Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1

by Tony Black

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ said Brennan. He could tell the enormity of the situation hadn’t registered with the woman — had we all become so desensitised? Were people inured to murder now? He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like Prime bloody Suspect showed it on the television.

  In the kitchen Lynne sat at a small folding table. There was a fruit bowl in front of her and she stared over it at a blank wall.

  ‘Lynne, this is the police officers I was telling you about.’ Mrs Thompson turned to Brennan. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Brennan… Rob Brennan. Hello, Lynne.’

  The girl remained still in her seat, absorbed in herself. She looked fragile enough to shatter into tiny pieces if the slightest breeze blew her way.

  Mrs Thompson rubbed the girl’s back. ‘Come on, love.’

  Lynne turned to her; still not a word.

  Brennan pulled out a chair, sat. He placed his hands on the table in front of them, spoke softly: ‘I hear you were good friends with Carly.’

  A nod. No eye contact.

  It was something, a start, thought Brennan.

  ‘In the same class at school?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded forced, too quiet, even for such a delicate frame.

  ‘Best friends?’

  Lynne nodded again. ‘I don’t have any friends now. There was only me and Carly.’

  Brennan got the picture: the pair of them weren’t top of the popularity stakes. He could see neither of them had that air of confidence that was required of class favourites. They were not part of the crowd of beautiful people, not performers soaking up adulation; they were followers, not leaders. ‘I know this must be hard for you, Lynne… Can you tell me, is there anyone that you can think of who might want to harm Carly?’

  She looked at her mother, then back to the detective. She shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure, Lynne?… It’s very important.’

  She shook her head again, began to pick at her fingernails.

  Brennan sat further forward. He glanced at the fruit bowl — the oranges were developing a grey fur. ‘Lynne… did Carly have a boyfriend?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Another shrug; she turned her head away. A cat leapt onto the window ledge.

  ‘You knew Carly was pregnant, didn’t you?’

  Lynne blushed. Her mother rubbed at her back again.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, she didn’t get pregnant by herself… did she, Lynne?’

  The girl started to bite her top lip. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Brennan knew she was holding out. He’d seen far better liars than her in his day; the girl didn’t even look as if she was trying. ‘Are you sure, Lynne? You wouldn’t be protecting anyone, would you?’

  Mrs Thompson put an arm round her daughter, leaned in. Lynne spun in her seat and buried her face in her mother’s chest, sobbing. Mrs Thompson waved a hand at Brennan, said, ‘I’m sorry, she’s a bit emotional.’

  Brennan leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Maybe you could come back another time.’

  The girl sobbed harder. It was all too early for her, she was too delicate to press any further. ‘Of course.’ He rose, motioned the other officers to follow.

  In the car Napier spoke first: ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

  Brennan fastened his seat belt. ‘Not at all. We know for sure and certain she’s covering up for somebody.’

  ‘ Who?’ said Napier.

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be contemplating spending the night in Pitlochry.’ Brennan lowered his window, removed his cigarettes. ‘You can take us to a half-decent B amp;B… if you can find one.’

  Chapter 31

  Brennan spent a restless night. The bed sheets were too tight, like a hospital or one of the hotels he had stayed in as a boy, with his parents, and brother Andy. He couldn’t remember having slept in such tight-fitting sheets as an adult; at home he had a duvet and was used to more freedom of movement. Although the temperature dropped in the night-time, Brennan had been forced to get up and tug everything free. The action had given him more room to move about in the bed, but didn’t feel quite right either. Perhaps it was the fact that he was away from home, in unfamiliar surroundings, he thought. When they were young, Andy and himself had never been able to sleep on any of their trips away from home; it had been too exciting, like the time before Christmas or the day before a birthday.

  Andy would have liked Pitlochry, thought Brennan. It was like their hometown — at least, how he remembered it before the economic collapse. They had now shuttered up all the shops in the high street, and all that was left was pound stores and bargain-basement outlets. The place used to have more prestige, when they were young.

  Brennan could see Andy now — it was a summer holiday memory and made him smile. Andy was playing Swingball in the back garden in a Scotland football strip. His legs were stick-thin but he wore the red socks pulled tight below the knee, the white diamonds at the top turned over with precision. He was always very precise, thought Brennan.

  The vision of his brother seemed to fade. The thought saddened Brennan; he wanted to return to the warm glow he felt when he remembered his brother but there was a part of him that said it was wrong to stay in happy moments for too long. Life wasn’t about the happy moments — there was too much sadness in the world. He knew that for every fond memory he had of Andy there was an unhappy one lurking close by; and now one appeared.

  It was summertime again.

  Brennan had came home from school, his papers signed by his housemaster — he was leaving.

  Andy knew at once. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ Brennan could never lie to his brother; he always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth.

  He told him what he had done. ‘Do you think Dad will crack up?’

  Andy tutted. ‘Bloody hell, what do you think?’

  ‘I want to go into the police. I’ve got no interest in the business.’

  Andy looked away. ‘Do you think I do?’

  Brennan pulled him back. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m joining the police.’

  ‘I heard you… Everyone listens to you, Rob. It’s me nobody pays any attention to.’

  Brennan registered the point. ‘Andy, the police is a job, it pays… Who’s going to pay you to paint pictures?’ He smirked, felt cocky, too sure of himself.

  Andy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze. Brennan watched him walk off. The collar on his blazer had been turned up and as he went the wind caught it, ruffled the back of his hair. He watched his brother walk to the end of the driveway, then turn right into the street. He could only see the top of his head above the hedgerows for a few moments but the look on his face was something he had never forgotten. The memory stung as Brennan recalled it now; even twenty years ago, Andy was thinking of others before himself.

  Brennan knew that he had thought of no one except himself when he had decided he wasn’t going into the family business. He was going to be a police officer and nothing was coming between him and his ambition. As he thought of Andy he wished he could have reversed the decision; even for a little while, to have given Andy some time to follow his own dreams like Brennan had followed his.

  Brennan rose from the bed, sat on the edge and ruffled his hair, then surveyed the stubble on his chin. Before he met Lorraine, and started the therapy, when he got into moods like this there was no way out. He could spend hours, days in despair, blackness. Now he had developed what she called coping mechanisms. He had trained himself to think of distractions. Why was he here? What was the purpose of Rob Brennan’s life? The answers to those questions depended on the time of day, he thought. He knew, as he mulled over the answer now, that his purpose was to find the killer of a young girl. It wouldn’t bring back Andy, but it might make him feel like par
t of the human race again, and that was something to cling to.

  Brennan showered and shaved. He dressed in a crisp white shirt from Burton and a sober navy tie. When he looked at himself in the mirror he saw the sleeves of the shirt were a little creased and crumpled. He had ironed the shirt himself. The days of Joyce taking care of such domestic duties had passed a long time ago — ironing shirts for a spouse was an act of love and there was precious little of that left in their relationship. If it wasn’t for Sophie, he knew he would have left her already. That’s what Lorraine wanted; she had pressed for it many times. Brennan didn’t like being pressed but there were other factors to consider now. He removed the picture of the baby scan she had given him, held it up. He permitted himself a smile — he was going to be a father again. The smile left as quickly as it had appeared; as happy as the thought of a new child made him, he knew it was going to bring complications.

  Brennan removed his mobile, searched for Lorraine’s number.

  He put the phone to his ear. It was ringing.

  ‘Hello, Rob.’

  ‘Lorraine, I don’t… I still don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Maybe there’s nothing to say.’ He hated the way she framed her responses like open-ended questions. It was shrink-speak.

  ‘There must be plenty. We have to talk about this… About what we’re going to do.’

  Lorraine sighed. He could hear her moving on the bed, the sheets rustling, the springs sagging. ‘We’ve done all the talking, Rob. It’s time for action.’

  He knew what that meant, but he didn’t know if he was ready for the next step. ‘It’s not so easy.’

  ‘You always said you couldn’t leave because of Sophie. Well, now you’re going to have another child to think about, Rob… Are you going to put Sophie before our child?’

  ‘Lorraine, don’t talk like that.’

  She stayed quiet for a moment, then, ‘It’s a choice you have to make, Rob.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as-’

  She interrupted, ‘Yes it is! It’s very simple.’

  ‘Lorraine…’

  Her voice dropped: ‘I have to go, I have appointments in an hour.’

  There was nothing more to say. The call had played out just as he’d expected it would; like all their talks recently, it left him feeling more lost than when they started. He wished he hadn’t bothered, but knew the effort was necessary, and there’d be more required.

  Brennan hung up.

  He stared at the phone for a short time, then put it in his pocket and rose. He tried to clear his thoughts, let his mind still, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to put off a decision for much longer. In the job decisions came easy — without thinking, even; it was in the wider world where he found most trouble deciding on the right path.

  Brennan walked to the dresser, collected his wallet and some coins, put on his jacket and went down to breakfast. McGuire was already at the table, finishing off a cup of coffee.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  Brennan nodded.

  ‘Any word from Napier?’

  He lowered the cup. ‘You’re kidding — it’s barely gone eight in the a.m. And there was a match on last night — Inter Milan.’

  Brennan sniffed. A waitress came over. He ordered tea and eggs, some toast with butter. She smiled sweetly and left for the kitchen.

  ‘You sleep okay, sir?’ said McGuire.

  ‘Now you’re kidding. I was wrapped up like King Tut… Guess the duvet revolution hasn’t reached Pitlochry.’ As he watched McGuire grinning, Brennan’s phone began to ring in his shirt pocket. The caller ID showed it was from the office. He flagged McGuire quiet, answered: ‘Brennan.’

  ‘Have you seen the News?’ It was Galloway. She sounded irate, her voice shrieking down the line like a harpy.

  ‘I’m in Pitlochry.’

  ‘Well, think yourself fucking lucky… You’re page one in Edinburgh.’

  Brennan didn’t like the sound of this. McGuire tilted his head, opened his mouth quizzically.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Galloway shuffled the paper. ‘They have the scoop on the case. Missing child, the works.’

  Brennan rested his brow in his hand. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yes, you may well fucking curse, Rob.’ Galloway rustled the paper some more, slammed it down on a hard surface. He could hear her stomping around her office, high heels clacking, as she blasted, ‘Now, I know it was your bright idea to give the press the victim’s name, but tell me you didn’t release the fact that her baby’s missing.’

  Brennan sat back, steadied himself. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Well, somebody did.’ The paper was rustled again. ‘“Police sources say”… Who the fuck are these sources, Rob?’

  McGuire’s face had started to grow firm. His eyes had begun to widen but now had thinned into slits. He looked perplexed, but in no doubt that the news Brennan was receiving was not good. The look of the DC unsettled Brennan. He flagged him away, mouthed a ‘fuck off’.

  ‘Look, Chief, none of this came from me or anyone authorised by me.’

  ‘So you have a mole — who is it?’

  He steadied his tone: ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, I daresay you’ve pissed off so many people that it’ll be hard to narrow down, but you better start.’ Galloway paused to draw breath for another onslaught. ‘I want you back here as soon as, Rob. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I’ve got a few leads I’d like to pursue if that’s-’

  ‘Back now, Rob!’ Her voice rose to its highest pitch. ‘Get this force off the front pages of the papers, do you hear me?’

  Brennan knew the chances of that were slim. When the press got hold of a story like this they tended to run with it, build it up and up. The only way to stop that snowball in motion was to solve the case, and he didn’t see any chance of that happening by the time of the News ’s next edition, not without a dramatic breakthrough.

  He lied, ‘Consider it done. I’m on my way back now.’

  Brennan hung up. He could sense Galloway lining up another barrage of criticisms but he didn’t give her the chance.

  As he put down the phone the waitress arrived with his eggs. He looked at them but had lost all appetite.

  Chapter 32

  Brennan opened and closed his fist. He did this a few times before he noticed the elderly woman at the table next to him watching his actions. He smiled and moved his hands out of view. He sat for a few moments, simmering. His inclination was to batter at the wall with fists, shout. He’d have been happier to batter at someone’s head, shout in their face. The someone was Lauder. He was pretty sure his only other suspect for tipping off the press, McGuire, had been on the level all day yesterday. He’d been busy too; not too busy to contact the press, of course, but absorbed enough in the case to convince Brennan that his intentions were sound. As the call from Galloway was coming in Brennan had noted McGuire’s expression, and the look of real and genuine stupefaction convinced him the DC wasn’t the culprit. Of course, Brennan knew the dangers of jumping to conclusions without hard facts to back them up.

  He got up from the table, folded his napkin and placed it over the eggs — they were untouched.

  In the hallway Brennan spotted McGuire looking out the open front door. A taxi was dropping off some golfers.

  ‘Well?’ said McGuire.

  Brennan tested, ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, something’s up… That was the Chief Super, pissed, I presume.’

  Brennan watched McGuire’s pupils for signs of dilation. ‘The press found out about the missing baby.’

  McGuire clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth wide as he pointed his chin in the air. He emptied his lungs of air, then straightened himself. Brennan watched his every movement. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Watch your language, eh.’ Brennan motioned to an elderly couple welcoming the golfers by the front door.

  The DC traced the line of an eyebrow with his finger, began tap
ping a foot on the floor. ‘Well, that’s all we need.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Yeah, but all the same, makes life difficult for us.’

  Brennan shrugged, said, ‘I wasn’t aware it was ever easy.’

  ‘Easier, maybe… How did they find out?’

  A frown. ‘Search me.’

  McGuire stopped tapping his foot, looked at his watch. ‘So, we can expect another witch-hunt when we get back, I suppose.’

  Brennan glowered; two creases like warpaint appeared at the sides of his mouth. ‘I doubt there’ll be time for that. We’re going to be seriously up against it. The scrutiny will be intense. If we don’t get rolling, get some leads soon, we can forget about getting a result.’ The thought of Carly’s murderer getting away from him burned Brennan. He didn’t want to see the case written up in a trashy true-crime book with Carly’s life and death reduced to no more than titillation. He’d seen too many cases go unsolved. He didn’t want Carly to be another Andy.

  ‘Right. Get your kit packed up — we’re back down the road,’ said Brennan.

  ‘We’re going back to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Chief Super’s orders.’

  McGuire visibly slumped: his shoulders drooped, a deep sigh deflated his chest. ‘I can’t believe this.’

  ‘Believe it.’ Brennan turned for the stairs. ‘Hurry it up. I want to see if the sheep-shaggers have clawed in any info on our man Sproul yet.’

  McGuire followed him, rested a hand on the balustrade. ‘You didn’t like the look of him, did you?’

  ‘He’s a Paisley buddy.’

  ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

  Brennan laughed. ‘I haven’t met one yet that wasn’t crooked as two left feet.’

  On the way to Pitlochry station Brennan rolled down the car window, lit a cigarette. He couldn’t get any flavour from the mild Silk Cut and wondered if he’d wrecked his taste buds with the full-tar alternatives. He seemed to have wrecked a lot lately, he thought; nothing would surprise him. He thought about his marriage and he thought about Lorraine and the baby again — he knew there were no immediate answers coming to him — the case had to come first; it always did. The rest could wait.