Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  Brennan shook his head. ‘The last time I came up here I thought it was quite, what’s the word . . . quaint?’

  ‘I’d bet if you stopped and talked to one of the Barbour mob they’d be Home Counties . . . Or Notting Hill. This part of the country’s just a playground for the seriously well-heeled.’

  Brennan agreed. ‘Makes me a bit queasy now.’

  ‘What’s changed you?’

  He shifted eyes. ‘Maybe I suddenly developed awareness.’

  McGuire dragged the gears. ‘Traffic’s seizing up.’

  Brennan nodded to the road. ‘Over there – it’s our home from home.’

  McGuire turned towards the small building with the police sign, blue with white lettering. ‘By the Christ . . . It’s like something out of Dixon of Dock Green.’

  ‘Is a bit,’ said Brennan. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  McGuire steered the car towards the station, parked outside with two wheels on the kerb. As he got out of the driver’s door he eased his hands onto the base of his spine and leaned back. Brennan exited on the other side of the Passat, rubbing the back of his neck. He was relieved to get the journey out of the way but apprehensive as to what to expect on this visit. He was an outsider in unfamiliar territory. Much as he despised the city, he had grown accustomed to its ways and felt comfortable there. Pitlochry was an unknown quantity and he expected it would take time for both of them to get used to each other.

  Brennan headed for the front door of the station. He watched McGuire stretching on the pavement and nodded gravely. ‘Come on, we’re going in.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  Brennan squared his shoulders. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘That sounds worse.’

  A frown, thinned eyes. ‘I hope you’ve got my back.’

  McGuire laughed, patted the detective’s back. ‘No worries.’

  The station smelled of mould and bleach, the cheap industrial bleach that comes in powder form. Brennan flared his nostrils as they approached the desk. There was a black plastic pen sitting in a pen holder the same colour, that looked as if it would be more at home in a branch of the TSB circa 1975. Some crime- prevention leaflets were piled next to a small Perspex rack. There was a bell, like a front-door bell, screwed into the counter. Brennan pressed the button; a buzzer sounded.

  There was no movement. He toyed with the idea of pressing the button again, then a stout man in uniform, three stripes on his arms, approached. He seemed to be ignoring Brennan as he leaned over the counter and showed him the top of his bald head. Brennan turned to McGuire, raised an eyebrow then removed his warrant card and dropped it in front of the uniform.

  For a moment the bald head remained in place, then slowly it was raised and a hand with ginger hair sprouting from the knuckles picked up the card. ‘Inspector Brennan . . . You must be the boys from Edinburgh, eh?’ If there was any hint of a welcome, Brennan missed it.

  He played it calm; he was on foreign soil. ‘That’s right.’

  The uniform took two steps to the left, released a catch under the counter and raised a section that sat on two hinges. ‘This way.’

  Brennan nodded McGuire through first. On the way past the uniform he retrieved his warrant card and said, ‘How long have you been on the desk?’

  He leaned forward. ‘Too long.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  Brennan turned. As he walked through the small vestibule his shoes sounded loudly on the pine boards. He thought the place could do with a lick of paint, but concluded that was probably low on the list of things they needed.

  McGuire found a door on the other side of the room that led through to a corridor. The uniform called out from behind them. ‘Out there, left then first on the right. Can’t miss it. Fergus is your man.’

  Neither of the officers thought to thank him. They headed through the door and walked up the corridor. At the end, on the right, a panel door held a small grey plate that read DS NAPIER. Brennan knocked on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  Once inside, the officers were greeted by a head of curly brown hair that sat over the top of a copy of the Press and Journal newspaper. Napier had his feet on the desk and a pair of argyle socks showed below three to four inches of pasty white leg.

  Brennan approached. ‘This is DC McGuire and I’m DI Brennan from Lothian CID . . .’ He had thought this would be enough to prompt some kind of a reaction, but Napier remained still.

  Brennan looked at McGuire – he shrugged.

  ‘Right then, if you can just show us where our office is—’

  ‘Office?’ Napier chuckled. ‘You’re bloody well standing in it.’

  Brennan put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, that makes one of us . . . When you’re finished checking the day’s form, Detective, I’d like to see what you’ve been doing up here with the information my colleagues have supplied you with surrounding the murder of Carly Donald.’

  Napier uncrossed his feet, lowered his legs. As he moved he folded the newspaper and positioned it on the corner of his desk next to two empty coffee mugs.

  Brennan eyed him impatiently. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Napier replied. ‘Oh yes, I hear you . . . sir.’

  Brennan could feel his heart rate increasing. He had come a long way and was prepared to be as amenable to the local customs as he could be, but he wasn’t going to be pissed about, certainly not in front of one of his staff. ‘Good. Nothing wrong with your hearing then; shame I can’t say the same about your fucking manners.’ Brennan removed his hands from his pockets and leaned over the desk. ‘You might as well get your arse out of that chair, fella. If this is where we’re working from, I’ll be having the desk.’

  Napier rose. As he walked around the officers, Brennan straightened himself. ‘Hold on.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You’ll need these.’ He picked up the empty coffee mugs. ‘I’ll take mine black but I believe DC McGuire is partial to a drop of milk.’

  Napier took the mugs and walked to the door, glancing back at Brennan and McGuire before going through and closing it gently behind him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said McGuire. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be like The Wicker Man!’

  Brennan ran a finger over the desk, collected a burr of dust, held it up. ‘Welcome to the country.’

  McGuire rolled eyes. ‘I think we can kiss goodbye to any cooperation from the local boys, then.’

  Brennan barked, ‘Don’t be fooled. They all like to test the boundaries. I’d say they know where they are now.’ He picked up a blue folder: CARLY DONALD was written on a white label on the front. He opened it – there was one page inside.

  ‘What is it?’ said McGuire.

  Brennan turned it over, held it between finger and thumb.

  McGuire peered at it, dropped his head.

  The page was blank.

  Chapter 27

  DI ROB BRENNAN KNEW IT was true that the older you get the more cantankerous you become, but he drew the line at agreeing with the adage that age also gives you more clarity of thought. Some people, no matter what age they are, just aren’t capable of reasoning beyond tying their own shoelaces. He listened to Napier praising the minister and the town and dismissing any suggestion that anyone with a connection to the family could have been involved in Carly’s murder. He watched Napier’s moustache become flecked with spit as his temper, and face, darkened the deeper he got into his rant. Then, enough was enough.

  ‘At what stage are you going to move from conjecture to fact, Napier?’

  The rotund man halted in his speech. ‘What do you mean?’

  Brennan kept his tone monotonous: ‘I asked you for a summary of the case.’

  ‘And that’s what I’m giving you.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re giving me a bunch of assumptions and prejudices that you’ve came to, Christ knows how, and I couldn’t care less, but none of it is based on empirical research.’

 
Napier closed his mouth; he looked like a scolded child.

  Brennan rose from the chair. The boards beneath the chair legs creaked. ‘Since you’re doing nothing else you can take us to the manse.’

  ‘Well, I am actually running an investigation of my own—’

  Brennan cut him off: ‘The case of the open gate and the sheep on the road can bloody well wait. Get your coat and your car keys.’

  ‘Sir.’ Napier went to the corner of the room, removed a wax jacket from the stand. He checked in the pocket and produced a set of keys, said, ‘This way, gentlemen.’

  McGuire smiled, cast eyes in Brennan’s direction as they left the office.

  Napier led them to a navy Mondeo with mud splashes at the wheel arches. Inside, the car was covered in empty McCoy’s crisp pokes and Mars bar wrappers. As Brennan moved his feet an oily carton from a chip shop stuck to his shoe, added to the smell of the vehicle’s interior. That was the tipping point. ‘Jesus, Napier, when did you last clean this car out?’

  ‘Eh, this morning.’

  ‘Well, I’d hate to have seen it before then.’

  McGuire handed over an empty bottle of Bell’s whisky from the back seat. ‘Hope you weren’t driving when you tanned this.’

  Napier snatched the neck, said, ‘That’s going to the bottle bank!’

  They drove in silence; Brennan lit a cigarette.

  Napier wound down his window, spoke: ‘This is a real shock to the whole community, you know.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘We’ve never had anything like this before, nothing even close . . . It’s sent a shiver through us all.’

  Brennan remained silent, took a pull on his Silk Cut, looked at the tip.

  The manse house wasn’t far away – a substantial red sandstone building to the rear of the kirk. Brennan eyed the comfortable residence and tried to calculate in his head how many millions it would fetch in Edinburgh. Several, was his answer. The gardens surrounding the property were extensive and clearly well maintained.

  ‘Who does the lawns?’ said Brennan.

  Napier shrugged. ‘Don’t know, to be honest.’

  As they walked towards the front door, McGuire called to the inspector, ‘There’s someone in.’

  Brennan stopped on the path, followed McGuire’s finger-point. There was a light on and curtains twitched in an upstairs window. There was a man standing there. ‘Who’s that?’

  Napier squinted. ‘Looks like Pete.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Odd-job man . . . Maybe he does the lawns. You want me to ask him?’ Napier waved to the man at the window. A weak reciprocal gesture came.

  Brennan strode for the door, pressed the ringer. In a few moments he heard footsteps, then the sound of the lock turning.

  ‘Hello.’ The man was in his thirties, short, shaved head and a muscular build beneath a Glasgow Rangers shirt. He looked first at Brennan, then peered over Brennan’s shoulder to Napier. ‘What’s all this, then?’

  Napier eased through the door. ‘Just procedure, Pete. These officers are up from the city.’

  The man’s gaze intensified, his hands dropped from the door’s edge and he retreated inside. ‘I see.’

  Brennan spoke: ‘Forgive me, I don’t have any record of a . . . What is it you do here?’

  ‘I do the maintenance, whatever’s needed really.’ The man’s face seized.

  Brennan nodded to McGuire – the DC removed his notebook. ‘What’s your full name, sir?’

  ‘Peter . . . Peter Sproul.’

  Brennan made sure McGuire had a note of it. ‘And how long have you been employed at the manse?’

  Sproul put his hands on his hips, seemed to be counting back the time. ‘I’d say it’s coming on for a year, now.’

  ‘A year, really?’

  ‘Yes. A year.’

  Brennan watched as Sproul fidgeted, then folded his arms across his chest. ‘I suppose you’ll be here about Carly . . . Dreadful business.’

  ‘You must have known her very well.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t know about very well, but I certainly knew her. I live out the back.’ He turned, pointed to the rear of the house. ‘A granny flat so to speak.’ He smiled; no one returned the gesture. ‘Just a dreadful business, terrible really.’ He unfolded his arms, turned towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you some tea?’

  Napier’s face lit up.

  ‘No. We won’t trouble you,’ said Brennan. ‘If you can just point out Carly’s room.’

  Sproul walked across the parquet flooring. He wore training shoes and they squeaked on the polished surface. Brennan watched him pitch himself on his toes and felt his curiosity piqued. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

  Sproul grabbed the badge of his football shirt. ‘It’s not St Johnstone!’ He smiled again, but it vanished quickly. ‘No, I’m from Glasgow, well, Paisley really. There’s a difference but you get tired of explaining it after a while.’

  Brennan turned to McGuire, checked he was still writing the details down. ‘Mr Sproul, this is DC McGuire . . . He’s going to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Oh, really.’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  McGuire stepped forward, indicated the door to the kitchen. Sproul led the way as Brennan went upstairs.

  ‘What will I do?’ said Napier.

  ‘I saw a shop across the street – go get yourself a Mars bar.’

  The stairs creaked as Brennan ascended. He felt a strange sensation, like he was going backwards in time. It reminded him of a famous point on the Carrick Hills near his hometown called the Electric Brae. Tourists went there and switched off the engines of their cars, let the handbrake off. As the cars rolled down the people inside felt like they were rolling up the hill. It was all an illusion of course; the world was full of them, thought Brennan.

  The manse was an old property. It could have done with redecorating, maybe even modernising, but that would destroy the feel of it. At the top of the stairs the carpet had worn thin. Brennan looked down at the torn surface, straggled wool fibres sticking up, and thought it was a trip hazard. He didn’t think anyone would care now – the occupants of the house had worse things to worry about.

  He moved on. There was a picture on the wall he recognised: a small blonde girl leaning against a wall while a rough collie, ears pinned down, waited at her back. The image seemed intensely familiar and at the same time utterly alien to him. It was like seeing a flash of memory from childhood – a time, or a place, that wasn’t there any more – that existed only in the annals of his mind.

  He looked away. His eye caught a door with a large paper sunflower stuck on it. The flower had a face drawn in the middle and the petals bore letters; they spelled out:

  CARLY’S ROOM

  Brennan felt his throat freeze as he thought of Carly. Until now she had been a corpse to him. At best, a pale young girl on a mortuary slab. She didn’t exist in the real world. She existed in blue folders and on whiteboards. She existed in pathology reports and photographs and newspaper stories, but Carly Donald, the young girl who once had a family, friends, a life, didn’t exist to Brennan in any real sense, until now. As he stared at the door to her room, he knew he was about to bring her to life for him. It always happened this way: he’d shut out the reality of murder as long as he could; the case, the investigation, came first. After a while, sometimes sooner rather than later, the victim showed up.

  The detective took a deep breath, touched the handle on the door and walked into another world.

  Chapter 28

  DEVLIN McARDLE SAT WITH HIS head in his hands. ‘Can you not shut that kid up!’

  Melanie paced the living room with the screaming child on her shoulder. ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Not hard enough!’

  McArdle got up, grabbed his black leather coat from the hall stand.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Just out . . . Away fr
om that.’ He pointed to the red-faced baby in Melanie’s arms.

  ‘Then bring back some Pampers . . .’

  McArdle flared his nostrils, let out a grunt. He pulled open the front door and headed for his car. He could still hear the child screaming as he got inside the vehicle and flung back his head. He couldn’t live with this for much longer. It wasn’t the noise – he could handle that. It was Melanie: she was changing. She’d stopped drinking and he didn’t like that – the drink made her bearable to be around. When she was sober she was full of questions. He couldn’t handle questions, he didn’t want to be quizzed about the child especially. The baby had to go, soon.

  McArdle picked up his mobile, searched his contacts, found the one he wanted and pressed Dial.

  Ringing.

  Then, ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Günter . . . It’s Devlin McArdle.’

  ‘You have your money?’

  ‘Yes . . . The first payment got here fine.’

  ‘Then why do you call?’ The German sounded irritated, his voice crisp, serious.

  ‘I need to know when—’

  Günter interrupted, ‘I told you, I would collect the child as soon as I can. There is a lot to organise at this end. I can’t just jump on a plane.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘There is no buts, Mr McArdle. Our agreement is that you hold the child until we collect.’

  ‘But when?’

  A tut, throat-clearing. ‘Soon. I said soon. Now be patient, Mr McArdle. I’ll be in touch.’

  The line died.

  McArdle threw the phone on the back seat and hit the dashboard with the heel of his hand. His elbow caught the horn and Melanie came to the window. McArdle frowned at her, started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. He took the car straight to Muirhouse. The light was failing but he could still see enough of the neighbourhood to pass comment.

  ‘Fucking shit-hole.’ McArdle had been raised in Sighthill, another Edinburgh dumping ground for losers on the lowest rung, but he’d left. He remembered growing up in the scheme, people would tell him that when the flats were built they were highly sought after. The new high-rises replaced cold-water tenements with outside toilets. The boxes were nothing to look at but they had hot running water, toilets and bathrooms and – beyond luxury – fitted kitchens. People were easily bought, thought McArdle. He knew he was right in the case of Barry Tierney and Vee Durrant.