by Tony Black
‘Sit down.’ Brennan put a hand on his head, pushed him back. He paced the small cell and soaked in McArdle’s fear. ‘You know, I’ve seen just about every kind of scum and piece of shit that the world has to offer in my time, McArdle, but you take the fucking prize.’
McArdle looked at the floor. ‘Should you be in here?’
‘Shut your hole.’ Brennan walked over to the bed, placed a foot on the rim. ‘Paedos are one thing, but selling on kids, that’s something else. You’re like a trader, a beast trader.’
‘I’m not a beast.’
‘Tell it to the judge, McArdle.’
‘I will. I will.’
Brennan leaned over. ‘And do you think he’ll listen?’ He laughed, watched McArdle turn away and then he grabbed his face in his hand and twisted it round. ‘Have you looked at your record recently? And now you’ve got murder to add to it, and fuck knows what else by the end of the day.’
‘I gave you all I had… You said you’d help.’
Brennan released his grip, took his foot off the bed and walked to the other side of the cell. ‘A French car, in fucking France, McArdle… that’s what you gave me.’
‘It’s all I have. Look, what do you want from me?’ He tried to eyeball Brennan but couldn’t hold his stare. He kept dropping his gaze, his head bobbing on his meaty neck as if he couldn’t support the weight of it any more.
‘You’re taking the piss, is what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not,’ he pleaded, turning his bandaged palm upward.
Brennan moved in, pointed. ‘You know what you’ve done and how it’s going to play out.’
McArdle looked down again. ‘Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.’
Brennan laughed, ‘Leave you alone? Think you’re going to get much privacy in Peterhead, on the beast wing?’
‘I’m not a beast.’ He stood up, inflated his chest.
Brennan walked towards him, fronted up. ‘Then you better start playing ball with me or that’s what the court and everyone else in this country is going to think. Devlin McArdle — child trafficker. Wife murderer. Beast!’
A light went out in McArdle. His frame shrank as he sat back down. He was broken; there was no fight left in him. ‘What do you want from me?’
Brennan looked towards the door, walked for McArdle, got down on his haunches. ‘I know what it’s like out there, how your kind of people operate. And you know how I operate.’ McArdle looked up. Brennan continued, ‘Now, I know, if I get you up there in that interview room, with a DC as witness, you’re not going to tell me a bloody thing that I can use because there’s a chance it’ll get out to the people who know you.’ Brennan lowered his voice: ‘That’s why I’ve came down here on my own.’ He leaned in further. ‘Give me something I can use, and no one needs to know where it came from.’
McArdle shook his head. ‘I’ve given you everything. What more can I give you?’
Brennan stilled his nerve, said, ‘Give me the Limping Man.’
Chapter 50
Outside the cell DI Rob Brennan leaned his back on the door. He felt a dull ache in the middle of his forehead where his brows pinched; a pulse in his temple kept pace with his ramping heart. He stood for a moment, tried to gather a semblance of reason but the task evaded him. As he eased himself off the door Brennan’s knees felt loose. The walk to the front of the station now seemed longer than usual, each step demanding a greater exertion than the last; it was as if he carried a great load, a burden.
In the foyer Charlie looked up from his Daily Record and spoke but Brennan failed to comprehend his words. A burning in his chest had started to demand the cooling, calming effects of nicotine and nothing could detract from the craving. As he opened the door he was slapped by the brisk air and the line of sweat above his lip slid towards his mouth — the salty taste made him grimace and then wipe it away with the back of his hand. The empty, hollowed-out emotions that accompanied the fear of never finding an answer to long-held preoccupations was suddenly gone. It wasn’t euphoria — never that — but it was an ending, and in the nebulous flux of life that was certainly something to hold to. Wasn’t that what we all longed for, every day? Some shape to the monotonous trawl through the misery of existence; the daily questioning of life’s lack of order, the absence of structure. There was no law. There was no meaning. There was no justice. The universe didn’t care about loss of life, about the shooting of innocent bystanders; the dismembering of young girls, or the perverted trading of innocent infants. Any chance to halt the rut, to find a moment in time, however brief a pause in proceedings, was a reminder that he was alive and the fight went on.
As Brennan removed a cigarette from the pack he noticed how white his hands were; the dark hair on his knuckles accentuated the fingers’ cadaverous appearance. For a moment he stared at them, spread them out in front of him; they started to tremble.
‘Everything okay, Rob?’
He heard the words, turned: it was Charlie. As he held the station door open he stared into Brennan’s eyes. The DI felt the cigarette slip from his mouth. He watched it fall, roll a few feet, then get carried off in the breeze. The action snapped him back to reality.
‘Fine. All fine.’
Brennan pushed past the desk sergeant, went for the stairs. There was suddenly a new purpose in his step; it was the quickening of thought, the realisation that the long period of doubt was over.
As Brennan reached Incident Room One he saw a huddle of bodies round the television screen. He knew at once there had been a break — when these things occurred it was like observing a sea change. The team’s collective unconscious altered immediately. The faces morphed from their previous expressions of dogged resilience towards hope — something experience had taught Brennan he was better off doing without. As he walked in he was tempted to clap his hands together and ask what was going on. He felt like he’d missed out; he was a spectator.
McGuire turned round and spotted him, spoke: ‘Here he is!’ The DC trotted towards him. ‘Where have you been?’
The question poked Brennan, made him defensive. ‘Nowhere.’ As he answered he immediately felt stupid; at once he realised the question was innocent. ‘What’s going on?’
McGuire grinned like a schoolboy as he grabbed Brennan by the arm. ‘Get over here. They’ve got them!’
Brennan didn’t understand. He knew what he wanted the words to mean, but wasn’t sure if he’d processed them correctly. Since he had been with McArdle his mind had tripped back to his brother’s murder. The realisation that he still had another case to solve brought back a sudden dose of present-day reality. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stared at the television. ‘Can someone turn this up?’
A small yellow triangle appeared on the screen; the number beside it increased as the volume rose. It was a breaking news report. Brennan sensed the tension mounting all around him; the incident room felt like the terraces of a football stadium as the supporters of the leading side waited for the final whistle. He hushed his team quiet. The room stilled as all eyes turned to the television.
‘ And can I remind you these pictures are live…’ said the news reporter.
The scene was of a town Brennan didn’t recognise — as he tried to adjust, to take in what he was seeing, absorb the information, he scanned the street and the faces in the crowd. He noticed there was a strap along the bottom of the screen that confirmed what he’d been hoping: MISSING BABY CASE… LIVE PICTURES FROM CALAIS. It took him a moment to process the information; his thoughts raced away and became tangled in a net of emotions. He wanted to punch the air, to smack the desk with his fist or make some other expression of relief but he held himself in check; he had to.
‘Jesus, we’ve got them!’ His mind calmed as he said the words. He was almost light-headed. A smile spread across his face — it was impossible to hide it. On the screen, images of French gendarmes surrounding a silver car appeared. The camera was shaky, the lens going in and out of focus, but Brenna
n kept his eyes fixed on the dark-suited officers, armed with assault rifles, as they approached the car. The French officers were fast, brisk and businesslike. They knew the routine and took no chances as they swooped. Two men inside were removed whilst a small bundle with furiously waving arms and legs was taken from the back seat.
Brennan’s chest tightened, his throat constricted.
‘Look, it’s the kid,’ said a PC.
‘They’ve got her! She’s alive!’
A loud cheer swept round the office. Arms were raised; a blue folder was thrown in the air. Brennan turned to McGuire and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘We did it! By Christ, we did it!’
A wave of bodies started to sway as uniforms and detectives hugged and leapt. Tables and chairs were pushed aside as the team crossed the floor and flung arms round each other. Brennan laughed as he watched Lou slapping Brian’s beer gut, and then a round of cheers went up. It was like a party, thought Brennan, but as he stared at the relieved, smiling faces he knew that they still had plenty to do.
The case had been tough; it had taken a lot out of the team, and him. Brennan knew he didn’t look at the world in the same way any more. Another part of what made him human had been surrendered. How he would deal with that was a problem for another day, though. He moved off just as the room’s pitch intensified.
‘Where are you going?’ said McGuire.
‘Got a couple of calls to make. Don’t worry — carry on without me. Enjoy the moment.’
Brennan closed the door to his office and moved towards the desk. He could still hear noise outside as he drew up the international directory on his computer screen and started to tap in the number of the Garda Siochana in Dublin. His thoughts left the celebrations immediately as he announced himself to the telephonist and asked for the special investigations team. It always surprised him how quickly things came together in the end. No matter how many times it happened, the DI never quite accepted the sudden transformation from bewilderment to cheering the successful resolution of an investigation. It was as if the period before, the groundwork, the heavy lifting, had never happened. The effort expended and the toll it had taken on everyone seemed insignificant compared to the accomplishment. He knew there was a low coming — the payment for such a high — but it didn’t matter at this stage. He allowed himself a smile, some sneaking admiration for the result.
Brennan was still smiling into the phone as his call was passed on; in four rings it was answered.
‘Hello, this is Wylie.’ The accent was familiar, thick Celtic tones.
‘Ah, yes, hello… DI Robert Brennan, Lothian and Borders CID.’
‘And what can I do for you today, sir?’
Brennan tightened his grip on the receiver, wondered how to put this, went with: ‘It’s more what I can do for you.’
‘Oh, really now…’ The Guard paused, then his voice indicated a change of subject: ‘You sound like there’s a bit of a do going on there.’
‘We’ve just wrapped up a big case… The team are in high spirits.’
‘Congratulations,’ said the Guard. The moment passed; he got back to work. ‘Now, you said you had something for me…’
Brennan passed over the details that McArdle had provided in the cell. He kept his tone low and serious as he detailed the whereabouts of the Limping Man.
‘I know the place well,’ said the Irishman. He cleared his throat, rustled some papers. His tone remained flat. ‘I’ll get on this right away.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Brennan.
‘Be more than luck we’ll need… by the sounds of him.’
‘I’d expect him to be armed, and very definitely dangerous.’
A huff. Hint of a raised inflection. ‘Oh, yes. I’d say so.’
As Brennan looked out to the office, lowered the phone, he could see the revelry was likely to continue for some time yet. He didn’t feel like celebrating. Too much had happened lately to make him feel more than a little unsociable; he felt like withdrawing from the world. He sensed a prolonged period of analysis queuing in his mind. There were facts to be chewed over, digested. There was never a definitive ‘why?’ — he knew that well enough. But it didn’t stop him challenging for an answer. Was there something to be learned? Something to be revealed about the human condition? He doubted it. There would only be black hours of rumination, more data to add to the sum of his knowledge, but little understanding. The mysteries he preoccupied himself with were inscrutable, and as perennial as the Edinburgh rain.
As he thought about the Irish force apprehending the Limping Man, Brennan reached into his wallet and removed the newspaper cutting he’d carried around for so long. He placed the thin paper on the desk in front of him and read the headline through one more time. He had done it — he had found his brother’s killer, but the achievement did not register the kind of elation he had hoped it would. That was the problem with his job, thought Brennan. All the sense of achievement came after the tragedy had taken place — there was no altering what had happened. There was no medal to pin on his chest. As Wullie had told him long ago, ‘There is no winning in the force, only degrees of losing.’
Brennan picked up the cutting and stared at it, touched its curling edges, ran a finger over the grainy image of his brother. Then he crumpled it into a ball and dropped it in the waste-paper basket beneath his desk. He rose, walked to the filing cabinet on the other side of the room and removed a bottle of Talisker from the bottom drawer, put it under his arm. He picked up his jacket, switched out the light, and went to join the team.
A wide-eyed McGuire, his face flushed and glowing, stopped Brennan as he came through the door. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed to the bottle. ‘Prize for your favourite DC?’
Brennan nodded. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ He handed over the bottle. ‘Enjoy yourselves. Because tomorrow we start the paperwork!’
McGuire held up the Talisker, turned on his heels, then tucked it under his arm and made a show of cracking the seal. A voice in the corner of the office roared out, ‘Come on, three cheers for the boss.’
Brennan turned away, flagged them down. ‘No. Don’t…’ He headed for the door as the cheering started.
McGuire called after him, ‘You not staying for a drink, sir?’
‘No, I’ve got someone to see.’
‘Secret rendezvous, is it?’
A weak laugh. ‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do, sir.’
Brennan dug his hand in his pocket, waved with his other one. He was glad to see the team so pleased; they had done well. Despite everything, they had achieved something worth being proud of. For a moment he wanted to be part of it all, then he remembered who he was, and what position he occupied in the hierarchy. ‘Look, don’t stay up too late. Be a big day tomorrow.’
‘Listen to Dad,’ said McGuire.
Brennan headed for the door. He turned once, twice, as he was wished well, but when he was out he kept his head low and focused on each step he took. He needed to get away, to taste different air.
In the car park Brennan picked out the Passat, directed the key and unlocked it. He had a stop to make before going home; it was another one of those stops he didn’t want to make, but he knew that he had to do it. The case had demanded his attention, had drawn him away from everything, and everyone, else — but now it was time to shift focus back to the areas he had ignored.
As Brennan pulled out of the station car park the radio news was relaying the arrests in Calais. By tomorrow the case would be all over the front pages. The papers would call it a result. His superiors would be pleased. But Brennan just felt cold. At the outset a young girl had died and, along the way, more people had followed her. He knew that too many people had been hurt and damaged by the events that had sprung from Carly Donald’s disappearance, and all of it could have been avoided. He didn’t know who to blame or why things had turned out the way they had, but he felt some sense of relief that it was now over. The
killing would stop, and Beth was safe.
The voice on the radio started to relay the details of the case from the start, when Carly Donald was found in a communal bin in Muirhouse. ‘ The grim find was made by schoolgirl Trish Brown, who said she would never be able to get the image out of her mind. ’
Brennan knew how she felt. He could still see the pale, mutilated figure abandoned in the rubbish, the life drained from her like a rag that had been wrung out.
‘ Father of the murder victim, the Reverend John Donald, earlier spoke of his joy upon hearing his granddaughter Beth had been found safe and well. A one-time contender for Scotland’s top church job, the minister confirmed he would no longer be considered for the Moderator’s role, as he would be concentrating his efforts on his family life. ’
Brennan cursed. ‘Jumped or pushed?’ He leaned forward and switched off the radio. ‘Arsehole.’
Chapter 51
As DI Rob Brennan arrived up outside Dr Lorraine Fuller’s home, he brought the car to an abrupt halt, turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine coming to rest. It was a cool night and the breeze bit as he opened the door and walked up the path. He could see a light burning in the front room as he rang the bell. A curtain moved and Lorraine appeared at the window. She seemed flustered, not expecting to see him, but then she made for the door, rattled the chain and lock as she opened up.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Our appointment’s not until tomorrow.’
Brennan didn’t bite. ‘Can I come in?’
She widened the door, motioned him inside with a flourish of her hand.
In the living room, Lorraine folded her arms. ‘So, is this a flying visit or should I offer you a drink?’
Brennan didn’t answer, removed his coat and sat down.
‘Wine okay?’
He nodded. Lorraine had never been one for small chat and he was grateful for that, but he knew they had things to say to each other.