Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  A siren sounded in the car park and Brennan was poked back to the waking world. He watched as a young WPC worked the photocopier. She retrieved her copy then walked off, getting only a few paces before returning to the machine to raise the lid and retrieve the original. She smiled at Brennan on her way back to her seat. They knew; they all knew. This case was turning out to be a thankless task: the kind of crime that had a clear victim, but that was all that was clear. Brennan had decided early on that the girl in the dumpster was local to Muirhouse – it looked that way, everything pointed to that – but now he had to reassess his assumptions. He had to go back to the start, look again. Was he missing something? He knew he must be, but what? All he needed was one break, one pointer, something to set the ball in motion and the rest would gather in its wake. If he was a religious man himself, he thought, prayers might not be a bad idea.

  As he paced through Incident Room One he saw Lauder coming from DC Stevie McGuire’s desk. Brennan approached him, stood in his path: ‘What are you doing in here?’

  Lauder grinned. ‘Who promoted you to hall monitor?’

  Brennan stood his ground. ‘This is my investigation, Lauder, and I’d like it solved.’ The bustle of the room ceased – they had an audience. Brennan sensed himself becoming a gladiator, all eyes upon him for a reaction as Lauder replied.

  ‘I’d ask how you were getting on, but I think I’ll just catch it on the news later.’

  It was a low blow, designed to rattle Brennan. He returned a volley of his own: ‘We’re doing fine here, so you can take yourself elsewhere, Lauder, I don’t want you fucking up our mojo.’

  Lauder riled, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Now Brennan smiled. ‘How’s the shooting case going?’

  Lauder shook his head. ‘That’s a complex investigation; it would take me too long to explain to you, Rob.’

  Brennan walked past him. ‘Broad-daylight shooting, in a public place . . . Sounds it!’

  Lauder looked ready to spit as he turned for the exit. Brennan knew he was storing up trouble for himself if he didn’t ease off on him, but he didn’t care. The man had messed up the investigation of his brother’s murder and the thought rankled, more than a bit.

  Outside the interview room Brennan stalled, looked in the peep-hole. The minister sat silently inside, head bowed. Brennan lowered his eye, rested his forehead on the door for a second or two, then jerked his neck back and walked into the room opposite. DC Stevie McGuire was sitting inside. He had a sandwich box open on the desk and a styrofoam cup filled with grey coffee halfway to his mouth. When he saw Brennan he lowered the cup, said, ‘Sir, how’s it going?’

  ‘It’s me that should be asking you that.’

  McGuire took a quick sip of the coffee. ‘Well, I warmed him up for you but didn’t get much.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Brennan sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Not a lot.’ McGuire exhaled slowly. ‘He said he was going to tell us about the baby . . . in due course.’

  Brennan smirked. ‘Oh, really . . . When, exactly?’

  ‘That he didn’t say.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing much. I didn’t go in too hard, just wanted to give him a foretaste, make him think, y’know.’

  Brennan knew exactly what he meant – he was leaving it to him, didn’t want to mess up. ‘And the wife?’

  ‘I’m just going in there now. Thought I’d question her whilst you took the husband. We can compare notes.’

  Brennan made a conscious effort to keep his expression blank, register nothing. He rose from the edge of the desk, turned for the door he’d walked through a moment earlier. He was about to close it behind him when he retreated a step, said, ‘I saw Lauder through there.’

  McGuire’s eyes widened. ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’ Brennan let the statement hang in the air for a little while, then, ‘If there’s any media enquiries come in, say nothing.’

  McGuire’s lips parted. He seemed to be unsure of his answer, then: ‘Yes, sir . . . Of course.’

  Brennan closed the door behind him. As he turned for the interview room, he took a moment to think about his strategy: he was going in hard, studs first. There was nothing to be gained from holding back. They had treated the minister with too much civility already. A man that hides the fact that he has a missing granddaughter, in the wake of his daughter’s brutal killing, deserves no leeway.

  Brennan reached for the handle, turned it briskly and strode in. He did not acknowledge the minister, merely removed his jacket and flung it over the back of the chair. There was an empty plastic cup on the table. It toppled in the draught the jacket’s landing threw up; a little sliver of brown tea spilled on the table. The minister stared at it, seemed unsure of what to do next. He righted the cup and returned his hand to beneath the table.

  Brennan spoke: ‘Who was the father?’

  ‘What? I-I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You never asked?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say.’ The minister looked away.

  ‘And you accepted that?’

  A nod. ‘It seemed irresponsible to press her, she was very unsettled then.’

  ‘She must have had a boyfriend, someone you suspected?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it was hardly an immaculate conception, Minister.’

  He riled, ‘I have no idea who the father of the child was, Inspector.’

  Brennan paused, took a deep breath. He had already been through all the possibilities and their permutations in his mind. ‘We can have that checked.’

  The minister nodded. ‘I’m sure you can.’

  The line of questioning had stalled. It gave Brennan an opportunity to change tack: ‘I see you’re in line for the big league.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ His voice sounded tired.

  ‘You didn’t expect that to escape us, surely . . .’ Brennan turned his cheek, squinted. ‘I’m talking about the job – Moderator of the Church of Scotland.’

  The minister nodded, brought his hands out in front of him and laid them on the table. ‘You present that like it is an important piece of the puzzle, Inspector.’

  Brennan smiled. ‘Maybe it is.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ His tone grew cockier.

  The detective settled himself in the seat, made a show of turning up the cuffs on his shirtsleeves. ‘Do I need to paint you a picture, Minister?’

  A head tilt. ‘I’m afraid you might have to, because I don’t see any connection between my career prospects and this unfortunate turn of events.’

  ‘“Unfortunate turn of events” . . . You make it sound like your washingmachine’s on the blink.’ Brennan sat forward, rested elbows on the table. ‘Your daughter has been murdered and your granddaughter – Beth – remember her? She’s missing.’

  The minister looked away, his pallor faded.

  Brennan let the implications of his words settle. He rose from the chair and paced the room, spoke: ‘Now, here’s how I see it: you’re up for the top job in the Kirk, and young Carly is unfortunate enough to get herself pregnant. Now, how does a respectable Church of Scotland minister deal with that? Does he throw a party in the manse? Take an ad out in the paper? . . . I wonder.’ Brennan stared at the minister – he was looking away. ‘No, here’s what I say he does: he thinks about how this will look for him. Oh, now, the parishioners won’t like it, he thinks. No, no. They’ll talk, they’ll complain, they’ll put words in ears, maybe even write letters. No, no. That would never do. Am I painting a clear enough picture, Minister?’

  ‘Yes, very clear.’ His speech was blunt, brisk.

  The DI leaned over him, shouted, ‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much.’ He didn’t like the minister’s demeanour – he was acting as if he had some cards in reserve, and Brennan knew full well he had no such thing. He fired on, ‘You see, when I found out you were in line for the Moderator’s job, it made me think. What did it make
me think? you’re wondering . . . Well, it made me think that if an opportunity like that presented itself, an opportunity of a lifetime, you might say, some people would do almost anything to stop it slipping through their fingers.’

  ‘No, this is wrong . . . You are wrong about that,’ said the minister.

  Brennan returned to the table, leaned over. ‘I doubt it. You see, I watched you talking about your daughter and I think I learned one or two things about you, Minister. You are a very secretive man, you like to keep your private life, as the saying goes, private. Am I right or am I wrong?’

  The minister nodded, said, ‘Is there a law against that, Inspector Brennan?’

  A smile, wry one. ‘No. Not against that. But there is a law against murder.’

  The minister’s eyes flared. He rose. ‘This has gone far enough. I demand to have a lawyer, now.’

  Brennan eased back, lowered himself into the chair. ‘You can have a lawyer any time you like, but jumping the gun a bit, aren’t we? No one’s charged you with anything.’

  The minister sat down again, ran fingers through his thick grey hair. ‘This infernal questioning is leading nowhere.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that . . . and more besides.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I’d like you to start answering some questions, with some straight answers. Like why didn’t you tell us about Beth?’

  The minister laced his fingers, looked at his palms, turned them over. The actions seemed perfunctory. ‘That would seem like an error now.’

  ‘I’d say so. But you’re not answering my question.’

  The minister raised his eyes. ‘My wife and I, well, we were in so much shock . . .’

  Brennan wasn’t buying any of it. ‘Why did Carly run away?’

  A sigh, followed by a deep breath. ‘We discussed with her about putting the child, erm, Beth, up for adoption.’

  ‘And Carly wanted to keep her.’

  ‘No. Well, not at first . . . Before the birth, Carly was in favour of adoption.’

  ‘But then she had the child, she held Beth in her arms and changed her mind, is that it?’

  The minister nodded his head.

  ‘So, you pressed her to have the child adopted?’

  ‘No. Not at all . . . It’s very complex, Inspector.’

  ‘Then explain it.’

  His gaze turned away from Brennan; his eyes drooped in time with his shoulders. He spoke: ‘We . . . removed Carly from school when the pregnancy was uncovered. We tried to keep her from prying eyes.’

  Brennan knew exactly what he was saying, and wasn’t saying. ‘You were ashamed.’

  The minister’s lower lip curled into his mouth, sat over his teeth for a moment, then subsided. ‘There was some element of that, yes.’

  ‘You were ashamed, and you were afraid you’d miss your chance to be Moderator.’

  The minister didn’t answer the question, said, ‘It was very . . . complex.’

  Brennan rose from his chair again, began his pacing ritual. ‘And then Beth was born.’ The child’s name seemed to unsettle the minister every time he heard it.

  ‘Yes. Carly had the child at home. My wife was a midwife when we met and . . . It was a simple procedure for her.’

  ‘And the adoption?’

  ‘We had made all the arrangements.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Talking like this was a trial for the minister – each word was drawn from a deep, dark well. ‘Somewhere along the way, Carly had a change of heart. She didn’t want to give up the child and . . . there were words.’

  Brennan turned, pointed to him. ‘You laid down the law.’ He raised his voice: ‘You told her she was giving up her child whether she wanted to or not!’

  The minister raised his hands to his head, lowered his brow towards the table. His words were inaudible. Brennan watched as he rested his eye sockets on the heels of his hands.

  ‘Well, this is all very interesting, Minister . . . All very interesting indeed, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Chapter 25

  DC STEVIE McGUIRE WAS WAITING for Brennan as he left the interview room. He had a blue folder pressed to his chest, said, ‘I have a media statement back from PR . . . Do you want to cast your eyes over it?’

  Brennan took the piece of paper, read:

  Lothian and Borders Police investigations into the death of a young woman on the Muirhouse Housing Estate in Edinburgh are ongoing. Police are treating the matter as suspicious. The victim’s identity will not be released until all family members have been informed. Police are keen to hear from anyone in the locus between the hours of . . .

  Brennan returned the paper, pinned it to McGuire’s folder. ‘Release the name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  He walked off; McGuire trailed him.

  ‘Sir, are you sure that’s—’ He broke off as Brennan spun round.

  ‘Look, Stevie, how many calls from the hacks have we had on this?’

  The DC shrugged. ‘A lot . . .’

  ‘More than that, son. We’ve given them nothing and they’re getting antsy. If we hold off on the ID then they’re going to know we’re playing them hard . . . We’ll be upping the pace, but we need to keep them onside, make them work for us.’

  McGuire nodded, said, ‘You’re the boss.’

  Brennan placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. ‘Don’t you forget it.’ He smiled at McGuire. There was another reason behind his thinking, and he wanted to relay it: ‘Look at it this way, Stevie – we might be jumping the gun a bit, but we’ll piss off our mole something rotten.’

  The pair shared a brief laugh as they walked towards the incident room; Brennan wondered if he was coming round to the DC. Phones were ringing, uniforms running to and fro. There was a message coming through the fax – a WPC waited for it. Brennan nodded to the crowd who looked up as he entered. He pointed to one of them. ‘Lou, what’s the go with the door-to-doors?’

  A short man in a Markies shirt and tie, open at the collar, bedraggled, spoke: ‘I’m about fifty per cent through them.’

  ‘And?’ Brennan moved his fists in a circular motion.

  ‘And . . . nothing, sir.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No one at the halfway houses saw anyone matching our victim. There’s a few left to try but we’re drawing blanks.’

  Brennan shook his head, jutted his jaw. ‘Did you start these before or after we had the full pathology report?’

  Lou leaned back against the wall, touched his brow. ‘Erm, bit of both . . . Some before, some after.’

  ‘Right. The ones you covered before, go back and ask if they saw anyone with a kid.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He pushed his shoulder blades off the wall, returned to his desk.

  Brennan started to move fists again, halted, pointed. ‘Brian . . . what pictures you got?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not so far. I’ve not got them all in yet, we’re halfway through the train stations footage and haven’t started on the buses . . . The community centre’s wasn’t running.’

  Brennan arked up, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ He smacked a fist in his open palm. ‘How many bods have you got screening?’

  ‘Four on the early shift, two the back.’

  ‘Double it. I’ll worry about the overtime later.’

  Brian nodded, ran fingers through his hair and picked up the phone’s receiver.

  Brennan paced round the room. He looked at the whiteboard. There were more photographs of Carly now; her name had been added in red marker pen. Brennan’s gaze hung for a moment, then he turned swiftly.

  ‘Okay, Davie . . . you’re up.’

  When the DC rose, he was a full half-foot taller than the rest of the room. His arms seemed too long for his body and his elbows poked out at an unnatural angle as he spoke: ‘I hate to say it, boss, but I’ve got even less to report than the others.’

  ‘Je
sus Christ.’ Brennan shook his head.

  ‘I’ve pulled in the pimps working the Links but they’re giving nothing away.’

  ‘Are they holding back?’

  A shrug. ‘Hard to say . . . They’re never forthcoming at the best of times.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any brass that talk?’

  Davie scratched his earlobe with a long bony finger. ‘I tried that too – nothing.’

  Brennan threw up his hands, kicked out at a waste bin. ‘Right, get them in . . . take a meat wagon and round them up.’ He turned, pointed again. ‘Davie, you can head up the interviews and I want them started today. Go on through the night if necessary . . . Tell Charlie to clear some cells.’

  ‘Sir, do you know how many sex workers there are out there?’

  Brennan hated the phrase, it was too PC. He preferred the tried and tested handle – seemed to fit. ‘Get them all in, all the brass and ass walking Leith, and interview them. One on one. A young girl has died – someone knows something. And in case anyone has lost sight of the fact, there’s a child, a baby girl called Beth that’s missing . . . When I get my balls put over the coals on national television I want to be able to tell the country that every single man and woman in this room is doing everything they possibly can to find that child and her mother’s killer.’

  The room fell silent. Heads were bowed.

  Brennan continued, ‘This might turn out to be the biggest case any of you will ever work on. We have a seriously deranged killer on the loose and don’t think for a second the press and public are going to let us forget it.’ He walked to the window. ‘Look out there – that’s where our killer is. There are people who know him, or her, and they’ll lead us right to where the bastard is hiding. I want every single one of you to up your game – the stakes have never been higher. I want this bastard, and I want that child out of harm’s way.’