Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lauder tucked in his shirt tails. ‘Come on, Rob . . . We can at least talk about this, surely.’ He pulled Brennan away from the Astra.

  Brennan smirked. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking . . . You’ve been feeding this piece more than your boaby, Lauder. Do you think my head zips up the back?’

  ‘You can’t prove that!’

  Brennan laughed, ‘I just found you up to your nuts in a reporter from the News, the same paper that’s been putting out leaked details on the force’s most high-profile murder case in a decade, and you’re asking me for proof. Fucking grow sense, lad . . . One speck of this dirt is enough to finish you.’

  Lauder’s expression was unreadable; his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. There was no colour left in his complexion. He looked towards the car and Brennan followed his line of vision. The girl inside was crying harder now, her face in her hands.

  ‘They’ll throw her to the wolves, Rob. She’s only young – her career will be over before it gets started.’

  Brennan kept his gaze fixed on the young reporter. He had some sympathy for her – she’d been used. The one who deserved to pay was Lauder. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, old mate. I’ll give Stevie there the weekend to type this up. If your resignation’s on Galloway’s desk first thing Monday morning, I’ll keep her out of it.’

  ‘Resignation!’ He put fingers to his mouth, gasped. ‘Is it that bad?’

  Brennan smiled. ‘No, mate, it’s that good.’ He patted the side of the DI’s arm. ‘Get that girl home.’

  As Lauder walked away Brennan’s phone started to ring. ‘Oh, one more thing, Lauder, before you go: I want all your files on the Limping Man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard – everything. And I want them right away, before your resignation goes in.’ He answered the phone, ‘Brennan.’

  It was Lou. ‘Boss, we’ve had a development.’

  ‘Go on.’ McGuire walked to stand beside him, as Lauder joined the distraught girl.

  ‘We sent a unit round to one of the dealers on the list . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Serious piece of work called Devlin McArdle.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  Lou’s voice peaked and troughed; he seemed to be struggling to get the words out quick enough. ‘The uniforms found McArdle’s wife on the living-room floor. She’d dragged herself from the kitchen with a nine-inch blade in her back.’

  ‘God Almighty.’

  ‘It gets worse. There was a child’s cradle . . . toys and Pampers. Neighbours said they didn’t have children but the wife was seen with a baby yesterday.’

  Brennan took a deep breath. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. ‘Where’s McArdle?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. No sign of him. Or the kid.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  Lou’s voice lit: ‘There is an up to this, boss . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Melanie McArdle, the wife – she’s hanging in. She’s in intensive care at the Royal. Lost a barrel of blood but she’s still with us.’

  ‘Is she talking?’

  ‘No, sir. Out cold.’

  Brennan pointed McGuire to the car. ‘Right, I’m on my way there now, Lou. Plaster McArdle’s face all over the place; I want airports and ports from here to the fucking white cliffs of Dover on alert and every force in the country notified. Now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He hung up.

  McGuire looked quizzical. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve got our man.’

  ‘What?’

  Brennan ran for the car. ‘Come on. We’ve got to get to the Royal.’

  On the road to the hospital Brennan relayed the conversation he’d just had with Lou to McGuire. The DC rocked forward in the driver’s seat, gripped the wheel. ‘I know this guy’s name.’

  ‘They call him the Deil . . . Nasty piece of work.’

  ‘But he’s a dealer, right. What on earth does he want with the kid?’

  ‘You tell me, Stevie . . . You tell me.’

  Brennan looked at the road ahead, the fizz of orange street lamps, the blur of car headlights as the traffic snaked its way through the city. His heart rattled off his ribs; his mind stumbled from thoughts about the missing child and her murdered mother to the minister and the manse house in Pitlochry where things had all gone so wrong for them. This city swallowed people whole, he thought. Edinburgh took people from all points of the compass and used them for its own end. It was no place for the weak or the insecure, the lonely or the dependent. The city’s streets were bright under the street lamps but they hid the shadows and the darkness that lurked there. Carly had come to the city to escape her hurts and the place had taken her in, but on its terms. He saw Tierney greeting her at the bus stop, promising her a helping hand and all the time planning what he could take from her, what he could do with this fragile young life that would benefit him, put a few quid in his pocket. Was life so cheap here? This wasn’t some war-torn hell-hole; this was Edinburgh, this was the capital of a civilised nation. Or so it was claimed.

  Brennan opened the window and tried to grab some air, let the cool night’s breeze blow on his face. He felt tired, worn down. Emotionally, he had nothing left to give, but he knew he had to carry on. It was his job, and no one else, he was sure, cared about the job as much as he did.

  At the hospital McGuire turned a hairpin, brought the small VW into the cross-hatchings where the ambulances parked at the front door. A man in blue-green overalls shouted at them. McGuire approached and showed him his warrant card as Brennan ran for the front desk.

  There was a dour woman in her bad fifties behind the counter. She sternly refused to acknowledge the queue of people in front of her. Brennan swept to the front, ignored the protests and slapped a hand down in front of the woman.

  ‘Melanie McArdle.’

  ‘You cannot just come in here and—’

  McGuire appeared, card in hand. ‘Police!’

  The woman removed her glasses, looked to a small computer screen, spoke as she tapped at the mouse in her hand. ‘I really should let you speak to a—’

  ‘Spare us, love. Just give us the ward,’ said Brennan.

  She shook her head, turned to face them and put her glasses back on. ‘It’s 202. That’s two floors up, turn right.’

  The officers took off running for the lifts. They sidestepped an operating trolley as they ran for the sliding doors which were closing. Brennan managed to get a hand inside and prise them back. The lift was cramped, night visitors and nurses. A doctor with a clipboard and an old woman in a wheelchair. Brennan could feel the sweat pooling on his spine; he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he watched the floor numbers light up. When they reached the second floor he pushed his way to the front to be first out of the doors.

  He turned right and ran towards the far end of the corridor, the leather soles of his shoes slapping noisily on the hard tiled floor as he went. A woman in a white coat pinned herself against the wall as Brennan and McGuire dashed for the door marked 202. She seemed to be in shock as they halted before the small glass window and peered in, and then she spoke: ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  The woman held her ground. ‘I should be asking you that.’

  Brennan removed his wallet, flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Robert Brennan, Lothian and Borders Police, and this is DC Stephen McGuire.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put a hand in her front pocket, turned a stray brown curl behind her ear with the other. ‘You’re here with the others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘There’s been some officers here already. There’s still one in there.’

  Brennan turned back to the window, peered in. There was a WPC sitting by the bed. He nodded to McGuire to go inside; the DC opened the door.

  ‘How is she? I mean, what’s her condition?’

  ‘She’s lost a great dea
l of blood and is still unconscious, but there’s no organ damage that we’ve found. She’s very lucky to be alive.’

  Brennan bit his lower lip – this wasn’t what he had hoped to hear. ‘Is she going to recover?’

  The doctor peered down the hall. ‘It’s really too early to say, Inspector. The next few hours will be critical . . .’ She seemed to be looking for something, someone. ‘Look, this is all very ir regular. I’m not sure you should be in there at all. The woman has suffered a near-life-threatening trauma.’

  ‘Do you know who that is in there?’ said Brennan.

  ‘A woman who was stabbed, very badly. I know, I treated her.’

  ‘Well, unless you live in a bubble, Doctor, you’ll know there’s been a child missing in Edinburgh . . . I’d say that woman you have through there has been looking after her, so she might just be our best chance of finding the kid alive. Does that make sense to you?’

  She backed off. ‘Look, I need to see the administrator. I’m not au fait with the procedures for—’

  Brennan turned for the door. ‘You go tackle the red tape, love – let me know when you’ve got it in a pretty wee bow, eh.’

  As he stepped inside, McGuire looked round, spoke: ‘She’s out cold, boss.’

  Brennan moved towards the bed, nodded to the WPC. ‘No change at all?’

  ‘She’s sedated . . . She’s grumbled a bit and moved about some, but no words,’ said the uniform.

  Brennan looked over Melanie McArdle’s face. She was bruised and beaten. Black stitches sat out proud from her forehead and a white bandage had been taped across her nose; he wondered what horrors it disguised. The woman had been savaged. No one should have to go through that, he thought.

  Brennan turned away, walked to the window and looked out into the night sky. The city was sleeping now, but he knew there would be no rest for him until McArdle was found. He removed his coat, pulled out a chair. ‘Go home and get some sleep, you pair.’

  They looked at each other. ‘I think we’d sooner wait, sir,’ said McGuire.

  Brennan sat down, spread his jacket over himself, said, ‘Suit yourselves.’

  Chapter 45

  IT WAS A COLD NIGHT. Brennan wondered how the patients in the hospital must be feeling. Was there no heating in these places? Were the cutbacks biting so deep? He tried to get comfortable on the chair, but his lower back ached whichever way he turned. He tried not to think about how much rested on Melanie McArdle coming round, revealing what she knew . . . If she knew anything.

  The woman had nearly been killed, brutally stabbed through the back – what were the chances of her talking after that kind of going-over? In Brennan’s experience, the wives were often harder to crack than the criminals themselves. It took something spectacular to put them over the edge, into that territory where things like pride and loyalty no longer mattered; was Melanie there yet? He hoped she was, for the child’s sake, but he knew for Melanie it meant starting again from scratch. At her age, with her baggage, that was never going to be easy.

  Brennan turned in the chair again. A draught blew under the door and caught his ankles; he raised his feet, put them on the edge of the bed. Melanie hadn’t moved since he’d arrived. A doctor had come in and confirmed that they could stay; he also said there was nothing else they could do for the woman. It was all in God’s hands. They needed to let her rest, let the body try and repair itself. He put her chances at somewhere close to fifty–fifty.

  Brennan gave up on trying to get comfortable, got out of the chair. McGuire stirred: ‘Boss?’

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  The WPC was awake, watching over the patient. Brennan approached her, whispered, ‘If there’s any movement, send Stevie for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t leave her alone – that’s important.’

  A nod, then a thin smile.

  Brennan headed for the white door, turned the handle and walked into the blinding light of the corridor. His eyes smarted as they took some time to adjust and he raised his knuckles to rub at them. He knew he’d gone too long without a cigarette and could feel the empty space in his chest cavity calling out for nicotine. He took the lift to the ground floor, walked towards the car park. Outside the night air was crisp and fresh; there was a hint of rain blowing in the cool breeze and it threatened more to come, a downpour, perhaps. Brennan took out his mobile phone, checked his messages: there was one, from Sophie. His daughter rarely texted. He took the sight of her name in his inbox as a jolt, quickly opened up.

  The message read: ‘I saw you on the telly, about the missing girl. I’m sorry for disappearing, Mum said you were worried about me but I’m fine and going to be on my best behaviour now. Sophie xx’.

  Brennan knew Joyce had put her up to it, but it didn’t matter. In a strange way, it meant more. He had support, people, a family. He thought about the picture of Lorraine’s baby in his pocket and wondered what that was going to do to them. He didn’t want to hurt Sophie, or Joyce. He didn’t want to hurt Lorraine either, but he knew that whatever he did was going to hurt someone.

  Brennan put his phone back in his pocket and removed his cigarettes. He only had Silk Cut left again and the taste didn’t match his craving. He smoked one almost to the filter, then lit another from the tip of the last. He took long drags on the cigarette, taking the smoke deep into his lungs, but it did nothing for him. He had a spinning sensation in his head; his thoughts wouldn’t stop racing around after each other. When things were going well, he didn’t worry about this state of mind, but when things were a mess, everything started to get messy. The thought process seemed to speed up, chase more and more unrealistic solutions to the problems he occupied himself with.

  In his mind right now the situation with Devlin McArdle was uppermost; he wanted to know where he was. He wanted to get McArdle into custody right away, because he knew that, at this minute, McArdle’s only thought was to dispose of the child. Brennan didn’t like to think how he was going to get rid of it; he knew there were people who would pay big money for a child, but the type of people McArdle was dealing with wouldn’t want to buy the cuddly toys from Mothercare.

  Carly Donald had died. Then there was Sproul, Tierney and Durrant – no loss there, but he didn’t want to see Melanie McArdle added to the list. He knew she’d been attacked for getting in the way. McArdle was obviously keeping the child at home – had Melanie grown attached to it? Had she discovered what he planned to do with it? Whatever it was, she had paid for trying to intervene.

  Brennan dropped his cigarette, stamped it out. He looked to the night sky; he could see the lights of the city reflected on the low covering of cloud. He shook his head and tucked his hands in his pockets, dug deep. Galloway was going to go off like a bloody rocket when she heard about this turn of events. The media would be chasing for weeks to get the full story; it would be pandemonium at the office. Somehow the thought didn’t faze him. After the time off, the bustle actually appealed. What he didn’t want to look ahead to was the wrong outcome – he tried to stay focused, imagine the best possible sequence of events. He concentrated on things playing out how he wanted them to. To do anything less was to invite the worst into your ambit, he thought. He wouldn’t do that. He would keep his eye on the outcome he wanted to achieve, which was catching McArdle before he split. Brennan wanted to hand that child back to its grandparents and to have the satisfaction of knowing it was safe. Her mother had died, he could do nothing about that, but poor Beth, she still had a chance.

  Brennan turned away from the car park, headed back to the hospital. He pressed the button for the lift and looked up to see that it was already coming down. As the doors pinged, he was nearly mowed down by DC Stevie McGuire.

  ‘There you are . . . It’s Melanie. She’s coming round!’

  Brennan pushed him back into the lift. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  They listened to the machinery above pulling them upwards, and watched the floors light. The process
seemed to take much longer than Brennan remembered.

  ‘Has she spoken?’ he said.

  ‘Just a few words.’

  ‘What? What did she say?’

  McGuire took his eyes off the dial, looked at Brennan then returned his gaze. ‘She asked for water . . . She was parched.’

  ‘Who’s with her now?’

  ‘The WPC.’

  ‘You’ll have to call the doctor in.’

  ‘Have done; he’s on his way down.’

  ‘Good.’

  The lift stalled, then came to a halt. Brennan moved a step closer to the door, leaned in, waited for the gap to appear. ‘Come on. Come on.’

  As the doors sprung he squeezed through, leapt out to the corridor.

  Brennan ran towards the door. The bright lights didn’t bother him now. As he ducked inside the room, he caught sight of a man in a white coat leaning over the patient; he turned round, flashed large brown eyes at them. ‘Can you give me a moment, please?’

  Brennan nodded.

  The doctor rose. ‘Alone, please, with the patient.’

  ‘I’d like to see her, if that’s all right.’

  The doctor raised his arms, put one hand on Brennan’s elbow and the other on McGuire’s shoulder. ‘Out! Right now. There’ll be time enough to see the patient once I have examined her. Now please, gentlemen, a bit of decorum if you don’t mind.’

  Brennan and McGuire walked backwards towards the door they had just come through; the doctor shut them out.

  ‘Jesus,’ said McGuire.

  ‘He’s just doing his job.’

  ‘But still, did he have to be so blunt?’

  Brennan walked to the wall, leaned his back against it, tapped his heel off the skirting. ‘How did she look?’

  McGuire huffed, ‘Not great. What do you expect?’

  ‘He’s giving her fifty–fifty to pull through.’

  McGuire moved to the wall beside Brennan, leaned his shoulder there. ‘I think he’s being generous. I don’t think I’ve seen a worse battering.’