigarette smoke. ‘Oh, I’m that.’

  McGuire put the Passat into fifth gear, planted his foot. ‘You don’t rate many at the station, do you, sir?’

  Brennan knew where this conversation was going. ‘Like Lauder, you mean?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, son. Me and Lauder have a score to settle, that’s all.’

  McGuire coughed on the back of his hand. ‘Is that your br-’

  ‘Stevie, change the subject, eh.’

  ‘Sir.’

  They drove in silence for a few miles. Brennan noticed how the fields and trees altered his mood. It was a release to be getting out of the city. He wound up the window, stubbed out his cigarette. There was a twinge of regret building in him for the way he had treated McGuire. The DC was trying hard to make an impression. He was just a boy after all; Brennan could remember being his age, once.

  ‘I always wanted to be a police officer, even when I was very young. My brother wanted to be an artist then, but we were both told early on that we’d be going into the family business. My old man was a small-time builder — we were both to get trades. I was having none of it. I joined up as soon as they’d have me and that was that.’

  McGuire smiled. ‘You rebel.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘What about your brother — did he become an artist?’

  Brennan looked out over the fields again. The sun painted a yellow glow on the grass. ‘No… Andy went into the family firm.’

  McGuire seemed to have sensed it was difficult territory for Brennan — talking about his brother; he changed the subject now. ‘So, Pitlochry… Never been. Has it got its fleshpots?’

  Brennan laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, it’s like any other small Scottish town.’

  ‘A shit-hole, then?’

  At McGuire’s age, Brennan had thought every small town in Scotland was a shit-hole; it was funny how your opinions changed with maturity. ‘I suppose it depends what you’re looking for. We’re not going to paint the town red, Stevie, we’re investigating a murder.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Brennan was happy that the tone had returned to a familiar formality. He withdrew his notebook,
scanned the names he’d jotted down back at the station. ‘What sort of impression did the local woodentops make on you, Stevie?’

  McGuire breathed out slowly, slapped his hand off the steering wheel. ‘Well, they were a bit shocked to get my call at the start, to be honest…’

  ‘More used to dealing with calls about some young farmer up to his nuts in a ewe!’

  McGuire laughed, slapped the wheel again. ‘Nice one!’

  Brennan clawed him back in: ‘Anyway, once they got over the shock of having a murder squad on the way up…’

  ‘Erm, quite cordial, I suppose.’

  Cordial — where did he get these words? Brennan never used words like cordial, certainly never at McGuire’s age. The benefits of a private education no doubt, he thought. ‘Well, we’ll be putting their hospitality to the test, so we’ll find out. I hope they’ve got a phone line.’

  ‘I brought a whistle, just in case.’

  Brennan put his notebook back in his pocket. ‘I want to start with Carly’s best friend. Lynne Thompson.’

  ‘Right, I’ll get her brought into the station.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. We’ll go to the home… Want her to be comfortable enough to speak, not frighten her off.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Thompson girl’s parents?’

  McGuire creased his brows. ‘No, Lou did… They were very helpful, apparently.’

  ‘That’s country folk for you.’

  ‘Yeah, apparently the poor girl’s devastated. Off school, not eating.’

  ‘Did she give anything away?’

  McGuire shook his head. ‘Sorry, boss… She’s bemused, by all accounts. They were best friends and the pair of them didn’t really mix with the rest of the youngsters in the town, so she’s a bit lost without her.’

  Brennan lowered his voice. ‘She must have known about the pregnancy, then… Maybe she’ll know the father.’

  McGuire nodded. ‘Yes, maybe. What you thinking? Local boy?’

  ‘One thing’s for sure: if she was seeing someone, a friend like Lynne would have heard about it. Teenage girls don’t keep that kind of thing from each other.’

  McGuire dropped a gear, put the blinkers on again, pulled out to overtake a slow-moving caravan. ‘Why do they let those fuckers on the road?’

  Brennan agreed; but steered the conversation back on course. ‘What about the head?’

  ‘Staggered. Seriously strung out. Carly hadn’t been at school for the last few months. She’d been kept off with — get this — depression. The school had no idea she’d given birth.’

  ‘ Depression?’

  ‘Certified… I spoke to the doctor: he said she was depressed after the birth and it was quite normal.’

  ‘What about before? If he was signing her off school with depression before the baby was born then he must have had his reasons.’

  McGuire eased the car back into lane. ‘He’s a family doctor, sir. Said there were a lot of issues surrounding the birth. He didn’t want to stress the mother out in her pregnancy with worry about small-town gossip and thought it was better for all if she was kept off school. Seemed genuine, and fair enough to me.’

  Brennan drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He dipped his head, pushed in the cigarette lighter once more. ‘Okay, the girl first, then… Let’s hope Lynne’s got something that we can use to find out who killed her best friend.’

  They spent the rest of the journey in silence, punctuated only by the pinging of the cigarette lighter and McGuire’s overrevving of the engine.

  When they reached Pitlochry it was just as Brennan remembered it. He’d been there on a family holiday — when they still took family holidays — to the Highlands a few years back. He’d taken the road off the A9 to check the place out and remembered Sophie complaining because she wanted to get to the hotel to watch Friends. The town was small but not without its appeal, he thought. It had once been a popular tourist spot with the Victorians, who took to the scenic setting and the proliferation of spires and sturdy Scots baronial architecture. The town centre said solidity, a Presbyterian longing for respectability. Knowing what he did, it seemed like hypocrisy to Brennan.

  ‘Nightmare to get parked here,’ said McGuire.

  Brennan soaked up the feel of the place — it screamed to him of a vanished country. The days of men in tweed and brogues were gone, he thought — that was all just dress-up for the hunting, shooting and fishing mob — but there was something about Pitlochry that said the look was still de rigueur. ‘Check out the Barbour jackets.’

  McGuire sighed. ‘Christ, thought I’d seen the last of them at uni.’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘The last time I came up here I thought it was quite, what’s the word… quaint?’

  ‘I’d bet if you stopped and talked to one of the Barbour mob they’d be Home Counties… Or Notting Hill. This part of the country’s just a playground for the seriously well-heeled.’

  Brennan agreed. ‘Makes me a bit queasy now.’

  ‘What’s changed you?’

  He shifted eyes. ‘Maybe I suddenly developed awareness.’

  McGuire dragged the gears. ‘Traffic’s seizing up.’

  Brennan nodded to the road. ‘Over there — it’s our home from home.’

  McGuire turned towards the small building with the police sign, blue with white lettering. ‘By the Christ… It’s like something out of Dixon of Dock Green.’

  ‘Is a bit,’ said Brennan. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  McGuire steered the car towards the station, parked outside with two wheels on the kerb. As he got out of the driver’s door he eased his hands onto the base of his spine and leaned back. Brennan exited on the other side of the Passat, rubbing the back of his neck. He was relieved to get the journey out of the way but apprehensive as to what to expect on this visit. He was an outsider in unfamiliar territory. Much as he despised the city, he had grown accustomed to its ways and felt comfortable there. Pitlochry was an unknown quantity and he expected it would take time for both of them to get used to each other.

  Brennan headed for the front door of the station. He watched McGuire stretching on the pavement and nodded gravely. ‘Come on, we’re going in.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  Brennan squared his shoulders. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘That sounds worse.’

  A frown, thinned eyes. ‘I hope you’ve got my back.’

  McGuire laughed, patted the detective’s back. ‘No worries.’

  The station smelled of mould and bleach, the cheap industrial bleach that comes in powder form. Brennan flared his nostrils as they approached the desk. There was a black plastic pen sitting in a pen holder the same colour, that looked as if it would be more at home in a branch of the TSB circa 1975. Some crime- prevention leaflets were piled next to a small Perspex rack. There was a bell, like a front-door bell, screwed into the counter. Brennan pressed the button; a buzzer sounded.

  There was no movement. He toyed with the idea of pressing the button again, then a stout man in uniform, three stripes on his arms, approached. He seemed to be ignoring Brennan as he leaned over the counter and showed him the top of his bald head. Brennan turned to McGuire, raised an eyebrow then removed his warrant card and dropped it in front of the uniform.

  For a moment the bald head remained in place, then slowly it was raised and a hand with ginger hair sprouting from the knuckles picked up the card. ‘Inspector Brennan… You must be the boys from Edinburgh, eh?’ If there was any hint of a welcome, Brennan missed it.

  He played it calm; he was on foreign soil. ‘That’s right.’

  The uniform took two steps to the left, released a catch under the counter and raised a section that sat on two hinges. ‘This way.’

  Brennan nodded McGuire through first. On the way past the uniform he retrieved his warrant card and said, ‘How long have you been on the desk?’

  He leaned forward. ‘Too long.’r />
  ‘You got that right.’

  Brennan turned. As he walked through the small vestibule his shoes sounded loudly on the pine boards. He thought the place could do with a lick of paint, but concluded that was probably low on the list of things they needed.

  McGuire found a door on the other side of the room that led through to a corridor. The uniform called out from behind them. ‘Out there, left then first on the right. Can’t miss it. Fergus is your man.’

  Neither of the officers thought to thank him. They headed through the door and walked up the corridor. At the end, on the right, a panel door held a small grey plate that read DS NAPIER. Brennan knocked on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  Once inside, the officers were greeted by a head of curly brown hair that sat over the top of a copy of the Press and Journal newspaper. Napier had his feet on the desk and a pair of argyle socks showed below three to four inches of pasty white leg.

  Brennan approached. ‘This is DC McGuire and I’m DI Brennan from Lothian CID…’ He had thought this would be enough to prompt some kind of a reaction, but Napier remained still.

  Brennan looked at McGuire — he shrugged.

  ‘Right then, if you can just show us where our office is-’

  ‘Office?’ Napier chuckled. ‘You’re bloody well standing in it.’

  Brennan put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, that makes one of us… When you’re finished checking the day’s form, Detective, I’d like to see what you’ve been doing up here with the information my colleagues have supplied you with surrounding the murder of Carly Donald.’

  Napier uncrossed his feet, lowered his legs. As he moved he folded the newspaper and positioned it on the corner of his desk next to two empty coffee mugs.

  Brennan eyed him impatiently. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Napier replied. ‘Oh yes, I hear you… sir.’

  Brennan could feel his heart rate increasing. He had come a long way and was prepared to be as amenable to the local customs as he could be, but he wasn’t going to be pissed about, certainly not in front of one of his staff. ‘Good. Nothing wrong with your hearing then; shame I can’t say the same about your fucking manners.’ Brennan removed his hands from his pockets and leaned over the desk. ‘You might as well get your arse out of that chair, fella. If this is where we’re working from, I’ll be having the desk.’