by Tony Black
‘She’s brass,’ said Brennan.
Gallagher responded, ‘That’s what I thought. The knee bruising, and same with the wrists, it’s old marks …’
‘She’s dressed like brass,’ said McGuire.
Brennan rose, walked to the front of the tent and tilted his head as he looked down on the victim’s features. He shook his head, ‘This doesn’t look right.’
McGuire and Gallagher followed Brennan’s lead as he bent his knees and crouched down in front of the corpse. He leaned forward, removed a pencil from his inside pocket and stuck it in the girl’s mouth.
‘Sir, do you think you should?’ said McGuire.
‘Do you think I shouldn’t, Stevie?’
‘It’s just, the doc hasn’t been here yet and …’
‘Fuck Pettigrew.’
Brennan prised open the girl’s mouth; as he did so his face became contorted and creased. ‘Jesus Christ …’
‘Well?’ said Gallagher.
‘There’s something in there … But not what I was expecting to see.’ Brennan rose, fronted the two officers. ‘She’s been mutilated but it’s inconsistent … The other two had their knickers in there as well.’
McGuire scratched his forehead, ‘The eyes are gone though … That’s consistent.’
Brennan removed his rubber gloves, they made a snapping noise as he turned from the others, said, ‘Well that would be because the News printed that, Stevie … They never ran anything on the panties.’ He lifted up the flap of the tent and walked out to the field. Two white-suited SOCOs stood outside the entrance; they were looking at a flip-chart but became distracted as Brennan approached.
‘Sir …’
‘Has she been printed?’ said Brennan.
‘Er, sorry, that would be John’s line … We’re casting the soil indents.’
Brennan widened his stance, slotted his hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t give a fuck whose job it is, I want it done. Now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And move your arse; that girl’s brass and I want her ID’d before I get back to the station … Do I make myself clear?’
‘Sir.’
McGuire and Gallagher appeared behind Brennan and stood watching the SOCOs go to work. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Jim?’ said Brennan.
A shrug.
‘Get back in there and keep those fuckwits on their toes …’
‘But …’
‘No buts, Jim … Do it. And when Pettigrew decides to grace us with his presence tell him I want this girl on the slab and cut up today! Not tomorrow morning, tomorrow lunchtime or tomorrow fucking evening! Got that?’
Gallagher turned for the tent, said, ‘Sir.’ He took two steps then spun round, ‘Oh, one thing, I take it we’re on the same page with this.’
Brennan squared his shoulders, ‘I doubt we’re ever on the same page.’ He nodded the DI towards the tent, ‘Inconsistencies, Jim, that’s what I want you looking for.’
As Brennan set out through the field towards his car, McGuire followed him. The inspector’s steps were long and loping, the grass swished against his trouser legs and was flattened beneath his shoes as he went. McGuire broke into a trot to keep pace; his hair caught the breeze and was swept back from his high brow. The loud moan of traffic from the busy bypass skirted the field and pushed itself between the fast walking men. As Brennan scowled into the distance, a weakened sun sat low in the grey sky, sapping all the colour from the day.
At the fence, Brennan stalled, started to sway a little. His breathing had grown stertorous.
‘Not a pretty sight is it, sir,’ said McGuire.
Brennan’s cheeks narrowed and reddened as he drew breath. ‘That’s what we’re supposed to think.’
McGuire’s eyes roved, ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? … Our man never hacked that girl up.’
McGuire soaked up the information. ‘You’re saying it’s a copy-cat killing?’
‘Either that, or someone wants us to think it is.’ He wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Someone killed that brass and wants us to think it’s one of our killer’s …’
McGuire adopted the role of casuist. ‘Why though? I mean, apart from the obvious that it would be hanging the blame on our serial killer.’
Brennan turned for the fence, placed his hands on the top rung, ‘Maybe just that, Stevie … Or maybe something completely different. We’ll be a damn sight closer to answering that question once we get that girl ID’d though.’
He climbed the fence, headed for the Passat; McGuire followed him, said, ‘But it could turn out to be completely unrelated to the other cases … It could take us away from finding Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan’s killer.’
Brennan fumbled for his keys, pointed at the car; the indicator lights flashed on then off as the central locking clicked. He rounded the bonnet and opened the driver’s door. ‘Yes, it could. Or it could be the break we’re looking for. Keep your mind open … I’ll see you back at the station.’ Brennan was stepping inside the car when a thought struck, ‘Oh, Stevie,’ he stood up, leaned over the car’s roof, ‘how did you go with Mr Gow?’
The DS grimaced, lifted his hands from his sides and sighed. ‘As well as could be expected, I suppose.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it’s still all very raw for him … He is talking to the team today though.’
‘Well, that’s something. Make sure they know to cross-reference everything he tells us with the Sloan case. Remember Fiona Gow was Gallagher’s case … Double check everything with Mr Gow … In fact, no, proceed as if he’s never been interviewed. I don’t trust Gallagher’s investigation.’
McGuire pinched his brows, started to turn away from the car, ‘Boss, are you serious?’
‘Fucking deadly.’
McGuire removed his mobile phone, ‘I’ll let Lou know; he’s in with Mr Gow now.’
Brennan got into the car, started the engine. His attempt at a three-point turn saw the wheels sliding about on the dirty road; he cursed as he rolled the gears between first and reverse and back again. The Passat was almost too long for the narrow access way but the DI managed to get the car turned around and facing the A720. A long line of traffic stretched from left to right; he anticipated a lengthy wait and then – from nowhere – a gap suddenly appeared and he floored the accelerator, slotted into the city-bound stream.
The traffic was slow moving, which suited Brennan; his mind was preoccupied with the latest turn of events. He knew the girl in the field was unlike the other victims, not just superficially. She was older, and she had all the classic markings of a prostitute; Brennan and the other investigators had seen enough dead prostitutes to make the leap, but his instincts also told him nothing was as it appeared. The case had shifted. All the old assumptions, the markers, the certainties, had been moved. Brennan knew he was in a different place entirely now, and the thought unsettled him. If the latest victim was linked to the others then he couldn’t see the connection, and that worried him. However, if this victim was not linked to the others – as he surmised – then he was now looking for two killers.
At Liberton, Brennan stopped at the lights outside a newspaper shop. He looked over to the large window, at the man on the till; he knew the hacks would have to be told about the latest killing, it couldn’t be kept quiet for long. A day at most. There would have to be another press conference, under the circumstances; the case demanded it. After that, the city would be thrown into blind panic. Three brutal murders, mutilation, young girls … Brennan knew he now had his own Ripper case to contend with. The thought brought a twisting pain to his stomach that seemed to strangle his intestines. He wondered what it was doing to the Chief Super’s digestive tract. Benny – like all Chief Supers – didn’t like media attention at the best of times, he was liable to be apoplectic after this recent turn of events. Brennan knew his job had never looked more difficult.
As he pulled into Fettes
Station the DI stilled the Passat’s engine and opened the driver’s door. As he stepped out he realised he had driven all the way back from the A720 without his seatbelt on; as he went to lock the door he noticed a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. ‘Fucking hell.’ Brennan opened up the door, retrieved the cigarette and clamped it in his mouth. On the way to the station doors he inhaled deeply, drawing the tobacco into his lungs and sighing it back into the cold Edinburgh air.
The front desk was unattended, Brennan was glad not to have to exchange pleasantries with Charlie; he didn’t feel very pleasant. On the stairs he felt his pulse rate increase with the impending approach of the Chief Super’s office but as he reached the top steps was relieved to see the door was closed. Benny would have to be faced, but that was a challenge for another time. Brennan headed for Incident Room One with an attenuated stride.
‘How do, boss?’ It was Collins, perched on the edge of a desk with a pencil behind his ear.
‘Just dandy, why shouldn’t I be?’ said Brennan.
Collins seemed to have averred the tone of a serious man, rose smartly, removed the pencil from his ear. ‘What’s the word from the scene, sir?’
Brennan sighed, didn’t bother to answer. He scanned the room. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Erm, well lunch … And Lou and Brian are in with Mr Gow.’
Brennan withdrew his stare, took in Collins. ‘And what the fuck’s going on with the ID on our latest victim?’
‘ID, sir?’
‘Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything around here?’ Brennan walked away from him, turned half way down the line of desks, ‘We have a corpse in a field that I will bet a pound to a pail of shite is brass … If the SOCOs haven’t got prints off her yet then I want you down there sticking that pencil up a few arseholes, get me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Collins raked a telephone towards him, lifted the receiver and spoke, ‘Scene of Crime …’
Brennan spun on his heels; something caught his attention on the desk to his left. It was the florid tie that he had previously seen around Gallagher’s neck. The DI moved to the desk; he didn’t know what he was looking for but something told him he should be looking. He opened the top drawer; a packet of McCoy’s crisps and a Mars bar stared out at him. He opened the second drawer; on top of a loose pile of papers sat a blue folder marked ‘Gymnastics’. Brennan retrieved the file, placed it on the desk and leafed through.
‘Now, Jim, let’s see what you’ve been up to …’ The pages contained Gallagher’s thin spidery scrawl in the margins, but there was nothing that stood out for Brennan. He knew what he was looking for – something to incriminate the DI, something to confirm his suspicions. As people began to trickle back from lunch, he turned more pages, then he was interrupted by Collins sprinting to his side.
‘The ID’s in … she’s been in before and she’s brass. Name’s Angela Mickle …’
Brennan bit, ‘Result.’
‘That’s not all, boss, we’ve got an address as well.’
Brennan closed the folder he was looking at, picked it up. ‘Brilliant.’
‘Want me to tell uniform to check it out?’
‘Shit no, we’ll do that.’ Brennan called out to the room, ‘Who’s got a free minute?’
Elaine Docherty stood up, ‘I can help out …’ It was the first time Brennan had spoken to the WPC since the revelation that she was attached to McGuire; the awkward friction between them was palpable. ‘I mean, if you need someone I can …’
‘Great, Elaine.’ Brennan choked back the tension. ‘Can you take this file, make a photocopy and give it in to Lou and Brian …’
She looked disappointed, ‘Oh, I thought …’
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you going on a raid?’ she said.
Collins laughed, ‘Elaine’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie, boss.’
‘We are …’ he handed over the file, ‘but you’re going to the interview rooms.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan nodded, ‘And when you’re finished … put it back in Jim’s top drawer.’ He tapped the side of his nose, grinned at her, ‘Like it was never out of there, if you know what I mean.’
Elaine smiled back, ‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan turned for the door, ‘Right, Collins … You ready to rumble?’
Chapter 42
DI ROB BRENNAN passed the car keys to Collins on the way down the stairs. There was too much going on inside his mind to concentrate on the task of driving. He had been right; he had followed his instinct and it had paid off. He knew that the latest victim in the field near Straiton was a prostitute, he had sensed it, and his suspicions had been confirmed by her fingerprints yielding a police record. He would go over the file, the whole team would, and search for something – anything – that could prove useful for the wider murder investigation, but at this precise moment, all Brennan wanted to do was catch the brass’s killer.
He knew when people on the edge of society met their end in this way, their killers left a sticky trail behind them. There were no criminal masterminds working the Links. Life was brutal there, on the fringes. He had encountered so many slayings that were no more than arguments gone too far, an exchange of words that became an exchange of blows. Those deaths weren’t planned; any planning came after the event, in a pathetic attempt at covering up.
In the car Brennan picked up the radio and made sure there was uniformed back-up on the way. The line crackled for a moment, then the radio room replied: ‘Two cars are attending … Inspector.’
Brennan spoke into the hand-piece, ‘Right, I don’t want them going in guns blazing. They wait in the wings until I arrive and they wait quietly … Got it?’
The radio operator confirmed the request, ‘The message has been relayed, the cars will wait for you, sir.’
Brennan put down the hand-piece but kept the volume high on the radio.
The address was for a flat in Leith; Brennan knew the location well. It was near the Links; there were good people living there, a community that objected to street walkers plying their trade in their midst, but Brennan knew there were good people everywhere. There were bad too; crime was never far, whoever you were.
The DI thought over the last few hours, and what they had unearthed. Another young woman had been killed, in horrific fashion. Angela Mickle might have been a prostitute, but Brennan wondered what chaos in her life had led her to be cut up and dumped in a field on the city’s outskirts.
He spoke out, ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
Collins turned to face him, quickly drew his eyes back to the road. ‘What’s that, boss?’
‘This brass … Why? I mean she’s been killed and some bastard’s hacked her up and dumped her in Straiton like the others.’
Collins dropped a gear, pressed the brake pedal, then accelerated again. ‘You want my guess? … She’s been offed by some nut-job – a punter, a boyfriend – and he’s gone, “Shit what have I done, I’m in the frame for murder” …’
Brennan steadied his hand on the dash as the car leaned into a tight bend, ‘And he’s thought, I’ll make it look like those murders out in Straiton … I don’t buy that, Collins, he’d have to be fucking daft to think he’d get away with that …’
Collins spun the wheel, ‘Aye, that’s what I’m saying, a nut-job …’
‘OK, well, let’s follow your theory … Suppose your nut-job’s successful in convincing us that he’s killed this brass just like the others … Then that puts him in the frame for three murders, not one …’
‘Well, if you put it like that, sir …’
‘I do put it like that.’
They had reached the address; Collins slowed the car. Brennan and the DS stepped out of the vehicle and jogged towards the front door of the tenement building. Two officers from across the street started to move in their direction, another police car was parking up further down the road.
Brennan turned to Collins as they waited for the uniforms, ‘No, if this n
ut-job of yours wanted to make this Mickle girl look like the others, he had to have another reason.’
‘Like what, sir?’
Brennan shrugged, ‘If I knew that, Collins … I’d have nothing to learn.’
The uniforms caught up with the officers, nodded towards the DI and stood patiently awaiting instructions. Brennan pressed the intercom buzzer, said, ‘Police.’
The door sprang open.
On the stairs Brennan pointed one of the officers to the back door, said, ‘Wait in the green … And keep an eye on the windows, eh.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan led the others up. He felt his thighs aching as he ascended the steep staircase at pace; he knew there was a time when he could run up and down Leith stairwells all day and never feel so much as a twitch, but he also knew those days had now gone. On the landing he rested a palm on the banister, looked towards Collins, ‘Which one?’
The DS nodded down the hallway, ‘Door on the end, there.’
Brennan waved the uniforms towards the door, told one to wait at the top of the stairs. ‘Right, knock away,’ he said.
Collins banged on the door with the heel of his hand, ‘Open up, police!’
There was no reply.
He tried again, ‘Open up, police!’
Silence.
‘OK, knock it in,’ said Brennan.
Collins and the DI stepped out of the way to let the uniforms kick into the door; it took only two swift pelts before the rotten wood behind the Yale lock gave way.