Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  Several attempts later Tierney got up. He swayed on his feet, like a much older man, and clutched the wall for support. His vision was weak, tired. He could never understand this – how could his eyes be tired when he’d just woken up? He scratched at his eyelids with blackened fingernails. His eyeballs burned. He wanted to scoop them out, drop them in cold water, iced maybe. He wanted another hit – the aches and pains disappeared as soon as he had a hit. He looked around the room for Vee. He couldn’t see her. All he could see was the kid, lying in a drawer, crying again.

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  He staggered to the other wall, felt his way to the door. ‘Vee . . . Vee, where are you?’

  There was no reply. She was supposed to be looking after that kid, that was the idea – and it was her idea. Tierney knew he’d played his part in bringing the child into their chaotic lives, but he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want to have to think about the hows and the whys. He only knew it shouldn’t have been like this – it was wrong, all wrong.

  ‘Vee . . . Get up to that kid!’

  He dragged himself from the sitting room. There was no sign of her. Had she gone out? Where? If she had gone out she was whoring or scoring. Tierney tried to find strength to hit the wall but his dull thuds were barely audible. He saw the bathroom door ahead, sat ajar.

  ‘Vee . . . you in there?’ He edged closer, his aching limbs dragging.

  At the door to the bathroom Tierney’s heart rate picked up, only a little at first, but as he touched the woodwork his blood raced. ‘Vee . . .’

  He wondered if she was in there – why would she go in there? After last night Tierney could hardly bear to take a piss in there. ‘Vee.’

  There was no reply. As he edged inside the door, the hinges creaked. The mat caught behind the door as he pushed it open, tugging and dragging. Tierney felt moisture gather on his brow – he was sweating. His hands felt clammy as he turned towards the bathtub. The shower curtain was drawn shut. Mould and mildew grew at the top but at the base, where the bleach had been splashed about, it was white, bright. Tierney paused before the unusual cleanliness. His mouth dried over. He could see Vee’s pale feet resting beside the taps. Oh Christ, what had she done?

  He whispered, ‘Vee?’

  His voice cracked but seemed above his normal range in the small room. Oh Jesus, what had she done? Was it too much for her? If it was too much for her, it was too much for him. Where would he go? What would he do?

  He heard the child’s cries again. ‘Oh, Jesus, Vee . . . what have you done?’

  Tierney gripped the curtain and pulled it back. Vee looked pale and still. Her head rested on the rim of the bathtub; Tierney could see the blue veins in her temples. He wanted to shake her, to poke at her and wail, tell her to get up and stop being so fucking selfish . . . It was all her fault, after all. Everything was her fault.

  ‘Vee . . .’ Tierney’s voice rose, became a growl. ‘Vee.’

  There was a twitch in her brow, a curl of her lip, and then her head turned. Tierney leaned over her. ‘Fuck’s sake, Vee!’He grabbed her face in his hand, squeezed hard. ‘You’re out of it!’

  Vee groaned. She seemed to try and open her eyes but her head lolled from side to side with the effort. Tierney pulled her hair, banged her head several times off the rim of the bathtub. Vee groaned, but failed to come round.

  ‘You selfish bitch!’ roared Tierney. ‘You lazy, selfish piece of shit.’ He drew a fist, aimed it at her face but stopped himself. ‘You’ll keep.’ He turned from her, went to the shower unit and flicked on the switch. Thin streams of water jetted onto Vee where she lay, fully clothed in the bathtub. She mumbled at first, then her mumbles became moans as she tried to wave away the water.

  Tierney left her to come round. Somebody had to look after the kid; she wasn’t capable, that was clear. He pushed at the door. It stuck again on the mat. He struggled harder and freed it. As he forced his weight into the door the action made the hinges squeal, then a layer of dust was dislodged from above the frame as the door slammed into the jamb and rebounded back towards Tierney.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  Vee had started to react to the pelting of the water on her. She screamed out, seemed to have found a surprising amount of strength. ‘Turn it off . . . Turn it off.’

  ‘That’ll be right.’

  ‘Barry. Barry, get that off.’

  He started to laugh as Vee tried to fumble for the shower, hands outstretched like a blind woman; the scene was comical to him. ‘Serves you right, leaving me to mind that kid.’ He left her slipping, stumbling, ungainly in the bathtub, trying to escape the pounding of the thin jets of water.

  Tierney plodded back towards the hallway. He found himself coughing loudly after his exertions. A wisp of mucus trailed from his mouth as he raised a hand to steady himself on the wall. There was no strength left in him. He found his head ached once again. There was a dizzy spell queuing behind his eyes and he needed to sit down. As he stumbled towards the living room he put his hands out in front of him in preparation for a flop onto the filthy mattress he had left only a few moments ago. Once he was inside, the baby’s cries attacked Tierney like jabs. He couldn’t lock them out. The child was Vee’s responsibility, not his, he thought. But somebody had to see to it. He couldn’t let any harm come to the baby – there was far too much at stake for that.

  Tierney walked over to the dresser. The baby lay there in the top drawer, wrapped in an old coat. Her cheeks were puffed and the colour looked too red to be natural, like a plastic toy. The little hair on her scalp was stuck down. He leaned over, picked up the child – she felt damp. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ She was wet again. He raised her on his shoulder, gently patted her back. She was a young child and cried all the time. ‘Come on now, settle yourself down.’ He’d heard somewhere that the thing to do was put a drop of whisky on the baby’s dummy, put them fast asleep apparently. He’d heard that from a woman he once knew, so it had to be true. Women knew about babies, they were the ones to look after them, not men. ‘Vee. Get your arse through here!’

  He heard movement in the hallway. The shower had stopped. That made him smirk again. He bared a row of cracked teeth at the child; already the baby seemed to have settled somewhat in his arms.

  ‘Vee . . . get through and feed this kid.’

  The handle of the door to the living room turned slowly. As Vee came through she was still dripping wet but now she was wrapped in an old, fraying blanket that was dotted with stains and cigarette burns. She carried herself like a figure from a tragedy. Her thin, pale arms, exposed above the blanket, were bruised and scarred and her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking. Tierney looked her up and down; he saw her feet sticking out beneath the blanket. He had always hated her feet – they were too big and her toes were crooked after years of forcing them into smaller shoes with high heels she wore to walk the Links. The sight of those feet was like incitement to Tierney. He wanted to knock her down for bringing them before him. He knew it wasn’t just the sight of the feet that poked the anger in him, it was the sight of her, what she had done to him and what she had made him do.

  ‘Get this fucking kid off me.’ He handed Vee the child and she put a hand under its legs, raised it onto her shoulder.

  ‘She’s hungry,’ said Vee.

  ‘Well, fucking feed her.’

  Vee craned her neck to the side, as if she was trying to hear something far away, said, ‘The bottle’s in the kitchen.’ It was only when she spoke that Tierney realised she was indicating that he was to prepare the milk. He watched Vee with the child for a moment and felt something stir inside him. It was a feeling he wasn’t sure he had known existed before. It was close to duty, but he knew he wasn’t doing it for Vee, or the child.

  Tierney dragged his legs back into motion, made for the kitchenette and started to fill a pot with water. There was a small gas burner with a blue canister. He lit it and placed the pot over it to boil. As the water heated he walked back to
Vee and the child. ‘The Deil better sort us out.’

  ‘Do you think he won’t?’

  He shook his head. ‘He’s not sure.’ He raised an arm, a thin finger extended towards the child in Vee’s arms. ‘About that.’

  ‘He was before.’ She seemed nonplussed, already looking towards the possibilities.

  Tierney nodded. ‘He’s not sure now . . . He said he was, but then . . .’

  Vee moved the child to her other shoulder, jutted her jaw. ‘But then what?’

  Tierney heard the water boiling up, turned. Vee grabbed his arm as he moved. ‘But fucking what, Barry?’

  ‘Got to get the milk.’ He pulled his arm away.

  As he went to the kitchen, Vee followed him. She watched him take off the saucepan, drop in the bottle of milk.

  ‘Barry, we can’t mess this up. We need to get sorted out or he’s going to lose patience. You know what that means.’

  Tierney faced her. ‘I know.’

  He didn’t want to think about being in debt to Devlin McArdle. He’d seen what happened to people who had run up sums they couldn’t pay back to the Deil; the idea he might join them scared him. He had thought he had the answer but now he wasn’t so sure. It had all gotten out of control, so much so that he couldn’t think of a way out. He couldn’t see any possibilities.

  As the pair stared at each other there was a loud knock on the door. It sounded twice, then became a thud. Next was the sound of the post-slot being rattled and a familiar voice yelling in for them, ‘Open the fuck up!’

  Vee stopped patting the baby’s back. She was the first to speak: ‘It’s him . . . the Deil.’

  Chapter 12

  BRENNAN WATCHED LAUDER. His lips were pinched but he had ceased to whistle. As he stood, an arc of piss sprayed the urinal. The expression on his face was hard to analyse – somewhere between startled and slightly chuffed. He turned away, looked down, shook, then zipped up. He regained composure quickly, began whistling again. It was an irritating tune, some chart rubbish, thought Brennan, something that might once have been worthy but had been milked dry by a television talent show.

  Lauder brushed past Brennan, left him in no doubt about what his impression of the DI was – as if he was in any doubt after catching his comments from beyond the cubicle door.

  Lauder said, ‘If you think I care two shits for you hearing any of that, you’re wrong.’

  Brennan turned slowly. He removed his hands from his pockets and folded them behind his back as he faced Lauder in the wall mirror, said, ‘Do you think I do?’ He managed a sneer on the last syllable. He was sure it had the effect he was after.

  Lauder pushed the soap spray, put his hands under the taps and got a lather going. He’d abandoned the whistling completely now.

  ‘This is a new low even for you, is it not?’ said Lauder.

  Brennan held schtum.

  ‘I mean, you know I don’t rate you as a cop, but I never had you down as a cock-watcher.’

  Brennan laughed it up, kept his powder dry.

  Lauder continued, ‘I know you had that little flip-out there, nice bit of leave, but seriously, are you sure you’re right in the head yet?’ Lauder walked round Brennan. He shook the excess water from his fingers as he went. At the towel rail he pulled the blue cloth tight and smirked.

  The scene had played just how Brennan had predicted it so far. There had been a time, in his younger days, when he might have given the lank streak of piss a slap, cracked a few ribs maybe. But not now. He’d passed that stage. Learned to control himself. The rough stuff, the physical blows, were rewarding but short-lived. He wanted to leave Lauder wondering, keep him guessing, and it was best to file his comeuppance away until a later date. There was always the satisfaction to be drawn from the knowledge that Lauder didn’t have the intelligence for it, and he could be mentally tortured for a long stretch of time.

  Brennan tapped his hands where he held them behind his back. He returned the sly smile to Lauder, spoke: ‘Game on.’

  ‘What?’ said Lauder. He turned from the towel rail. ‘What are you saying to me?’ He took two steps closer, expanded his chest and dropped his head in a combative stance.

  Brennan widened his smile, keeping his posture firm. He felt secure enough in his capabilities if the confrontation became physical, but he was in control and kept up the mental assault. ‘Funny what you pick up if you keep your ears open, isn’t it, Lauder? I mean, I thought that reporter had been tipped off, but you can never be sure, can you?’

  Lauder twisted his expression, brought up a finger, pointed it. ‘Look, if you’ve got a mole, that’s fuck all to do with me!’

  Now Brennan stepped up. He brought his hands round and slowly rubbed them together. ‘If I’ve got a mole, Lauder, I’ll find him . . . And when I do, he’ll be lucky to stay on the force as a dog catcher.’

  There was a moment of silence between the two men. The filling of the cisterns could be heard, the drip of ageing pipes. ‘Ah, fuck this,’ said Lauder. He sidestepped Brennan and stomped away. As he grabbed the handle the door clattered off the wall; the swish of it pushed a breeze towards Brennan. He watched Lauder leave and turned to the mirror.

  For a moment his eyes failed to register the man staring back at him in reflection. When they did he moved closer, placed his hands either side of the wash bowl and sighed. As he emptied his lungs Brennan knew that things had just got more difficult for him. He knew his first priority was to find a killer. There was a dead girl. A young girl, not much older than his own daughter, had been desecrated. There would be a family, people who needed answers. Hurt, confused, desperate people in a state of helplessness. He knew how they felt – there was no misery in the world like it. And, as ever, there would be a murderer hiding somewhere, wondering if the police were coming; honing survival instincts. It was Brennan’s job to catch that murderer, to find justice for the girl and her family. He took his job seriously. It galled him to know there were people on the force like Lauder who just didn’t get it.

  Not like he did. They didn’t come close.

  In the corridor Brennan straightened himself, headed for the incident room. As he opened the door there was a cackle of voices, some movement, activity – everything stilled for a second or two as he walked to the front of the room and stood before the whiteboard. Some pictures had come back from the photographer and had been stuck up. Brennan looked them over. There were more on the desk in front of the board; he picked those up. The girl looked even paler than he remembered. Her light-coloured hair, stuck fast to her brow, seemed to have darkened in contrast. The images were stark. He placed them back on the desk. The team started to assemble themselves around him, awaiting a formal address. He gathered his thoughts, looked up, eyes front.

  ‘Right, you don’t need me to tell you this is a particularly brutal assault on a young life . . . Even by Muirhouse standards.’

  There was no reply; they listened.

  ‘We have an approximate time of death and all the likely causes of death stand out. We have theories, but no leads . . .’ Brennan turned to McGuire. He had avoided eye contact with the DC since entering the room and now he put him on notice that he was expected to perform: ‘Stevie, what did you get from the prints?’

  McGuire held a blue folder at chest level, then lowered it as he spoke. ‘Erm, as you know, the arms were removed from the victim and recovered approximately . . .’ He turned to the folder, toyed with the idea of opening it but thought better of it. He continued, ‘Well, close to the scene the arms were recovered. We’ve no prints on file.’

  Brennan spoke: ‘Okay. So, that’s an unidentified victim . . . Listings, Stevie . . . What did you get on the missing persons?’

  ‘Right, well, I have a list.’ McGuire went to his desk, produced a bundle of pages. ‘There are upwards of maybe three hundred girls missing in the country right now.’

  ‘How many matching our victim’s description?’

  McGuire turned to a WPC, presented a palm.
She answered, ‘I’ve been through most of the list, and got about a dozen possible . . . but—’

  Brennan cut her off. ‘Get that list to Stevie right away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Something in the corner of the room seemed to have attracted a small clique’s attention. ‘What is it?’ said Brennan.

  ‘The TV news, sir,’ said a PC. ‘They’re running an item on the case.’

  The team gathered round the small screen. ‘Turn it up,’ said Brennan. There was a hush in the room as the item played. Brennan caught sight of the footage of himself turning up in the squad car. There were a few giggles around the room.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Hardly fucking Hollywood.’

  The incident room watched the broadcast. Occasionally the scratching of a pencil tip was heard, a comment made, but mostly the mood was attentive until the girls who found the corpse appeared.

  ‘Oh Christ Almighty,’ said Brennan. ‘How the fuck did they get to them?’

  Heads dipped, bowed.

  ‘Thought as much . . . Bloody hell, Stevie, tell me we’ve got statements.’

  McGuire squirmed. ‘Erm . . . yes, from the scene.’

  ‘I know we had statements at the scene – I thought you were bringing the girls in!’

  ‘Erm, I thought you were dealing with that, Lucy . . .’ McGuire turned to another WPC.

  Brennan immediately spotted the blame-shift. ‘Don’t fucking leave it to Lucy . . . Get them in!’

  McGuire, subdued, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  When the news item was over Brennan picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television. The screen fizzed, went blank. His mood was serious. His tone sent electricity round the room. ‘Right, the media’s out the traps on this already, so we’re going to have to move it,’ he said. ‘Stevie, get a statement out through the press office.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nothing fancy, just the basics . . . Appealing for witnesses, that sort of guff.’