by Tony Black
‘Make of car?’
‘Er, a Citroën . . . silver, estate.’
McGuire wrote the information down, rose, ran for the door.
Brennan leaned in; his tone had hardened: ‘Is that it? I’m looking for a fucking Citroën in France – am I supposed to use that? Is that supposed to make me happy, McArdle?’
The prisoner couldn’t face him. He whimpered, ‘I d-don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘No. Neither do I.’
Brennan stood up. He knocked over his chair as he went for the door that McGuire had just left through. As he ran to the incident room he could feel his mind spinning. McGuire was already on the phones; the rest of the team had followed him.
‘Calais. They’ll be crossing to Calais . . . Get every car checked, every passenger with a child, all of them. I want passenger lists and I want searches and I want the French side locked down. I want all of this done now. Go. Now. Everyone move it!’
Chapter 49
BRENNAN LET THE TEAM WORK, returned to his office. As he got inside the door a uniform poked his head in, said, ‘What do you want me to do with McArdle, sir?’
‘Do you really want me to answer that? . . . Put him in the cells.’
Brennan threw his jacket over the chair. The contents of his pockets spilled on the floor. He walked round and picked up his cigarettes, and the little black-and-white picture that Lorraine had given him. He tried not to look at it but he couldn’t stop himself. There was a black shaded area at the top of the photograph where you couldn’t see anything, but lower down there was a white patch that looked like a little ball; it was the baby’s head. Brennan ran a finger over the image and stared. He held it before him for long enough to register that it was his child and what that meant. He had a child that would be coming into this world soon. He knew that once the thought had gladdened him, made him smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything now. He didn’t want to welcome another soul here; it wasn’t the place for such a young, innocent life. He put the picture back in his pocket and went to sit down.
At his desk Brennan lit a cigarette; the Marlboro tasted good to him as he drew the deep blue smoke into his lungs. His nasal passages constricted as he blew out the strong burn of the tobacco and then he tasted the hot smoke again as it left his nostrils. He wondered if he needed something stronger, harder, but the prospect of a drink seemed a long time away.
As Brennan looked over his desk, he was surprised to see the blue folder with a yellow Post-it note stuck on the front. It was from Lauder – the details on the Limping Man that he’d asked for. Brennan opened it and peered in. He’d visited the files previously but that was before his psych leave, and during the months in between it had been awkward to get hold of. He scanned the contents. There was very little detail that he hadn’t seen already. The witness statements – a pretentious bastard who’d used the word claudication; the descriptions, estimates of height, weight, build. The calibre of weapons used and the method of dispatch. It was all familiar; depressingly so.
What Brennan wasn’t prepared for was the newspaper cutting with the picture of his brother. It was the same cutting as he’d carried around in his wallet all this time; the only difference was that Lauder’s quotes had been underlined in red pen.
‘Prick.’
Was that the sum of his achievement? Getting a quote in the newspaper? He was surprised the byline wasn’t Aylish Dunn’s.
Brennan turned over the blue folder. Took another pull on his cigarette. His brother had died, been murdered, and the police investigation had failed him. The sum total of the information on the Limping Man amounted to a few scraps of paper, a few witness statements that went nowhere. He had killed, clinically, and then disappeared. What kind of a society allowed paid assassins to operate on their streets? His brother had been innocent, he’d gotten in the way of an underworld killing and paid for it with a bullet in his head. Were the streets so out of control that this kind of thing went on unchecked?
Brennan tapped the folder, got up. He stubbed out his cigarette and lifted the phone on his desk, dialled 0.
‘Cells, please.’
The line was connected. ‘Hello.’
‘Bert, it’s Rob. Have you got McArdle settled?’
‘As quiet as a lamb.’
‘Right, I’m coming down. I want a word with him in private.’
‘You sure about that, Rob?’
‘Sure as shooting.’
Brennan knew there was little to connect the Limping Man to his case. He had no proof that he was the same assassin that killed his brother but his gut told him otherwise. Did he need proof? The killer was walking free as it was; if he could get him for Tierney and Durrant, wasn’t that good enough? Brennan knew he should probably be thanking him for taking that pair off the streets but he didn’t think he’d be shaking his hand. There was no hope of connecting the Limping Man to Andy’s murder, he knew that – did it matter? It mattered in one respect: if it affected the ongoing investigation into Carly Donald’s death. He knew he couldn’t risk that, but he had his brother to think about.
As he walked down to the cells, Brennan toyed with the idea of doing this by the book, calling McArdle into an interview room and posing the question in front of Stevie or Lou. But what were the chances of getting the result he was after? McArdle was a hardened criminal. Getting him to lynch himself was one thing; getting him to hang someone else was an altogether different proposition.
Brennan stood before the cell doors, knowing he had only one chance to find his brother’s killer. If he came out of there without a name, Andy’s murderer was never likely to be found. He nodded to the jailer, listened to the rattle of the keys and the heavy iron hinges singing out. He stepped into the cell.
McArdle was sitting on the edge of his bed. Most cons, by his stage, have learned to chill out inside a jail cell, but McArdle was tense.
‘What now?’ he said.
Brennan nodded for the door to be closed. McArdle watched carefully, started to raise himself. He rubbed at the front of his jeans, then turned his hands behind his back. His mouth drooped.
‘Sit down.’ Brennan put a hand on his head, pushed him back. He paced the small cell and soaked in McArdle’s fear. ‘You know, I’ve seen just about every kind of scum and piece of shit that the world has to offer in my time, McArdle, but you take the fucking prize.’
McArdle looked at the floor. ‘Should you be in here?’
‘Shut your hole.’ Brennan walked over to the bed, placed a foot on the rim. ‘Paedos are one thing, but selling on kids, that’s something else. You’re like a trader, a beast trader.’
‘I’m not a beast.’
‘Tell it to the judge, McArdle.’
‘I will. I will.’
Brennan leaned over. ‘And do you think he’ll listen?’ He laughed, watched McArdle turn away and then he grabbed his face in his hand and twisted it round. ‘Have you looked at your record recently? And now you’ve got murder to add to it, and fuck knows what else by the end of the day.’
‘I gave you all I had . . . You said you’d help.’
Brennan released his grip, took his foot off the bed and walked to the other side of the cell. ‘A French car, in fucking France, McArdle . . . that’s what you gave me.’
‘It’s all I have. Look, what do you want from me?’ He tried to eyeball Brennan but couldn’t hold his stare. He kept dropping his gaze, his head bobbing on his meaty neck as if he couldn’t support the weight of it any more.
‘You’re taking the piss, is what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not,’ he pleaded, turning his bandaged palm upward.
Brennan moved in, pointed. ‘You know what you’ve done and how it’s going to play out.’
McArdle looked down again. ‘Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.’
Brennan laughed, ‘Leave you alone? Think you’re going to get much privacy in Peterhead, on the beast wing?’
‘I’m not a beast.’ He st
ood up, inflated his chest.
Brennan walked towards him, fronted up. ‘Then you better start playing ball with me or that’s what the court and everyone else in this country is going to think. Devlin McArdle – child trafficker. Wife murderer. Beast!’
A light went out in McArdle. His frame shrank as he sat back down. He was broken; there was no fight left in him. ‘What do you want from me?’
Brennan looked towards the door, walked for McArdle, got down on his haunches. ‘I know what it’s like out there, how your kind of people operate. And you know how I operate.’ McArdle looked up. Brennan continued, ‘Now, I know, if I get you up there in that interview room, with a DC as witness, you’re not going to tell me a bloody thing that I can use because there’s a chance it’ll get out to the people who know you.’ Brennan lowered his voice: ‘That’s why I’ve came down here on my own.’ He leaned in further. ‘Give me something I can use, and no one needs to know where it came from.’
McArdle shook his head. ‘I’ve given you everything. What more can I give you?’
Brennan stilled his nerve, said, ‘Give me the Limping Man.’
Chapter 50
OUTSIDE THE CELL DI Rob Brennan leaned his back on the door. He felt a dull ache in the middle of his forehead where his brows pinched; a pulse in his temple kept pace with his ramping heart. He stood for a moment, tried to gather a semblance of reason but the task evaded him. As he eased himself off the door Brennan’s knees felt loose. The walk to the front of the station now seemed longer than usual, each step demanding a greater exertion than the last; it was as if he carried a great load, a burden.
In the foyer Charlie looked up from his Daily Record and spoke but Brennan failed to comprehend his words. A burning in his chest had started to demand the cooling, calming effects of nicotine and nothing could detract from the craving. As he opened the door he was slapped by the brisk air and the line of sweat above his lip slid towards his mouth – the salty taste made him grimace and then wipe it away with the back of his hand. The empty, hollowed-out emotions that accompanied the fear of never finding an answer to long-held preoccupations was suddenly gone. It wasn’t euphoria – never that – but it was an ending, and in the nebulous flux of life that was certainly something to hold to. Wasn’t that what we all longed for, every day? Some shape to the monotonous trawl through the misery of existence; the daily questioning of life’s lack of order, the absence of structure. There was no law. There was no meaning. There was no justice. The universe didn’t care about loss of life, about the shooting of innocent bystanders; the dismembering of young girls, or the perverted trading of innocent infants. Any chance to halt the rut, to find a moment in time, however brief a pause in proceedings, was a reminder that he was alive and the fight went on.
As Brennan removed a cigarette from the pack he noticed how white his hands were; the dark hair on his knuckles accentuated the fingers’ cadaverous appearance. For a moment he stared at them, spread them out in front of him; they started to tremble.
‘Everything okay, Rob?’
He heard the words, turned: it was Charlie. As he held the station door open he stared into Brennan’s eyes. The DI felt the cigarette slip from his mouth. He watched it fall, roll a few feet, then get carried off in the breeze. The action snapped him back to reality.
‘Fine. All fine.’
Brennan pushed past the desk sergeant, went for the stairs. There was suddenly a new purpose in his step; it was the quickening of thought, the realisation that the long period of doubt was over.
As Brennan reached Incident Room One he saw a huddle of bodies round the television screen. He knew at once there had been a break – when these things occurred it was like observing a sea change. The team’s collective unconscious altered immediately. The faces morphed from their previous expressions of dogged resilience towards hope – something experience had taught Brennan he was better off doing without. As he walked in he was tempted to clap his hands together and ask what was going on. He felt like he’d missed out; he was a spectator.
McGuire turned round and spotted him, spoke: ‘Here he is!’ The DC trotted towards him. ‘Where have you been?’
The question poked Brennan, made him defensive. ‘Nowhere.’ As he answered he immediately felt stupid; at once he realised the question was innocent. ‘What’s going on?’
McGuire grinned like a schoolboy as he grabbed Brennan by the arm. ‘Get over here. They’ve got them!’
Brennan didn’t understand. He knew what he wanted the words to mean, but wasn’t sure if he’d processed them correctly. Since he had been with McArdle his mind had tripped back to his brother’s murder. The realisation that he still had another case to solve brought back a sudden dose of present-day reality. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stared at the television. ‘Can someone turn this up?’
A small yellow triangle appeared on the screen; the number beside it increased as the volume rose. It was a breaking news report. Brennan sensed the tension mounting all around him; the incident room felt like the terraces of a football stadium as the supporters of the leading side waited for the final whistle. He hushed his team quiet. The room stilled as all eyes turned to the television.
‘And can I remind you these pictures are live . . .’ said the news reporter.
The scene was of a town Brennan didn’t recognise – as he tried to adjust, to take in what he was seeing, absorb the information, he scanned the street and the faces in the crowd. He noticed there was a strap along the bottom of the screen that confirmed what he’d been hoping: MISSING BABY CASE . . . LIVE PICTURES FROM CALAIS. It took him a moment to process the information; his thoughts raced away and became tangled in a net of emotions. He wanted to punch the air, to smack the desk with his fist or make some other expression of relief but he held himself in check; he had to.
‘Jesus, we’ve got them!’ His mind calmed as he said the words. He was almost light-headed. A smile spread across his face – it was impossible to hide it. On the screen, images of French gendarmes surrounding a silver car appeared. The camera was shaky, the lens going in and out of focus, but Brennan kept his eyes fixed on the dark-suited officers, armed with assault rifles, as they approached the car. The French officers were fast, brisk and businesslike. They knew the routine and took no chances as they swooped. Two men inside were removed whilst a small bundle with furiously waving arms and legs was taken from the back seat.
Brennan’s chest tightened, his throat constricted.
‘Look, it’s the kid,’ said a PC.
‘They’ve got her! She’s alive!’
A loud cheer swept round the office. Arms were raised; a blue folder was thrown in the air. Brennan turned to McGuire and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘We did it! By Christ, we did it!’
A wave of bodies started to sway as uniforms and detectives hugged and leapt. Tables and chairs were pushed aside as the team crossed the floor and flung arms round each other. Brennan laughed as he watched Lou slapping Brian’s beer gut, and then a round of cheers went up. It was like a party, thought Brennan, but as he stared at the relieved, smiling faces he knew that they still had plenty to do.
The case had been tough; it had taken a lot out of the team, and him. Brennan knew he didn’t look at the world in the same way any more. Another part of what made him human had been surrendered. How he would deal with that was a problem for another day, though. He moved off just as the room’s pitch intensified.
‘Where are you going?’ said McGuire.
‘Got a couple of calls to make. Don’t worry – carry on without me. Enjoy the moment.’
Brennan closed the door to his office and moved towards the desk. He could still hear noise outside as he drew up the international directory on his computer screen and started to tap in the number of the Garda Síochána in Dublin. His thoughts left the celebrations immediately as he announced himself to the telephonist and asked for the special investigations team. It always surprised him how quickly things
came together in the end. No matter how many times it happened, the DI never quite accepted the sudden transformation from bewilderment to cheering the successful resolution of an investigation. It was as if the period before, the groundwork, the heavy lifting, had never happened. The effort expended and the toll it had taken on everyone seemed insignificant compared to the accomplishment. He knew there was a low coming – the payment for such a high – but it didn’t matter at this stage. He allowed himself a smile, some sneaking admiration for the result.
Brennan was still smiling into the phone as his call was passed on; in four rings it was answered.
‘Hello, this is Wylie.’ The accent was familiar, thick Celtic tones.
‘Ah, yes, hello . . . DI Robert Brennan, Lothian and Borders CID.’
‘And what can I do for you today, sir?’
Brennan tightened his grip on the receiver, wondered how to put this, went with: ‘It’s more what I can do for you.’
‘Oh, really now . . .’ The Guard paused, then his voice indicated a change of subject: ‘You sound like there’s a bit of a do going on there.’
‘We’ve just wrapped up a big case . . . The team are in high spirits.’
‘Congratulations,’ said the Guard. The moment passed; he got back to work. ‘Now, you said you had something for me . . .’
Brennan passed over the details that McArdle had provided in the cell. He kept his tone low and serious as he detailed the whereabouts of the Limping Man.
‘I know the place well,’ said the Irishman. He cleared his throat, rustled some papers. His tone remained flat. ‘I’ll get on this right away.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Brennan.
‘Be more than luck we’ll need . . . by the sounds of him.’
‘I’d expect him to be armed, and very definitely dangerous.’