by Tony Black
‘I can’t believe we picked him up,’ said the DC.
Brennan nodded. ‘It was touch and go there for a bit.’
‘Pure luck, I’d say.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘That or somebody was looking out for us.’
Brennan dismissed the suggestion, turned to face McGuire. ‘The daft bastard walked into a Little Chef and started acting the Big I Am whilst his picture was being flashed across the airwaves. Who or what do you think was looking out for us — the ghost of Tommy Cooper? It was bloody comical.’
McGuire sniggered. ‘If you put it like that.’
Brennan didn’t know who was right and who was wrong; he cared even less. He had McArdle in custody and any minute now he was going to have him in an interview room.
‘The Scousers say he isn’t talking,’ said McGuire.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘He must know he’s going down for Melanie’s murder at least.’ McGuire scratched the back of his head, sighed. ‘We’ve a lot to thank her for.’
Brennan agreed. ‘If it wasn’t for her…’ He cut himself short. What was the point? Brennan wasn’t the kind of man to dabble in what-ifs. ‘Look, we’ve nailed this bastard and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll turn that child over to us quick smart.’
McGuire looked away, dropped his gaze to his shoes. ‘You think she’s still alive?’
‘Jesus Christ, Stevie… We’ve got to stay on top of this. There’s nothing to suggest she isn’t.’
McGuire raised his head. ‘There’s nothing to suggest she is, sir.’
Brennan didn’t have time to reply — the Scouse detectives appeared with the handcuffed McArdle. He watched the prisoner from across the airport barrier. His every step suggested to Brennan that he was scum. His appearance only confirmed it. The short stocky frame. The square shoulders and squat neck. The jailhouse tats on the arms. He was trash. He had killed his own wife in cold blood and then made off with an innocent child to sell into the most depraved trade on earth. Brennan clenched his jaw. He wanted to smash his fist into McArdle’s eye but he resisted. He had higher plans for him; he’d see him suffer for his actions soon enough.
The detectives brought over the prisoner, nodded to Brennan. ‘All yours, Inspector.’
Brennan reached out a hand to take the paperwork. ‘Thank you, lads.’
McGuire stepped forwards and directed Lou and Brian to take McArdle away. There was already a significant crowd gathered to look at what was going on.
Brennan turned back to the Scousers, spoke: ‘Safe journey home, lads. And thanks again.’
‘No worries, mate. Glad to see this charmer off our patch.’
Brennan and McGuire exchanged brief stares, then watched as Lou and Brian bundled the prisoner down the concourse towards the waiting wagon.
‘Now for the hard yards, Stevie.’
‘Haven’t they all been hard, sir?’
Brennan nodded; the DC had a point. It had already been the most difficult case of his career — and it wasn’t over yet. He tried not to think about how it might now play out — how hard it was going to be to get information out of McArdle and how hard it was going to be to find Beth.
When they arrived back at the station the waiting officers and uniforms cheered. Brennan raised a hand; McGuire patted him on the back. It all seemed a bit premature to Brennan — had everyone forgotten about Beth? There was certainly no cause for celebration after Carly’s murder. Then there were the others, and the missing child; at least one good family had been destroyed, whatever happened.
The interview-room door looked as it always did, but somehow as Brennan approached it he stalled before the handle. His mind whirred as he took in the prospect of what he was about to do. This was a killer; he had to put him away, but he also needed him to reveal where Beth was. There was no straightforward way to achieve this; there was no manual he could turn to. If he got McArdle on the wrong foot, he could blow it. He could cost the child her life — if she was still alive. He had played criminals like this before and found a way in, a weak spot or some common ground — he hoped he would again.
Brennan brushed his shoulders, straightened his tie. The handle of the door felt cold and firm as he turned it. McGuire was waiting with his back to him, his shoulder blocking the face of McArdle. As he closed the door, Brennan removed his coat and hung it on the back of the chair next to the DC. He poured himself a glass of water and placed a fresh packet of cigarettes, Marlboro, on the table in front of where he planned to sit. For a moment he contemplated rolling up his sleeves, but thought better of it. He pulled out the chair slowly, letting the sound of its legs dragging on the hard floor play out. When he sat, he stared for a moment into McArdle’s eyes; the prisoner looked away. Brennan raised his hands from beneath the table and opened the blue folder in front of him.
‘Speak,’ said Brennan.
‘ What?’ McArdle crumpled his features, grimaced.
Brennan put his hands down on the open folder, splaying his fingers. ‘I’m giving you a chance.’ He looked over to McArdle, made sure his eyes were on him. ‘A chance to save yourself.’
McArdle sniffed. ‘That’ll be fucking right.’
Brennan tapped the pages. ‘Do you know what this is?’
A shrug, no answer.
‘This is a story, a story about a little girl from the north who came down here with her baby hoping for a new life and ended up in a communal bin at the end of a dark lane with her legs and arms cut off.’
McArdle banged a fist on the table. ‘That’s fuck all to do with me.’
Brennan continued, ‘The little girl’s baby went missing, still is missing, and along the way four other people died. Do you recognise that story?’
McArdle’s mouth widened; he showed teeth as he spoke: ‘You can’t pin that fucking lot on me…’ He rose up, leaned over the table and pointed. ‘I’d like to see you fucking try.’
McGuire got out of his seat, went round behind the prisoner and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to sit down. McArdle brushed off the DC, tried to assert himself; McGuire shook his head.
Brennan looked at the pages, turned one over, then another. He let McArdle’s temper cool a little, then: ‘Tell me about Tierney and Durrant.’
‘Never heard of them.’
McGuire sniffed, looked away. Brennan read from the file. ‘Says here you’ve been dealing to them for years; even served time for it.’
‘Bullshit…’
‘I’ve got statements from quite a few people.’ Brennan allowed the edge of his mouth to curl into a sneer. ‘Funny — at the start of this investigation nobody wanted to speak but when you became public enemy number one we couldn’t shut them up.’
McGuire laughed out, ‘Yeah, funny that. Seems your popularity’s slipped a bit since you started hanging about with beasts.’
McArdle rose again, slapped the table. ‘Now you wait a minute-’
‘Sit down!’ roared Brennan. ‘You get out of that seat again and I will throw you to the wolves, McArdle. Are you so stupid? I’m doing you a favour here.’ Brennan stood up, went round the table to shout in McArdle’s ear. ‘You killed your own wife — you’re going down for that. Don’t you get it? There’s no door on that wall leading to a magic kingdom where you start living a fairy-tale existence. It’s over!.. You’re going down. Whether or not you go down for the lot,’ he picked up the folder, slapped it in front of McArdle, ‘that’s what we’re debating here. Nothing else! Don’t you get that? Are you that fucking thick, man?’
McArdle brought his hands up in front of him, started to play with his fingers. His complexion smoothed; there were no grimaces as he spoke. ‘I’m not a beast.’
‘That’s for the courts to decide,’ said McGuire.
Brennan nodded, straightened his back and loosened his tie some more. ‘You run with dogs, you catch fleas. That’s what they say, isn’t it, Stevie?’
‘It is indeed.’
/> McArdle looked at the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’
Brennan pushed over the packet, watched him light up. McArdle’s hands shook as he drew on the cigarette. The DI spoke: ‘Tell me about Tierney… Did he know Sproul?’
‘Who?’ McArdle took another pelt on the cigarette.
‘Peter Sproul — Paisley buddy and hardcore paedo. Did time in Peterhead… Place you might be paying a visit to soon if you don’t loosen up that tongue of yours.’
‘I–I’ve never heard of him, I don’t know. I only knew Tierney a-and Durrant.’
‘What’s their story? From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out because I’ll know if you have and I’m keeping count.’
McArdle tapped the cigarette on the ashtray. He moved the spilled ash with his fingertip, tipping it into the tray. His temper seemed to have subsided but the muscles in his neck had tensed. ‘Erm, what do you want to know?’
Brennan moved back round to his side of the desk. His chair was already sitting out; he pulled it in as he sat down again. ‘How did they kill Carly Donald?’
McArdle looked up. His lower lip was trembling; he sucked it into his mouth, over his teeth. As he tried to speak it was as if the words were stuck inside him. He touched the side of his head; his bandaged fingers trembled. Then he touched his mouth and began to massage the sides of his lips as though he was coaxing himself to speak. ‘It, eh, it was Vee… she killed her.’
‘Vee Durrant… How?’
McArdle’s mouth started to spasm, both lips now sucked into the hollow gape that sat beneath his nose. ‘There was some fight or other. They wanted to take the baby away — they were going to cut her in and…’ He looked up, seemed to register the seriousness of the situation, of his words, then continued, ‘She tried to leave, the girl, in the night when they were asleep but Vee woke up and there was a fight.’
‘Vee struck her? With what?’
‘An iron… It was a steam iron, this is all what Barry told me.’ He looked up, eyes wide, pleading. ‘I wasn’t there… He spilled this the night I…’
Brennan noticed McArdle cut himself off. He knew what he was going to say, but let it go. ‘Whose idea was it to cut her up?’
McArdle raised the cigarette again, brought it to his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Barry’s likely, I don’t know… It was nothing to do with me. I fucking swear if I’d known…’ He cut himself off again. Brennan picked him up this time.
‘If you’d known, you’d never have agreed to sell the child.’
McArdle said nothing. He seemed to be frozen before Brennan’s eyes. The Deil sat staring at the cigarette tip for some time and then he spoke: ‘I want to know that I’ll be looked after if I say any more.’
Brennan turned to McGuire; the DC nodded back. ‘We’ll make recommendations to the Fiscal… if you cooperate.’
McArdle dropped the cigarette; stray sparks flew up, landed on the table and went out. He put his hands over his eyes. ‘I’m not a beast. I’m not a fucking beast. I hate them. I fucking hate them.’
Brennan watched McArdle struggle. He took no enjoyment from it. His mind wasn’t focused on revenge or payback — they affected judgement. Brennan wanted justice, and Beth back; both required a level head. ‘Tell us who you gave the child to.’
McArdle removed his hands, placed them under the table momentarily, then produced them again. His jaw twitched as he spoke, face down, towards the table. ‘His name’s Gunter. I don’t know his second name.’
‘German?’
A nod. ‘From Berlin.’
McGuire started to write down the details. Brennan spoke again: ‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know?’
Brennan slapped the desk. ‘Not good enough!’
‘I don’t… I mean, I think they’re going back.’
‘How… Train? Plane?’
McArdle looked away. His eyes darted left to right as if he was looking for a way out; when he found none he turned back to the officers. His words were slow, faltering: ‘Car. They’re going home through France, he said that to me.’
‘Make of car?’
‘Er, a Citroen… silver, estate.’
McGuire wrote the information down, rose, ran for the door.
Brennan leaned in; his tone had hardened: ‘Is that it? I’m looking for a fucking Citroen in France — am I supposed to use that? Is that supposed to make me happy, McArdle?’
The prisoner couldn’t face him. He whimpered, ‘I d-don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘No. Neither do I.’
Brennan stood up. He knocked over his chair as he went for the door that McGuire had just left through. As he ran to the incident room he could feel his mind spinning. McGuire was already on the phones; the rest of the team had followed him.
‘Calais. They’ll be crossing to Calais… Get every car checked, every passenger with a child, all of them. I want passenger lists and I want searches and I want the French side locked down. I want all of this done now. Go. Now. Everyone move it!’
Chapter 49
Brennan let the team work, returned to his office. As he got inside the door a uniform poked his head in, said, ‘What do you want me to do with McArdle, sir?’
‘Do you really want me to answer that?… Put him in the cells.’
Brennan threw his jacket over the chair. The contents of his pockets spilled on the floor. He walked round and picked up his cigarettes, and the little black-and-white picture that Lorraine had given him. He tried not to look at it but he couldn’t stop himself. There was a black shaded area at the top of the photograph where you couldn’t see anything, but lower down there was a white patch that looked like a little ball; it was the baby’s head. Brennan ran a finger over the image and stared. He held it before him for long enough to register that it was his child and what that meant. He had a child that would be coming into this world soon. He knew that once the thought had gladdened him, made him smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything now. He didn’t want to welcome another soul here; it wasn’t the place for such a young, innocent life. He put the picture back in his pocket and went to sit down.
At his desk Brennan lit a cigarette; the Marlboro tasted good to him as he drew the deep blue smoke into his lungs. His nasal passages constricted as he blew out the strong burn of the tobacco and then he tasted the hot smoke again as it left his nostrils. He wondered if he needed something stronger, harder, but the prospect of a drink seemed a long time away.
As Brennan looked over his desk, he was surprised to see the blue folder with a yellow Post-it note stuck on the front. It was from Lauder — the details on the Limping Man that he’d asked for. Brennan opened it and peered in. He’d visited the files previously but that was before his psych leave, and during the months in between it had been awkward to get hold of. He scanned the contents. There was very little detail that he hadn’t seen already. The witness statements — a pretentious bastard who’d used the word claudication; the descriptions, estimates of height, weight, build. The calibre of weapons used and the method of dispatch. It was all familiar; depressingly so.
What Brennan wasn’t prepared for was the newspaper cutting with the picture of his brother. It was the same cutting as he’d carried around in his wallet all this time; the only difference was that Lauder’s quotes had been underlined in red pen.
‘Prick.’
Was that the sum of his achievement? Getting a quote in the newspaper? He was surprised the byline wasn’t Aylish Dunn’s.
Brennan turned over the blue folder. Took another pull on his cigarette. His brother had died, been murdered, and the police investigation had failed him. The sum total of the information on the Limping Man amounted to a few scraps of paper, a few witness statements that went nowhere. He had killed, clinically, and then disappeared. What kind of a society allowed paid assassins to operate on their streets? His brother had been innocent, he’d gotten in the way of an underworld killing and paid for it with a bullet in his h
ead. Were the streets so out of control that this kind of thing went on unchecked?
Brennan tapped the folder, got up. He stubbed out his cigarette and lifted the phone on his desk, dialled 0.
‘Cells, please.’
The line was connected. ‘Hello.’
‘Bert, it’s Rob. Have you got McArdle settled?’
‘As quiet as a lamb.’
‘Right, I’m coming down. I want a word with him in private.’
‘You sure about that, Rob?’
‘Sure as shooting.’
Brennan knew there was little to connect the Limping Man to his case. He had no proof that he was the same assassin that killed his brother but his gut told him otherwise. Did he need proof? The killer was walking free as it was; if he could get him for Tierney and Durrant, wasn’t that good enough? Brennan knew he should probably be thanking him for taking that pair off the streets but he didn’t think he’d be shaking his hand. There was no hope of connecting the Limping Man to Andy’s murder, he knew that — did it matter? It mattered in one respect: if it affected the ongoing investigation into Carly Donald’s death. He knew he couldn’t risk that, but he had his brother to think about.
As he walked down to the cells, Brennan toyed with the idea of doing this by the book, calling McArdle into an interview room and posing the question in front of Stevie or Lou. But what were the chances of getting the result he was after? McArdle was a hardened criminal. Getting him to lynch himself was one thing; getting him to hang someone else was an altogether different proposition.
Brennan stood before the cell doors, knowing he had only one chance to find his brother’s killer. If he came out of there without a name, Andy’s murderer was never likely to be found. He nodded to the jailer, listened to the rattle of the keys and the heavy iron hinges singing out. He stepped into the cell.
McArdle was sitting on the edge of his bed. Most cons, by his stage, have learned to chill out inside a jail cell, but McArdle was tense.
‘What now?’ he said.
Brennan nodded for the door to be closed. McArdle watched carefully, started to raise himself. He rubbed at the front of his jeans, then turned his hands behind his back. His mouth drooped.