by Tony Black
The DI stepped back, raised a hand towards McGuire – the DS knocked it away, he inflated his chest as he stepped towards Brennan.
‘Whoa, hang on, Stevie,’ said Collins; he pushed himself between the officers, moved McGuire towards the window.
Brennan turned from them, made for the kitchen – he took two steps inside, looked the place up and down, and then ran through the living room and back to fling open the doors leading from the hallway. As he checked the empty rooms he felt his heart rate ramping even higher; a sickly feeling encircled his stomach as he became dimly aware of the fact that he had lost his prime suspect and WPC Elaine Docherty. His instinct was to keep looking but he knew they were not there. He halted his pacing, he could hear Lou and Bri entering the scene; their voices trailed from incredulity to sparring with the bellicose McGuire. Brennan touched his parched lips, pressed his hand tight to his mouth. He wanted to hit out, to strike the wall or door with fists but he knew that wasn’t going to help – he needed to think, to act.
Brennan called out to the others, ‘Get to the back close! Now … fucking move it!’ He ran out of the front door.
The group converged in the narrow hallway, scrambled to the stairwell. Coat tails flew out as the sound of leather-soled shoes slapped the stone steps. Brennan felt the others’ panic as they descended behind him; he knew they were all thinking ahead, wondering how to explain their roles in the mess. He wanted them to concentrate on what was happening right now, but he could sense the tension and fear the team exuded like a poisonous gas.
The DI was first through the back door; the poorly-lit yard felt spacious after the stairs but odd items littered the path: a tin bath, a number of bicycles, a rusting lawnmower. Brennan followed the flags to the back wall, placed his foot on a pile of bricks and aimed his line of vision into the next garden. He jumped back down, cursed, ‘Shit …’
‘Nothing?’ said Collins.
‘What do you think? … We’ve lost them. Get on that radio – I want every uniform within a country mile in Leith – now!’
‘Yes, sir …’
As Collins removed his radio, Brennan jogged back towards the others; a painful stitch had set up in his side, his breathing felt strained, painful. When he reached the edge of the tin-roofed shed by the back doorway, Brennan bent himself over and gagged. His stomach contents whirred inside him for a moment and then presented themselves with a whoosh, splashing on the paving flags. His throat burned, and was immediately backed by a further burning, throbbing pain in the front of his forehead. The sight of the vomit, the smell and the dim-green wash of the lighting made Brennan’s head spin. His eddying thoughts added to the distilled feeling of fear he now had for WPC Docherty; the fear seemed to be centred in his stomach but was spreading. As he straightened himself, Brennan had his knees loosen; he reached out a hand to steady himself on the shed, but was soon jerking it up into a guard.
‘You fucking bastard!’ spat McGuire.
The sergeant’s fist connected cleanly with Brennan’s jaw, dropping him to the ground in a moaning, writhing heap.
Chapter 49
AS DI ROB BRENNAN pushed his face from the dirt-strewn yard, a new feeling engulfed him: embarrassment. Lou and Bri had DS Stevie McGuire restrained; as he waved a hand in protest, Brennan got his feet under him, raised himself from the ground and started to brush the dirt and soil from his jacket and trousers.
‘Let him go for Christ’s sake,’ he said.
‘Are you sure, sir?’ said Lou.
Brennan walked towards the three officers; his head hurt and his jaw ached. The shame he felt at being struck by McGuire had started to subside as he regained his sense of himself; he knew who was in the right and who was in the wrong. As the DI pointed inside the door, his words came like grunts, ‘Get in there!’
‘What for?’ said McGuire.
‘Go on, take a look.’ Brennan staggered a few steps towards the DS. ‘See what’s behind the fucking door to the yard, Stevie.’
Lou and Bri let down their arms; the unrestrained McGuire pushed himself away and shrugged past the DI on his way to the back door. As he went, sirens from police cars started to rake the cold air all around them. Collins came running from the bottom of the close, nodded to the others.
Brennan rubbed his jaw as he watched McGuire. ‘Well, what do you see?’
McGuire looked like a petulant child as he peered behind the lee of the door. ‘Another door … Under the stairs.’
Brennan shook his head, raised a finger and pointed it in McGuire’s direction. His voice roared, ‘A fucking coal cellar! Test the door, I bet it’s open!’
McGuire obliged him, the door opened in his hand. ‘You’re right.’
‘I fucking know I am … Where did I tell you to stay put, Stevie? The back close, and if you had, the bastard wouldn’t have been able to hide in the cupboard under the fucking stairs with Elaine whilst you ran up to the flat, would he?’
McGuire’s stare seemed to lose all intensity, he wet his lips, ran the back of his hand over his mouth, then closed the door. ‘You don’t know that for sure.’
Lou and Bri huffed, shuffled past McGuire; the two officers’ shoulders barged the DS as they made their way out, forcing him flat against the wall. He suddenly looked an isolated figure.
Brennan waited for Collins to join the others on their way to the front of the building; when he was sure they were out of earshot, he said, ‘All you had to do was what you were fucking told, Stevie.’ He placed a hand on McGuire’s arm, spun him round. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get out there.’
‘She’s gone, sir …’
Brennan prodded McGuire in the back, ‘Get moving, Stevie, I want you in that car and on the road in under a minute.’
‘But what if we don’t find her?’
‘I don’t do what ifs, laddie … Get your arse into gear!’
McGuire removed the car keys for the VW Passat from his trouser pocket, broke into a jog. Brennan followed at his back, rubbing at his jaw as they went. On the street, Lou and Bri were already in their car, revving the engine and pulling out in front of the DI and the DS. Lou rolled down the passenger’s window. ‘Where do you want us, sir?’
The DI halted in the street; he pitched his fingers under his belt and tucked in his shirt tails. ‘Get out to Crawley’s house … It’s a fucking long shot but you never know.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And stay in contact; if the plan changes I’ll want you both right away.’
Lou nodded towards Brennan; the wheels screamed on the car as he raced up the street. As Brennan turned, McGuire already had the Passat in gear and pulled up beside him. ‘Where to?’ he said.
Brennan opened the passenger door, stepped inside and buckled his seatbelt. ‘Head out Liberton way …’
‘Sir?’ It was a question, McGuire obviously had doubts.
‘Do it, Stevie … now!’
The car took off down the road, turned a hairpin into Duke Street. The burning stench of car tyres filled Brennan’s nostrils, made him feel queasy again; he reached for the button to lower the window and stuck his face against the gushing air. The cold wind seemed to help, buffeted his hot brow and aching jaw. The DI raised his fingertips to where McGuire’s fist had connected; he felt the swelling, knew there would be a bruise, but it was the damage to his self-esteem that mattered more. Brennan had taken a risk leaving WPC Docherty alone in Angela Mickle’s flat. He had used her as bait. He now wondered how he could have been so reckless. He knew McGuire had every right to blame him for what had happened; in the final analysis it had been his decision to mount the operation and he would have to take responsibility for that.
Brennan raised a hand to the roof as McGuire spun the wheel through the roundabout at the top of the Walk. He punched an imaginary brake with his right foot as the Passat veered towards the back of a black cab, then the DS dropped a gear and overtook in the left-hand lane. The DI made a glance in the McGuire’s direction, caught sight of
the locked gaze he presented to the windscreen. Brennan knew McGuire wasn’t the only one who would hold him responsible for tonight’s failures: there was the Chief Super to consider. He felt his fists tightening and his lower lip curling over his teeth as he thought about the prospect of explaining himself to Benny. He had nowhere left to go with his superior; he had exhausted all options on the case and the sting at Angela Mickle’s flat was – he understood perfectly – his last opportunity to get it right. The Chief Super was already looking for a way out of the mess: there would be an inquiry into the Gallagher affair, certainly the Fiona Gow case would be re-examined and those of Lindsey Sloan and Angela Mickle too. Brennan knew he was in the clear – he had taken few liberties on the job – but he also knew how the force worked: scapegoats were sought and found. If it came down to it, Benny would fight to protect himself, and Chief Superintendents brought more weight to the ring than Detective Inspectors.
McGuire flashed his headlights at a Lothian bus driver, blasted the horn and stuck his head out the window. ‘Move your fucking arse!’
Brennan snapped out of his introspection as McGuire gestured angrily at the flashing blue light on the roof. ‘All right, Stevie, take the middle lane and keep the head.’
McGuire dropped a gear, rolled the car towards the centre of the road. He was still cursing as he found an open stretch of Nicolson Street and pressed the accelerator down.
‘This traffic is hellish … Are you sure about coming out this way, sir?’
Brennan gripped the seatbelt, ‘Just keep going, head for the A720, and then lap the area …’
McGuire shot a glance in Brennan’s direction; the DI and the DS seemed to share thoughts for a moment, but neither wanted to give voice to them.
Brennan’s heart rate had reduced, his focus had returned, but his thoughts had taken him to a place he would sooner not be. WPC Docherty had been snatched by Crawley, that was the fact they were facing. He knew why it was his first instinct to head for the fields at Straiton: Crawley was a serial killer. He had killed two young women and was ready to kill a third – Angela Mickle – to silence her and his urges. Brennan knew Crawley could only suppress his urges to kill for so long before he needed to strike again – both Lorrimer and Wullie’s experience had confirmed that – it was more than probable Crawley would act on his instinct to kill when confronted with Elaine Docherty. It was reckless, but if he thought she was a prostitute, he could afford to be reckless. He also had his protector, or so he believed.
The radio silence was broken by Lou’s voice: ‘Sir, we’ve reached the Crawley residence … All quiet.’
Brennan looked at McGuire who slapped an open palm off the wheel and grimaced. The DI picked up the handset, ‘OK, Lou, what’s occurring back in Leith?’
The line crackled, then, ‘No reported sightings. Uniform’s moving on foot round the Mickle flat and we’ve got the dogs out …’
Brennan touched his head with the edge of the handset. ‘OK, Lou – join them.’
The car neared the roundabout at the bypass and Brennan craned his neck towards the dark fields. As McGuire flicked the headlights to full beam, Brennan felt his shoulders stiffen. The thudding of his heart increased again, the DI knew that his whole career was now on the line; it was as if all his work over the years had reached this point and yet he didn’t seem to care whether he remained on the force or not. Brennan’s mind was occupied with his previous visits to the grim stretch of farmland where he had seen the mutilated bodies of the two young women. The pictures that had been pinned on the board of Incident Room One came back to him, he heard the words from the pathologist’s report again and he remembered the looks on the faces of the Sloans as he spoke to them about their daughter. Brennan knew he couldn’t take the news of another death; he knew McGuire would be finished by the loss of Elaine too. The thoughts swirled in him, marched through his mind like an unholy pain brigade and made him shake his head in an effort to block them out.
‘Fucking hell, slow it down, Stevie!’ he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to see anything if you’re up to sixty!’
The DS depressed the brake, brought the speed of the car down. Brennan reached for the buttons to lower the windows, a chill wind blew through the vehicle as they dropped. ‘Can you hear anything?’ he said.
McGuire shook his head, ‘Nothing … No.’
‘Right, get on the back road …’
Brennan watched McGuire turn on the blinkers, drop a gear and slot the car into the side road where they had driven towards the site of Angela Mickle’s body. The DI blocked his emotions, gulped down all fears he held and became an automaton, searching the dark fields for a chink of light, listening for a shrill cry from WPC Elaine Docherty. He knew Crawley had a routine, he knew the serial killer had acted out the routine before and had never been caught, or even witnessed by anyone; but Brennan held out the hope that, until now, no one had been looking in the right place, or at the right time.
‘Stop the car, Stevie …’
‘What, here?’
Brennan smacked the dash with the flat of his hand, ‘Yes, fucking here …’
As the car slowed, the DI undid his seatbelt, started to open his door. His feet were dangling over the dirt road as the car came to a halt. He stepped out, turned towards the dry-stone dyke skirting the field. The ground was wet; long grass holding plenty of moisture brushed him as he positioned his feet on the stones of the wall and raised himself to a point where he could view the full mile radius of the murder scenes.
‘See anything?’ said McGuire.
Brennan flagged a hand, said ‘Shh-h, I’m trying to listen.’
The night was silent, black.
The DI felt the stone he stood on move beneath him, he repositioned himself and felt McGuire’s hand steady him. He could hear nothing, see nothing. As he stared out into complete and utter blackness, Brennan felt the immensity of the world conspiring against him. He felt like an insignificant speck as he raked his eyes over the miles of inky darkness. There was nothing there. It felt like the end of the world; it felt like the end of everything he had ever known, as if his whole life had been ineluctably aiming towards this point to prove just how futile all his struggles with existence were.
‘What was that?’ said McGuire.
‘What was what?’
‘A noise … a click.’
Brennan lowered his gaze, looked towards McGuire, ‘Where?’
‘Over there,’ the DS pointed.
Brennan turned towards the direction McGuire indicated; as he roved the sublunary night he could only pick out the pinpricks of white stars burning above him, and then, a different colour of darkness appeared. A small shape at first, but it seemed to widen as Brennan’s eyes adjusted.
‘You see something?’
Brennan held his gaze firmly; now he saw a car’s interior light burning, he saw movement, a figure, and then there was a sound like a door closing and the light disappeared from view.
‘There’s a car out there!’ Brennan jumped down from the wall, ran for the Passat. The engine was still ticking over as he got behind the wheel and engaged the gears. McGuire dived into the passenger’s side as Brennan spun the tyres on the dirt track. The car took off down the narrow side road and then suddenly stopped as Brennan applied the brakes.
‘Hold on!’
He reversed the vehicle a few feet, turning the wheel to line the front of the car with a wooden gate that divided the dry-stone dyke.
‘Jesus, you’re going through it?’ said McGuire.
‘Fucking right!’
The car jolted forward in a lunging motion, wheels screeching beneath them; as the bumper connected, the sound of cracking wood erupted and then the gate was unmoored from its postings and struck the windscreen. The loud crack of glass caused the officers to raise hands to their faces and for a second the car veered to the right before McGuire swept clear the screen. Brennan gripped the wheel again and pressed forward into the black field. The pair rock
ed in their seats as the car progressed on the bumpy terrain. The lights flashed up and down, illuminating the immediate stretches of green grass before them and then darting to the further reaches of the field.
‘There! There!’ said McGuire.
‘I see it …’
Brennan floored the pedal, the steering wheel spun in his hands and the tyres slid on the moist grass. They had their target in their sights now, the silver Corolla reflecting the lights of the police car like a beacon in the middle of the field. The DI tried to make out what was going on and how many people there were, but the ride was too bumpy, jolting his line of vision in and out of focus.
‘Can you see anything, Stevie?’
‘Just the car.’
They were getting nearer; Brennan started to apply the brakes, dropped a gear. He wondered why he couldn’t see anyone; surely they must be there, he thought, they must be in view by now. As he gripped the wheel he tried to scan further into the field, past the silver Corolla, but he still couldn’t detect any movement. For a moment, his stomach started to cramp as he had the dreaded feeling that they had arrived too late.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ said McGuire.
‘I don’t know … Watch out.’ Brennan felt the car slide to the side as he skidded to a halt. The officers pushed open the doors and ran to the other vehicle.
‘Nothing …’ said McGuire. ‘Where the hell are they?’
Brennan opened the Corolla’s door; the interior light came on and he spotted a length of nylon rope in the foot well. As he reached in, he felt a needle of pain slice into his back; he jolted himself from the car as a woman’s scream raked the night air.
McGuire was already running towards the sound as Brennan turned; the DI took off after him. The pair went headlong into the darkness, Brennan following the thud of McGuire’s footfalls and heavy breathing. The night air was cold and the men’s warm breath was lit by the moonlight as they went. They had only travelled a few metres when they seemed to drop sharply into a ditch that halted them mid-stride. As Brennan fell downwards he extended his hands and felt his palms connecting soundly with solid earth. For a second he was jolted, as his shoulders absorbed the full shock of his body weight, and then his elbows bent and his chest smacked off the wet ground. He rolled to the side, tracing the ditch’s declivity, and then came to a halt. As he righted himself, regained his senses, he saw the torchlight burning in Crawley’s grip. WPC Elaine Docherty was on the ground beneath him; her hands were tied behind her back but her legs kicked out as she thrashed and lunged at her attacker.