by Tony Black
Brennan barked, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The assembly sprang to life. Brennan was chancing his arm, but he knew he had to make his mark right away. The whole station would be looking for weakness, waiting for the first balls-up, the first ‘i’ undotted, ‘t’ uncrossed. It couldn’t happen. Self-belief was an inward direction, but an outward expression. A badly timed sigh, a tremor in the voice, a challenge to his authority or any one of a hundred poker tells would have them prattling in the canteen. It was start as you mean to go on, or face the consequences. He’d learned that tackling drunks when he was in uniform: you need to shout them down, set the boundaries fast, or they arked up, got lippy. After all that had happened lately, there was too much at stake to play anything other than the firm hand. His career had been on life support for the last few months; it was time to give it the kiss of life.
In the lift he allowed his head to rest on the wall for a moment; just a moment, then his neck snapped forward and he opened the file. Straight away Stevie McGuire’s bullet-point listings riled him. McGuire couldn’t spell, or use grammar – if this was DC material then the public had a right to feel short-changed.
‘Parents should sue the public school.’ Brennan shook his head. He dreaded to think what state the scene was in if McGuire had been first on hand. Times were tough, budgets tight, but if the job was worth doing it was worth giving to decent officers. There were far too many shiny-arsed careerists about the place; too many graduates on the fast-track, and McGuire was a prime example.
The lift doors pinged; Brennan stepped out.
The desk sergeant was poring over the sports page of the News. Brennan greeted him in the usual manner: ‘All right, Charlie.’
‘Rob.’ He put down his paper, thinning his eyes.
‘What cars you got?’
The older man sat upright, folded his arms. ‘All out.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
He shook his head, made a wide arc with his hand. ‘Nope, all out. Crime’s big business in Edinburgh . . . Haven’t you heard?’
‘So, tell me, Charlie, should I take the bloody bus to a murder scene?’
The sergeant folded his arms again; his grey moustache twitched. ‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger.’
Brennan slapped his folder down on the counter. ‘Gimme that radio.’
‘What?’
‘The radio, Charlie . . .’
‘What are you going to do with that?’
Brennan tilted his head. ‘See if I can get the bloody Archers on it . . . What do you think?’
A slow, frail hand went over to the stand-mic. The desk sergeant handed it over. ‘I’ll bet you can’t work it.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Charl . . . Get me McGuire on this.’
‘He’s at a murder!’
Brennan snapped, ‘Aye. My investigation. Now get him on.’
The radio crackled for a few seconds before the older man called out for DC McGuire. There was no reply.
‘He’ll be at the scene, Rob.’
Brennan tapped the counter with his finger. ‘Again.’
‘Rob.’
‘Try him again, Charlie.’
The static on the line crackled momentarily, then the call went out once more. The line fizzed, then, ‘DC McGuire.’
Brennan pressed the button. ‘Stevie, it’s Rob Brennan. I want you back at the incident room. Leave your car, I’ll need that later.’
‘Rob . . . Did you say leave my car?’
‘Nothing wrong with your hearing, then. Leave the car, and get yourself back here with uniform. Hurry it up, though. I need a run back there.’
A lengthy gap played on the line.
McGuire came back, ‘Received that, Rob.’
‘That’s DI Brennan . . . Stevie.’
Another pause. ‘Yes . . . sir.’
Brennan handed over the stand-mic. ‘That’ll do.’
The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘You’re going to rattle his cage talking to him like that, Rob.’
‘Bullshit.’
A sigh. ‘You’re the boss.’
Brennan took a deep breath, deciding not to reply. He took a seat by the front door and tapped at the blue file whilst he waited for the squad car to arrive. He didn’t look up but sensed the desk sergeant going back to the sports pages of the News. Fucking Hibs back four, he thought to himself. Galloway had some turns. Like to see how she’d take to him commenting on her copy of Hello! magazine he’d seen in her Mulberry briefcase. Cheeky sow. He knew not to engage, though: the battle of the sexes had been fought and lost.
The folder in his lap called to him, but something else called louder. Brennan rose, went to the front door. He nodded as two eyes ringed with burst capillaries appeared above the paper. ‘Going for a smoke.’
Nods. The paper rustled again.
Outside the sky was grey, threatening rain. Brennan liked this time of year. Not quite summer, but well out of winter. The extremes of the seasons irked him; you never knew what to wear from one day to the next. If he could pick the weather, he’d go for grey skies and a hint of a chill every time. Sunshine was overrated. The smell of cut grass and barbecues was overrated. When he’d been in uniform, he’d hated the warmer months; they brought out drunks and fly-men robbing lead off the roofs. They were nothing but trouble. Crime was crime but the petty stuff always seemed like a social problem to Brennan. A failure of society, politicians . . . a waste of his time. The evil ones, the murderers, the cold-blooded killers – they were the ones he wanted off the streets, locked up. At the very least, locked up.
Brennan took out his packet of Silk Cut. His heart sank. He wanted a B&H, a strong boy, a lung bleeder, but turning forty called for a few concessions. The days when he’d swap ciggies with Wullie – a Capstans smoker, no less – were well and truly over. He hoped he didn’t bump into Wullie while he was hanging off the end of a Silk Cut – the shame of it. Brennan had a sly laugh to himself as he remembered the old boy; it subsided quickly.
A shaft of light broke free of a bundle of grey cloud and painted a yellow oblong on the station car park. A few patches of spilled diesel were lit in the sun’s rays, little rainbow bubbles illuminated in potholes. Brennan turned his head, drew deep on the cigarette and opened the file.
DC McGuire’s bullet points had been hastily keyed in.
White female, (no age) young.
Found in industrial-sized bin. Blood smears on bin.
Access lane, by tower block. Car park to rear.
Four teens (female/local) at scene.
No statements, girls too upset. Coming in. Calls out to parents.
No time of death, Doc called, on way.
Scene secured, uniform on perimeters. Lab setting up.
Brennan turned over the thin sheaf of paper. There was nothing on the other side. The rest of the pages were blank too, except for some standard forms and a contacts sheet with numbers he already had in his phone. There was nothing he couldn’t have received in a two-minute briefing but the modern obsession with detailing every step dictated the written word. He closed the file; it looked pathetically thin, but he knew by the end of the day it would stretch to several volumes.
The sun disappeared behind another grey cloud, the wet patches in the car park darkened once more. Brennan stubbed his cigarette on the side of the building, flicked it onto the road. The last embers in the tip sizzled on the wet tarmac. As he watched the wind take the filter tip a black Audi pulled into the space opposite him. He recognised the number plate at once. It was new; it wasn’t police. The engine stilled. Driver’s door opened.
Dr Lorraine Fuller wore a brown trouser suit that was fitted and hugged her thin waist. She carried a heavy case – not a doctor’s case; it would be full of paperwork. Brennan made a note of her movements as she clawed her long hair from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. She looked harassed. She took a coat and another bag, a purse, from the back seat of the Audi, then she noticed Brennan stari
ng at her. Lorraine looked away instantly. There was no smile, greeting; but definite acknowledgement. She pointed the remote locking at the car, turned for the station. She juggled her handbag between hands before deciding on the one it had been in originally. She tucked her coat over the crook of her elbow and walked briskly, heels clacking on the hard ground.
Brennan watched her for a moment or two, then turned his gaze to the door, leaned in and grabbed the handle as she approached. There was a stalled breath’s distance between them as she spoke. ‘I need to see you.’
Brennan looked down. ‘It’s difficult.’
‘Why?’ Her tone was harsh.
‘I’m back on the squad.’
‘I know.’ She let the implication hang.
‘Okay. When?’
‘Soon. I’ll call.’ She moved towards the door. Brennan eased the handle downwards, pulled. As he watched her go inside he thought about their last meeting – it was more than a week ago now, too long. He couldn’t help that, though. Sometimes you needed a break from people; even those close to you.
A squad car sped into the hatched area at the front of the station. DC McGuire hurried himself, got out the passenger’s door with a leg dangling over the tarmac before the car had stopped.
Brennan turned, approached the younger man. ‘Stevie.’
‘Sir.’
He raised the folder. ‘What else you got for me?’
McGuire spoke to his feet. ‘Time of death’s been put at some point last night. We’ll know better when they get her on the slab.’
Brennan didn’t like his phraseology. His mood was already soured by seeing Galloway, and then Lorraine. ‘It’s somebody’s daughter, lad.’
The DC checked himself. ‘Sorry . . . There’s, eh, something else.’
There always was, thought Brennan. ‘Go on.’
‘The body’s been tampered with.’
Brennan tucked his chin onto his chest, peered from beneath raised eyelids. ‘Sexually?’
‘No, least, we don’t think so . . . It’s been mutilated, badly mutilated.’ Brennan could see the DC found it difficult. He watched him rub his hands together. Now he talked to his palms. ‘The girl’s been sawn up.’
‘What do you mean?’
A deep breath, slowly exhaled. ‘Her limbs were removed . . . The legs, below the knee, were severed and bagged.’ He looked into Brennan’s face. ‘We don’t have the arms.’
‘The girl’s arms are missing?’
The DC nodded. ‘They were removed . . . crudely.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Brennan turned for the car. ‘He didn’t do her much good.’ He yanked open the passenger’s door, got inside and slammed it shut, lowered the window. McGuire stood still as Brennan barked at him, ‘Get the incident room set up – we’re in the big room.’
‘What about Lauder’s shooting?’
‘Fuck Lauder! . . . I want statements from those girls by the time I get back and have the lab primed for an all-nighter. Okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah . . . Anything else?’
‘Yes. Get a list together of every missing teenage girl in the country . . . And you report everything that comes in to me first, not the Chief Super. Got that?’
McGuire nodded, but looked unsure; scratched his open palm.
‘Stevie, everything . . . No matter what she tells you. Got that?’
‘Yeah . . . Got it, sir.’
‘Good. If you remember this is my investigation, Stevie, then we’ll get on just fine.’
Brennan slapped the dash.
The squad car pulled out, sirens blaring.
Chapter 3
BRENNAN WONDERED WHAT WAS CHANGING faster, the city of Edinburgh, or him within it. As the squad car pulled out of Fettes he grimaced at the queues of traffic clogging up the roads. Medieval cities were never meant for the motor car, but he could remember when getting about the place was a far simpler affair. One-way streets had sprung up everywhere, making every route a circuitous one. Add in the bus lanes, the persistent road works and the full-scale gutting that the recent tram installation had wrought, and driving had become a slow and effective means of torture.
‘Get out the fucking way,’ mouthed the uniform at the wheel.
Brennan twisted his neck – it was enough.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Would you prefer to be driving a taxi, son?’
A stall, some lip-biting. ‘No, sir . . .’
Brennan laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just tugging your chain. These yuppies in their Stockbridge tractors boil my piss too.’
The uniform looked relieved. ‘It’s the school-run mums.’
‘Yummy-fucking-mummies . . . Making their way back home after a latte in Morningside! Bless them, probably busy day ahead. Watching Cash in the Attic and polishing those blond-wood floorboards.’
The constable tapped at the wheel, making an overly showy point of approval. It made Brennan wince. He knew why too: the six months’ enforced psych leave had left him with an intimate knowledge of the daytime television schedules. His forays into DIY had been less successful – his father had always said he didn’t know which end of a hammer to pick up. Andy wasn’t much better. Neither were chips off the old block, but at least his younger brother had kept the family firm going for a while. It wasn’t his fault there was nothing left to show of it. Andy couldn’t be blamed for that. Could Brennan, though? He sometimes wondered; he knew his father did.
Brennan had a lot to think about right now. These times came and went. He knew they were cyclical. When Sophie was born he’d gone through a similar phase: thinking, evaluating. Life suddenly had more import, a lot that had went before was meaningless. Fifteen years later it was the other way around; nothing seemed to matter. What had changed? Was it him; was it the world? He dredged up some long-distilled lines from a philosopher about the ages of man, and viewing life and experience differently with maturity. What seemed valuable, important, was rendered worthless with the passage of time. He almost laughed at the vacuity of his younger self. But was he any better now? Experience was the name a man gave to his mistakes. Someone had said that too.
‘Take the bus lane.’ Brennan pointed at the windscreen. The harshness of his voice surprised him. There was a lot in there, inside him, that he found surprising now.
‘Yes, sir.’
The police Astra sped past the lines of traffic. A young woman on the street put her hands up to her ears. Brennan knew the older ones didn’t bother – their hearing had atrophied to the stage where the sirens didn’t bother them . . . It was another one of those observations that the job afforded you. Very few were worth noting.
The driver was too quick into the Crewe Toll roundabout. Brennan felt some movement on the back tyres as the car spun onto Ferry Road. He felt himself automatically gripping the door handle, his right foot pumping an imaginary brake pedal. ‘Try and get us there in one piece, eh.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘And stop apologising. You’re far too free with your apologies . . . Don’t mind me, I’m a full-time prick. I point out everyone’s flaws in this job.’
The main artery road was stocked with ancient figures: they were the occupants of Peter Howson paintings. Huge-knuckled working men; hard drinkers and working girls. Smokers puffed freely, flicked dowps into the gutter. Every one of them shook their head at the sight of the speeding police car. They were filth round here. The fun-stoppers. The Rozzers. No one welcomed them; there was no red-carpet treatment coming their way down this end of town. It didn’t bother Brennan. He’d long since lost the need to be liked – in any way – and certainly not for being a police officer. There had been a time, at the deathly dull dinner parties his wife used to hold for her circle, where spouses had tried to intellectualise their view of the police for him. ‘I wouldn’t like to live in a society without police,’ one pot-bellied middle manager had remarked, ‘for all the same reasons I wouldn’t like to live in Somalia.’
Brenn
an remembered the remark, and the smirk the tosser had topped the statement with; it was glib bullshit. The lot of it was glib bullshit. It was a job. A necessary evil.
The scene darkened down Pennywell Road. Ginger kids, barely school age, with the arse hanging out of their trousers shot the V-sign. A few tried to spit in the car’s direction. Brennan had known stones to be thrown; he was unfazed. There were middle-aged women in baffies and housecoats stood on the road, leaning over gardens and jabbering. They’d obviously clocked the police activity; the talk would be of drugs raids, whose man was being taken in, how the force victimised them. Each syllable of the schemie’s chat would be punctuated by puffs on Superkings; the sight of them was as regular as the street furniture. As harrowing as the bust couch or the rusting scooters in the overgrown gardens. Brennan could have painted the scene from memory. He knew there were liberal thinkers – what Wullie called the Guardian-reading classes – who would gasp and deride the deprivation, but not him. This was a breeding ground for crime, a dumping ground for the dispossessed and the dafties. It was a dangerous place; no question.
Brennan shook his head, sighed, ‘Another poor lassie’s met her end. How many’s that?’
The constable shrugged, looked like he was wondering who the DI was speaking to.
Brennan looked ahead through the windscreen, to the point on the road where the Scenes of Crime Officers had set up. The title of an old song played to him, ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’ . . . He thanked Christ his daughter was being raised on the other side of town – no child here had a chance.
‘Pull up in front of the SOCOs,’ said Brennan. ‘Don’t want them accusing us of blocking access to their wee gang hut.’
The driver eased through the gears, slowly, and put the car in at the kerb. A small crowd had formed in the street; some uniforms paced a thin cordon. The crowd looked subdued. At once Brennan knew the word had got out.