by Tony Black
The thought of what Carly Donald had gone through in the months before her death welled up in Brennan. He felt his chest ache for her hurts. He wanted to be able to take the culprit and wring the life out of him, like Carly had surely had the life wrung out of her. The girl had faced a trial of misery. Brennan knew who to blame for some of it, and thought he knew who to blame for the rest.
‘Okay, Lynne, that’s enough now. Go back to your mum. You’ve done well. Thank you.’
The young girl started to cry again as the phone line died. Brennan placed down his receiver, rose from the chair and picked up his jacket. Something drew him to take the picture that Lorraine had given him from the pocket. He stared at the familiar shape for a second or two; he was responsible for bringing another child into this world and the thought gored him. Could any of the children be protected from the beasts that were out there? Brennan shoved the scan back in his pocket. As he put his hand in the sleeve of his jacket he spotted the Reverend John Donald being led towards the interview room by DC Stevie McGuire.
‘Right, Minister, let’s see what you have to say for yourself now,’ he muttered.
As Brennan left the office for Incident Room One he was stopped by a WPC. ‘Sir, I have the lab on the phone for you.’
‘What do they want?’
‘I think you should take it.’
Brennan picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Rob?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘I just thought you’d like to know that hunch you had about the ammunition . . .’
‘What about it?’
The boffin’s voice rose an octave: ‘You were absolutely right: the bullets were gold-washed.’
Brennan liked to be proven right; it hadn’t happened enough lately. ‘Pro hit all right. Told you. Thanks, Mike.’
He hung up, turned the phone over to the WPC, said, ‘Did you get anywhere running that ammunition through the system?’
She lowered the receiver, reached over a pile of blue files for a loose sheaf of paper, then another. ‘There’s a few, sir.’
‘How many?’
She curled down the corners of her mouth, showed a row of milk-white teeth. ‘I haven’t counted but I’d say over the country, I mean Scotland, fairly few . . . but in the UK and Ireland we’re into the dozens, especially in Ulster.’
‘Those Troubles have blocked our job.’
A smile. ‘Do you want me to cross-ref with over the water, sir?’
‘It’s a hit with military precision on our patch. They have enough on their own to still clear up without going out of their way to help us, but give it a go.’ Brennan nodded to her. ‘Good work, Constable.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
On the way out, Brennan picked up his pace. He didn’t want the minister to get too comfortable. He wanted him on edge. As he swung open the door, the minister was standing in the corner of the room with his hands behind his back.
Brennan was the first to speak: ‘Would you like to take a seat?’
‘I’d sooner stand, unless you have something to tell me.’
Brennan indicated the chair. ‘I have plenty to tell you and I’d like you to be comfortable but, please, suit yourself.’
The minister removed a grey-to-white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his nose, then moved forward. As he sat down Brennan noticed the redness at the edges of his nose. ‘Can you tell me what this is about, please, and how long you will be keeping us under house arrest?’
Brennan turned over the cover of the blue folder sitting on the desk, said, ‘This is about the murder of your daughter and about your missing granddaughter, you know that . . . You also know you are not under house arrest, but merely helping us with our inquiries. I should have thought, Minister, in the circumstances, you would be more than happy to do that – am I wrong?’
The minister crossed his legs, showed grey argyle socks. He checked his watch as Brennan shuffled papers.
‘Will you need me long?’ he said.
Brennan tilted his head, huffed. ‘Are you in a hurry, Minister? Got somewhere to be?’
He looked away, frowned. Dark semicircles had appeared under his eyes in the last couple of days.
Brennan started again: ‘It’s not the Moderator’s job, is it? . . . My boss has an interview today. I know how nervous they make some people.’
‘Can we just get on with this, please?’
Brennan slapped hands on the desk, smiled. ‘Glad to. Shall I start with the investigation update?’ The minister nodded and Brennan ran through the events that had transpired since they’d last met. He watched the older man for signs of interest but none showed; he seemed to Brennan all too keen to get out of there. ‘For me, Minister, the most interesting piece of information I turned up was from Carly’s best friend.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Lynne Thompson.’
‘I know the girl; she’s from a good family.’
‘Very good,’ said Brennan. ‘They are all devastated at the loss of Carly. You knew Carly confided in Lynne?’
‘They were young girls.’ The minister crossed his legs the other way. ‘I’m sure they talked a lot.’
Brennan leaned back in his seat, turned eyes upwards. ‘She told me something very interesting about your man about the house.’
‘Are you referring to the late Peter Sproul?’
Brennan nodded. ‘Who else?’
‘Well, I’d sooner not talk about the deceased if you do not mind. Suicide is such an unfortunate business.’
Brennan was stunned at his defence of Sproul. ‘The man was a convicted child molester. He’d spent years behind bars for raping children and you let him into your home.’
The minister’s tongue flashed before his grey lips. He retracted it quickly, searched for words. ‘I do not judge people on their past mistakes, but on what they hope to make of the future.’
Brennan stood up, walked round to the minister’s side of the desk, sat on the edge. ‘He was a serial child sex offender and you let him into your home. He raped and impregnated your daughter and you did not reveal that to anyone, even when she came to you . . .’
The minister stayed calm. ‘What proof do you have of that?’
Brennan was incredulous. He leaned over the minister. ‘Your daughter told you he raped her, she was pregnant – what more proof did you need?’
The minister turned away. His voice was flat, bereft of emotion: ‘Is this what you heard from Lynne Thompson, a teenage girl who heard something around the town and repeated it?’
‘No one in the town knew Carly had a child – you did a good job of covering that up.’
‘This is all hearsay.’
‘Sproul’s record wasn’t hearsay. He killed himself in your daughter’s room.’
The minister shook his head. ‘This is helping no one. Why have you not found my granddaughter yet?’
Brennan stepped away from the edge of the desk, spoke: ‘I wondered when you were going to ask about Beth.’
The mention of the baby’s name seemed to poke a spear into the minister. He laced his fingers and placed them on his thighs.
Brennan said, ‘We had a good response from the television news item.’
‘Another two people killed – is that what you call a good response, Inspector?’
He didn’t bite, closed down the minister: ‘We need to give this case a public face. We need to put out a plea and I want you to do it, today.’
The minister rose from the seat. ‘That will not be possible.’
Brennan got up, faced him. ‘Why? Think it’ll play havoc with your prospects of getting the Moderator’s job?’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘I thought you’d say so.’ Brennan picked up the telephone, buzzed the switchboard. ‘I’ll take you to meet our media people. They’ll coach you through what you’ll say at the press conference.’
Chapter 40
MELANIE McARDLE HAD GIVEN UP on her husband coming home any time soon.
She had waited for him the night before to bring home the list of things she’d given him for the baby, only to be disappointed to see him carrying in tins of Carlsberg Special Brew for himself and nothing else. She had grown tired waiting and upset herself listening to the hungry child’s screams. Melanie knew she was disobeying her husband to go out with the child, but she also knew she had no choice.
In the garage she fitted the baby carrier that they had bought a few years back. It was at the time Melanie had fallen pregnant. She remembered those days as she strapped it into the back of the four-by-four; she had been so happy. McArdle had never come round to the idea of her having the child – he’d accused her of trying to trap him and then he’d denied it was his. When the bump started to show he didn’t want to look at her and that’s when the real trouble had started.
Melanie bit her lip as she stepped away from the back seat of the car. She looked over the baby seat and checked it was in place but she couldn’t help the tears starting to come now. Every time she thought of the child she had lost she started to cry. Alcohol usually stopped her mind from reaching such lows but she couldn’t drink when she now had a baby to look after.
She wiped away the tears, went inside. The child was lying on its back where she had left it in the sleeper. She reached over, tickled its tummy. ‘You poor lamb. Hungry?’
The baby smiled a broad toothless grin.
Melanie picked her up, put her on her shoulder as she went out to the car. As she fastened the baby into the carrier she rubbed her own stomach and remembered how it felt to be pregnant. She remembered too how it had felt when she had lost the child; she was sure McArdle had been upset about it, but he would never let on.
Melanie reversed the four-by-four out of the garage and onto the driveway. The shopping centre wasn’t far away but she didn’t know how the baby was going to be in the car for the first time and she kept up an idle chatter to distract her. ‘Not to worry, just going out to the shops to get you a few nice things.’
The car stalled on her first attempt to reverse out of the driveway, the scree scrunching beneath the wheels, but after she turned the ignition again the vehicle moved smoothly down. ‘There, no trouble at all, little one.’
As Melanie drove, her thoughts turned back to McArdle. He hadn’t been himself lately. The other night he had been ready to rip the television off the wall and then he had stormed out and hadn’t returned until after midnight. He’d gone straight to the kitchen and drunk beer from the fridge and had collapsed on the couch an hour or so later. It wasn’t like him. She was the drinker. McArdle only drunk like that when he had something on his mind.
‘Don’t worry, darling, there soon.’ Melanie slowed the four-byfour at the traffic lights and turned towards the baby – she had started to tug at one of her socks. ‘No, leave that on.’ The child grinned that toothless smile again. ‘Okay, fine, suit yourself.’
At Sainsbury’s Melanie drove straight to the parents’ parking spaces out front. It made her feel like she was somebody – she could do that because she was responsible for another life; society approved. As she lifted the baby out of the back-seat carrier she quickly attached the harness and watched as the little one reached for her beads. ‘No, don’t be touching those.’
In the supermarket Melanie felt sure she was unlikely to see anyone she knew, but the thought of coming out with a baby and no proper explanation alarmed her. What would she say if anyone asked about it? She’d have to lie. She had never been very good at lying; McArdle had always caught her out. When she thought about it, she had never been very good at anything, but she somehow felt right for the job of being a mother.
‘Now then, let’s get some shopping done,’ she said.
The child played with her beads and looked content. Melanie smiled back at her. She felt happy with the baby, something she hadn’t really thought about for a long time. The feeling stayed with her all the time she wandered round the store, nodding and sharing knowing looks with other mothers. The thought of being happy lingered all the way home in the four-by-four right until she pulled into the drive, behind McArdle’s car. He was at the window when she got out the vehicle. He stared at her for a moment and then threw down the curtain as she released the baby carrier.
Melanie knew her husband was furious when he appeared at the door, even before he spoke. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ He flapped his hands in the air, grabbed her arm; she pulled it away.
‘Get off me.’
McArdle looked around. ‘Get inside. We’ll see about this in the house.’
Melanie lifted up the child and closed the car door. The shopping bags rested on the ground and she picked those up with her free hand. As she walked towards the front door, McArdle seemed anxious, rushing her forwards with his hands. ‘Come on, move . . . Get in.’
‘What’s the big rush?’
‘Just get in that fucking house!’
Melanie could feel a knot tightening in her stomach – when McArdle got this angry he was likely to strike out. She wasn’t scared for herself, though; she’d felt his punches too many times for that. She was afraid for the baby. If anything happened to the child she would be destroyed now. ‘Don’t talk that way, Devlin, you’ll upset the baby,’ she said.
He let her pass and pushed the back of her head down. ‘Shut up.’
Melanie spun round. She found strength she didn’t know she had. ‘You lay one finger on us and I’ll call the police.’
He looked stunned, his eyes bulging from below their heavy lids. ‘What did you say?’
Melanie held firm. ‘I mean it – you harm one hair on this child’s head, Devlin, and I’ll see you fucking hang.’ She felt as if her words were travelling on fire. She had never dared stand up to her husband before but she meant everything she said and she could see by the look on McArdle’s face that he believed her. He was shaken. He stepped aside and walked towards the house with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. When he reached the doorstep he looked back, said nothing, then entered.
Melanie followed behind her husband and went into the kitchen, laid down the shopping bags. She returned to the living room and put the baby in the cot. McArdle was sitting silently on the sofa, gripping the armrest with his hand. She watched him for a minute and then she went back to the kitchen and started to unpack the shopping. She called out to McArdle as she went, ‘Where have you been all day?’
There was no answer.
She walked to the open door. ‘Devlin, where have you been?’
He looked distracted, miles away.
‘Just here and there . . . You know.’
Melanie held up the carton of baby milk. ‘You were supposed to get the stuff for the baby . . . What’s she supposed to eat?’
He looked at her; his mouth drooped. ‘I was too busy.’
The answer didn’t suit her. ‘Devlin, that’s not good enough. If you want to bring a baby back to this house for me to look after—’
He jerked from the seat, cut her off. ‘Melanie, for fuck’s sake, what are you playing at?’
‘What?’
‘You’re just supposed to be looking after the fucking thing for a few days – you’re not adopting it. I told you not to go out. What were you thinking?’
She walked forward, faced him. ‘That we needed stuff?’
‘What if someone had seen you?’
‘Well, so what if someone had? . . . Look, what’s going on here, Devlin?’
He touched the sides of his head; his shoulders shrank. ‘You wouldn’t understand . . .’
Melanie put down the baby milk, grabbed her husband’s arms. He flinched, pulled away from her and returned to the sofa.
‘Devlin, I’m not bloody stupid. There’s something going on here and I want to know what.’
He grimaced, looked like a small boy putting his hands over his ears because he refused to be confronted with unpalatable truths. ‘Shut up!’
The baby started to cry.
‘No, no
. . . I won’t. I want to know what’s going on.’
McArdle rose. His chest inflated as he grabbed Melanie by the arm, waving a fist at her. ‘Since when did you get the guts to talk to me like this?’
She started to squeal: ‘You’re hurting me, let go!’ The baby’s crying intensified. Melanie could see the child’s face reddening. ‘Let me go.’
‘I fucking well told you not to go out the house, Mel.’ He pulled her towards him and she struck out with her hands, clawing at his face. The three scratches flashed white on his skin for an instant and then the blood coloured them. McArdle dropped Mel’s arm, threw a hand to the scratches. ‘You fucking bitch . . .’
There was a sudden snapping noise, a pain in her stomach and then Melanie crouched over. The room seemed to have emptied of air, but then the realisation that she was struggling for breath came to her. As she looked up from the floor she saw McArdle holding a tight fist and she knew she’d been hit. As he drew it back and bowed over, her hearing became distorted. There was a flash of white light that seemed to block everything out and then it disappeared as everything went black.
Chapter 41
WHEN MELANIE McARDLE CAME ROUND her first thought was to check the baby was okay. As she tried to open her eyes, however, they felt stuck together. She tried again – nothing. She rubbed at the lids – they felt caked in something that crumbled to tiny particles as she touched it. When Melanie finally got her eyes open she looked at her hands and saw they were covered in dried blood. She felt the side of her head and found the gash that was responsible. It seemed to have stopped bleeding now, but there was a throbbing pain that increased when she touched it, making her feel sick.
Melanie put her hands out in front of her, raised her head. She felt woozy now; there was a metallic taste in her mouth and her tongue was dry. When she managed to get her head far enough off the carpet to take in the room she saw the baby sitting up in the cot; her face was flushed and her eyes looked red and sore. The child was wet and hungry, but Melanie was glad she was okay – she knew she couldn’t count on that situation lasting much longer.