Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1

by Tony Black

  Inside the station Napier was pouring himself a cup of tea. An unopened pack of HobNobs sat beside the kettle. Brennan spoke first: ‘Morning, Napier.’

  A nod, nervous cough. ‘Ah, hello, good morning, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be relieved to hear we’re getting out of your hair soon.’

  ‘Oh… really.’

  Brennan smiled. ‘Don’t go all teary-eyed on us, eh.’

  The kettle boiled and Napier poured out his tea, offered the others a cup; they declined. ‘Suit yourselves.’

  The office was in the same state of disarray as the day before: a dusty old computer terminal, tea-stained tabletop, and piles of case files on the floor. There seemed to be too much dark wood about the place, and too little light; it looked like the land that time forgot. Brennan took a chair, pointed to the fax machine. ‘Anything come in?’

  ‘Oh, the Peter Sproul stuff… It’s over there.’

  Brennan motioned McGuire to pick it up, returned his gaze to Napier, said, ‘What did it say?’

  A shrug, palms levelled in the air. ‘Don’t know, I’m just in… No use till I’ve got a cuppa down.’

  Brennan rolled his eyes. ‘Read it out, McGuire.’

  ‘Sir… I don’t think you’re going to like this.’ He walked towards the desk. Brennan eased forward, propped himself on his elbows. He watched McGuire turn over the top sheet, then hand him a mugshot: it was Sproul.

  ‘He’s got form.’

  ‘Lots of it,’ said McGuire.

  Brennan stood up, took the list of charges.

  ‘Christ Al-fucking-mighty. He’s a time-served nonce!’

  ‘ What?’ Napier was sipping on his tea, spluttered. ‘Pete Sproul?’

  McGuire creased the corner of his mouth. ‘And you didn’t even know. Play much dominoes with him, did you?’

  Napier put down his cup, picked up the list of convictions that Brennan had just laid down. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He turned to McGuire. ‘Some of these are spent. He’s been inside for a fair few years.’

  ‘Yes… He’s been in Peterhead.’

  ‘Bad as that. Bloody hell. When did he get out?’

  McGuire skimmed the fax pages. ‘Hang on… Oh, right, here it is. It looks like he got out about a year and a half ago.’

  ‘I do not like the look of that. What the hell was Donald thinking, putting a paedo up in the family home?’

  Napier’s meaty neck quivered. ‘Maybe he didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh bugger off, man, not everyone’s as lax about these things as you.’

  Napier threw up his hands. ‘Look, I never saw him on the offenders’ list… He wasn’t on it.’

  Brennan sneered. ‘Maybe you were too busy making tea and stuffing your face with HobNobs. Or maybe it was just in joined-up writing and it fucking confused you.’

  McGuire jumped in, shaking his head. ‘Or you were playing dominoes.’

  ‘I–I’m not clocking the movements of everyone in the town.’ Napier’s cheeks coloured — he flushed red from the jaw up. ‘If he came in under the radar how was I to know? How was I to know?’

  Brennan made for the door. ‘Oh, stop your bleating, Napier — and just leave the police work to us, eh.’

  McGuire was shaking his head at the officer as they left the building. They broke into a jog on the way to the car. Brennan took the keys from McGuire and opened up. He had the flashing blue lights on as he spun the tyres on the tarmac and headed for the manse.

  McGuire held on to the door handle as Brennan sped down the street. There were far fewer cars on the road than in Edinburgh, and the ones that did hear the sirens got out of the way quickly. It was as though they had never seen a police car before, thought Brennan. As he drove, old ladies with shopping bags and umbrellas stopped in their tracks and stared. Brennan didn’t want to contemplate another balls-up. He didn’t want to see the Chief Super’s face if Sproul had shot through, but the way things were shaping up he began to wonder if the investigation was jinxed in some way.

  The whole town seemed to have been transfixed by the speeding VW Passat as Brennan pulled in to the manse. He put two wheels up on the kerb, pulled on the handbrake, left the engine running and got out. McGuire followed and ran to the rear of the property without instruction.

  At the front door Brennan wasted no time on the doorbell. He plucked a stone from the rockery and smashed one of the windowpanes; it shattered into tiny fragments. As he reached in, grabbed the latch, he was aware at once of the emptiness of the building. When he walked in the place was quiet. He could hear the pounding of his heart on his shirt front.

  As Brennan moved around the property there was not a sound. The place was still. He ran first to the living room, then the kitchen. McGuire was at the back door — Brennan opened up and pointed him to the stairs. Brennan checked the dining room and the minister’s study. All were empty. He pulled open the cupboard under the stairs and flicked on the light, but it was empty too. As a last resort he returned to the kitchen and opened the larder, then the press. There was nothing but tins of soup, beans, and packets of flour, bags of sugar.

  Brennan walked to the window and looked out into the back garden. For a moment he felt lost, unable to gather his thoughts, and then the momentum that had been gathering for the last few days struck him. He folded over the sink and gasped for breath. His heart was pounding harder now, adrenaline rushing in his veins. He stood, crouched over the sink, staring at his hazy reflection in the polished stainless steel basin, and suddenly became aware of someone else in the room with him.

  McGuire appeared at his back.

  ‘Sir, I found him.’

  Brennan pushed himself up from the sink. He turned, rested his hands on the rim of the table; he had to ask McGuire to repeat himself. ‘ What?’

  ‘Sproul’s upstairs, in Carly’s room.’

  ‘Upstairs…’ He started to move to the hall, pushed past the DC. ‘Why have you left him alone?’

  McGuire raised his voice: ‘Because he’s dead, sir.’

  Chapter 33

  Brennan lunged for the stairs. He could feel the veins pulsing in his arms as he ran, each step increasing the pressure on his cardiovascular system. He reached the landing light-headed, breathless. There was no indication that the scene had changed in any way from his first sight of it the day before; the only difference was the door to Carly’s bedroom was open this time. Brennan paused on the worn carpet for a second. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and started his slow paces towards the door. As he walked Brennan’s mind lit on what McGuire had said — he couldn’t seem to take it in, to register the new facts. It didn’t make sense to him, but then, the further he went into this investigation the less he understood. Nothing seemed to be stacking up. No sooner had he set his mind to one course of action than he needed to alter it. He started to feel his breath shortening once more and stalled before the open door.

  The hinges creaked slightly as Brennan eased the handle further away from him. Light escaped from the room, landed on the hall carpet. When he placed his foot in the girl’s bedroom his heavy leather sole sounded noisy on the bare floorboards. He breathed deep as he brought his second foot forward. There was already a different atmosphere in the room, unwholesome. Did he imagine that? The smell of flowers seemed to have gone. There was a new scent in there; Brennan didn’t like it as much — it symbolised change, a turn of events, and not a good one.

  He turned towards the wall and saw only the posters and the small chest of drawers with little golden handles; they were suitable for a girl’s room, but a much younger girl. Brennan’s thoughts were already with Carly — not the girl in the dumpster, or on the slab — the girl who was living her life in this room, until recently. He looked to his right, and over his shoulder he caught sight of a pair of heavy working man’s boots. They were similar to hillwalking boots, the outdoors type people wear for trekking. The boots were muddy and worn, and attached to a pair of legs covered in faded and torn blue jeans. The knees o
f the jeans were flecked with grass cuttings, filthy, looked to have been patched. As Brennan’s eyes went up the legs he noticed the blotches of dark blood splattered on the knees. A few inches higher the small marks turned into long smears that ran down the outsides of the thighs. Beneath the motionless body the bed linen was a sodden mass of dark wet blood.

  Brennan turned his gaze to take in the whole frame. He could see the entire scene now. It was Peter Sproul; there was no mistaking the face was the man he had spoken to yesterday. The features were emotionless, the eyes staring blankly now, but the gaunt and hollowed cheeks, the unshaven chin and the cracked, twisted lips were unmistakable. As Brennan stared his mind seemed to jump from thought to thought. It was as if a light switch was being flicked on and off behind his eyes — one second he saw it all, the next, darkness.

  Sproul’s wrists had been cut, probably with the serrated knife that now lay on the floor at an acute angle to the bed legs, smeared with blood. It looked like a kitchen blade, but Brennan found it hard to tell as a pool of blood had formed under the bed and the knife was in shade. He leaned towards the body. There was no sign of a struggle having taken place, no bruising or cuts and scratches. It looked like a clean scene, a suicide.

  McGuire appeared behind him, his footfalls ending some metres from the bed, and the blood. ‘I called it in, sir.’

  Brennan didn’t acknowledge him. He held his thoughts for a moment then looked about the room. Everything was as he remembered it yesterday. Nothing seemed to have changed, or been moved. The only difference was the dead body of a serial sex offender lying in Carly’s bed. Brennan stared on, tried to make sense of it all. Why? They hadn’t pressed him; they’d given him no real indication he was a suspect. It didn’t make sense. But then, nothing that went on in a pervert’s mind made sense to Brennan.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  McGuire answered quickly, ‘I think the bastard took the easy way out.’

  ‘Why?’ He turned, put eyes on the DC.

  ‘He knew we were on to him.’

  Brennan snapped, ‘No he didn’t.’

  ‘Come on, he would have guessed for sure, sir. He’s not exactly new to dealing with police — he knew we’d go away, check him out and haul him in.’

  Brennan looked at the corpse, felt nothing, said, ‘So he was in and out of prison for years, he knew what to expect — does that explain it?’

  McGuire didn’t flinch. He knew Brennan was working through possibilities; maybe testing him too. ‘Maybe his last stint put the shits up him; didn’t want to repeat it.’

  Brennan walked round to the other side of the bed, crouched down. He looked at the floorboards, ran a finger along the ground and inspected the tip. There was nothing there but dust. ‘Maybe he heard about the News ’s report.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get that rag up here.’

  Brennan looked up. ‘Never heard of the internet?’

  ‘Right enough… But why’s that going to make a difference? He’ll have seen the previous stories before now, surely.’

  Brennan stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked left to right along the line of the corpse. ‘None of them mentioned the fact that Carly’s child was missing.’

  Sharp radial lines creased the corners of McGuire’s face. ‘You think he knew something about the kid going missing?’

  Brennan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘He was a paedophile.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  McGuire’s mobile phone started to ring. He answered: ‘Yes.’

  Brennan watched the DC talking into the handset.

  ‘All right, Brian. Yes, he’s here.’

  Brennan shook his head.

  ‘Er, he’s just left the room right now, you can tell me. What you got for us?’ McGuire smiled into the phone. ‘Very nice indeed… Right, thanks for letting us know, he’ll be made up.’ He hung up. ‘That was Brian.’

  Brennan spoke: ‘What’s he got?’

  ‘Good news, sir. They’ve unearthed some CCTV footage from the bus station and Carly’s in it.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Brennan made for the door; he wanted to put distance between himself and Peter Sproul. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She’s been positively ID’d and she’s talking to a man, some random punter in the station… And get this: she leaves with him.’

  ‘Did she have the baby?’

  McGuire grabbed his earlobe. ‘Ah, I, er, didn’t ask.’

  ‘Fucking hell. Get on the phone to Brian again and get the details.’ Brennan’s voice was forceful. ‘I want the media kept in the loop and I want you to tell them we need this footage aired on all the news channels tonight.’

  McGuire leaned back, scratched his jawline. ‘Big ask, sir.’

  ‘I’m all about the big fucking ask, lad. Do it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ McGuire spun, halted as Brennan began to speak again.

  ‘Might just piss off those wankers at the paper — put them off our mole.’

  McGuire looked ahead, spoke: ‘Sir, you never told me what your theory was.’

  Brennan stared at him, full on. ‘Who said I had one?’

  ‘But you think Sproul might have known about the baby?’

  ‘I’d say he knew very well about the baby. If he was the father I’d say Donald would feel compelled to let him know… Be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t you say?’

  McGuire followed his boss as he took long strides towards the stairs. ‘This is wrecking my head, sir.’

  Brennan stalled halfway down the first step, turned. ‘Expect it to get a lot worse when we get back to Edinburgh. I can’t see Galloway being overly pleased that we let a possible suspect slip through our fingers, even with the footage card to play.’

  McGuire bit his lip. ‘But he killed himself, sir.’

  The DC was running ahead of the facts; Brennan reined him in. ‘Did you see a note, Stevie?’

  ‘Well, it looks that way…’

  ‘It does indeed, Stevie, but let’s not jump to conclusions.’

  Chapter 34

  Devlin McArdle glanced at the clock. It was approaching six. He’d spent the day waiting for a call from his German contact, but it never came. He knew these people were secretive, had to be because the filth were all over their activities, but he didn’t like waiting for the rest of his money, or the child to be collected.

  Melanie walked through from the kitchen. She was carrying a baby’s bottle, smiling as she said, ‘Why the long face?’

  McArdle pressed his back hard to the sofa. He had his leg over the arm of the chair and he lowered it when his wife spoke. ‘What you on about?’

  Melanie tipped her head, jauntily. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny.’

  It was a stupid phrase, the kind of thing Melanie always came out with when she wasn’t drinking. When she was drinking it was bearable — she was bitter and ranting. He knew where he was with her; she could be manipulated, controlled. This new state of mind unsettled him. ‘Away and see to that kid,’ said McArdle. ‘I want to watch the news.’

  As Melanie sauntered off McArdle picked up the television remote control and directed it at the screen. Anne Robinson was hectoring the contestants on The Weakest Link. Just the sight of her was enough to make McArdle curse. He flicked the television to off.

  In the silence of the room he felt grateful the baby he’d taken from Tierney and Vee wasn’t making its usual racket, but he was far from happy. McArdle wasn’t going to be settled until the Germans took the child and did whatever it was they wanted to do. McArdle knew what they were, what they were capable of. He wasn’t a fool. He’d met their type in prison; the others called them beasts. No one on the inside would dare to associate with a beast — they were beneath contempt, not real people. There was a hardcore of cons who made it their business to wipe out beasts. Shanks, sharpened spoons, anything that could be used as a weapon was useful currency among those who wanted to wound, or worse. McArdle had read storie
s in the papers about the beasts; he knew how they operated and what they were after. Snatching children off the street and subjecting them to all kinds of torment and indignity before suffocating them, if they were lucky, beating them to death if they weren’t.

  He started to fidget on the sofa as he thought of the things he had heard and read about beasts. They were called beasts because they were just that — animals. Fucking beasts. McArdle pressed his lip against his bottom teeth and paced the living room. When he reached the far wall he let out a blow with his fist. The action set a standing lamp quivering and when he withdrew his knuckles he saw there were three little declivities in the plaster.

  ‘Fuck it!’ he roared.

  He heard Melanie stir upstairs. She moved to the landing and hung her head over the banister. ‘Dev, what’s going on?’

  He looked up, shouted, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Get back to that kid… Get saying your goodbyes — it’ll not be here much longer.’

  Melanie seemed to stall for a moment or two before moving off. She made no reply.

  McArdle moved back to the sofa and threw himself down. He had a pack of Carlsberg sitting on the seat beside him and pulled a tin towards himself, cracked the seal. ‘Fucking German beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Get me my money and get the fuck out my face.’

  They could do what they wanted with the child; that wasn’t his concern, he thought. No one had ever looked out for him. Why should he care if no one was looking out for that kid? They could have their fun with it and drop it in a pit; he didn’t care. It’s not my lookout, he thought. The kid’s nothing to me. He knew he had watched his wife bond with the baby over the last few days and he didn’t like that. He never let his emotions get in the way of business, and that’s all this was, business. He’d sold a child to the Germans before and they had paid promptly. They had collected promptly too, however, and he wondered why they were taking so long this time. Was it the price? He’d increased the price, of course he had, but not by that much. It made him nervous.