Murder Mile (11 page)

Pettigrew looked at the clock on the wall as a young man walked through the door and muttered apologetically, ‘The buses were late.’

‘Get scrubbed up, and be quick about it.’

The pathologist’s assistant threw himself into a gown and started to scrub up. He seemed jolly as he joined the others. ‘Morning folks, how goes it today?’

Nods. A chorus of ‘Good morning.’

‘Right,’ said Pettigrew.

His first scalpel cut pierced the sternum and exposed a layer of yellow subcutaneous fat. The tissue was attached to the flesh and always struck Brennan as being far too bright, much brighter than any butcher’s meat. He watched as the pathologist removed the dead girl’s organs, weighed them, and replaced them in the body cavity. All the while his attendant washed away what blood there was with a hand-held hose; the blood ran down the slab and through
a
hole onto the cement floor where it met a drain and was carried away.

No one spoke for a while as the procedure was carried out. Brennan was the first to break the silence, ‘What about that, when are you going to look at that?’

He was staring at the victim’s head.

‘I have a procedure,’ said Pettigrew.

Brennan lowered his voice, it seemed too loud for the room. ‘Just the mouth, please. The cloth.’

The pathologist walked from the middle of the slab to the top. He creased up his eyes as he bent over, poked a finger into the girl’s mouth. ‘Yes, there’s something in there.’

‘What is it?’ said Brennan.

‘I can’t really see …’ He moved away, withdrew a slender grapple-hook, like a dentist’s instrument from his top pocket. ‘It’s soaked with blood of course …’

‘Can you remove it?’

As Pettigrew eased the item from the girl’s mouth it looked like a tight red ball, a crumpled-up piece of cotton. He laid it down on the table to the side of the slab and started to ease it open with his fingers and the chromium instrument.

‘Yes, looks like undergarments,’ he said.

The others watched as he unravelled cotton panties.

‘He’s gagged her with them …’ said Gallagher.

‘Suffocated her, you mean,’ said Brennan.

Pettigrew continued to poke at the blood-caked panties. ‘Hang on a minute …’ There was something wrapped up inside.

‘What is it?’ said Brennan.

The pathologist hovered over the small bundle. ‘There’s more here …’ he pointed with his gloved finger. ‘Look, it’s flesh, brittle flesh … Hang on.’ He took a long-nosed pair of scissors, eased them under the dark, pulpy tissue. The material was brittle, hard. As he snipped through, dark patches of blood crumbled and fell onto the table. Pettigrew leaned in again, picked up the thin, tight strips of flesh. ‘Oh, my God …’

‘What is it?’ said Brennan yet again.

‘I think I’ve found the genitalia.’

Gallagher spoke, ‘There’s no doubt this is a sexual predator now.’

Brennan looked to Pettigrew; he was laying aside the scissors.

‘Well, it’s hard to tell … but …’

Brennan prompted, ‘But what?’

Pettigrew raised his hands, waved one over the victim’s head. ‘Well, there is the eyes … they’re not there. They’ve been appropriated.’

Gallagher tapped on the slab with his forefinger. ‘I told you! It’s a trophy take. We had this on the Fiona Gow case too.’ He turned to Brennan. ‘We’re after the same guy … Tell me you doubt me now.’

Chapter 15

DI ROB BRENNAN
steadied himself before the whiteboard in Incident Room One, knew he was staring into an abyss. He tapped two fingertips on his cheekbone, removed his hand, buried it in his trouser pocket, and nervously started to thumb the wedding ring he was unsure he should still be wearing. His mind was pervaded with confusion. The body of a young woman had been found, mutilated in the most grotesque fashion. As he looked at the photographs of Lindsey Sloan’s ivory-white corpse he wondered what it was that he was missing. The answer, he told himself, was a clear line of enquiry to follow. Nothing had presented itself. The team had been door-to-door, checked the victim’s background and spoken to her known associates. The girl had no obvious enemies, lived a quiet life. She was not a typical murder victim. It was as if she had been plucked from the street and singled out for her brutal death in some sick lottery. The more he played with the events of her death, the more it baffled him.

Lindsey Sloan had a life, a family; she was someone’s daughter. Thoughts of his own daughter now emerged; he knew he had to call Sophie soon. He would have to explain why her stable family unit had been blown asunder. Why her father was no longer going to be a part of her daily life. The thought stabbed at him. Brennan couldn’t bear inflicting any kind of pain on her; he could not
comprehend
the true hurt the Sloans now faced. He wondered if he would ever be strong enough to take such a blow.

‘Christ, Rob,’ he whispered.

He was losing focus; was it because he had none? The case had him mystified. He knew there were always pieces of the puzzle that remained elusive, in every case, but this case seemed to be unlike anything he had ever known. How did a young girl end up in a field, strangled, with a broken neck and multiple wounds? What had she done? Who had she encountered that was capable of such evil? There had to be something he’d missed; there had to be somewhere to begin the search. The clues were out there, they always were – he knew this. He also knew Lindsey Sloan’s murder was not a one-off; this killer had struck before, Jim Gallagher had all but proven this. And all the received wisdom indicated this kind of killer would strike again; unless he was stopped.

DS Stevie McGuire appeared at Brennan’s side; he had closed a hand around a blue file, folded it beneath his arm. ‘That was Joe Lorrimer on the phone,’ he said.

The sound of the DS’s voice broke Brennan’s concentration, brought him back to reality. ‘Oh, aye.’

‘He’ll be with us later today.’

‘Good.’ Brennan was not in the mood for conversation; he returned his gaze to the whiteboard, brought his hands together and worked them like he was lathering soap.

‘There’s not much to go on, is there?’ said McGuire. He seemed insistent on pulling the DI into a discourse.

‘Not much at all.’

McGuire raised the blue file in his hand, ‘I’ve been through the Fiona Gow file … no answers there either.’

Brennan turned, frowned. ‘Where is Jim?’

‘He’s gone for a bite. I asked him for the profiler’s report on Fiona Gow, but I can’t see what it’s going to add.’

Brennan turned round to face the DS, eased himself onto the edge of the table next to the photocopier, was resigned to debate the case’s slow progress. The tabletop creaked as he settled himself,
folded
arms. ‘It’ll add fuck all, even if it ties in with Lorrimer’s judgements, without a break.’

McGuire nodded, tapped the blue file off his thigh. ‘Jim seemed happy enough to have the two cases linked up.’

‘He would, wouldn’t he … Jim’s after this case, wants to take over.’

McGuire brought a hand up to his face, rubbed. His skin sat in folds below his eyes. He looked tired, strained. ‘Why though? Surely he’s past all that at his stage.’

‘You think? Never heard of going out in a blaze of glory? … Look, I don’t trust Jim’s motives, there’s something not right about his interest in this case so just keep a bloody close eye on him, Stevie.’

McGuire looked unconvinced, agitated. ‘I don’t know, sir, are you sure you’re not just, well I don’t know, being defensive?’

Brennan felt the implication dent his armour, he didn’t want to admit McGuire might be right, he didn’t like Gallagher imposing himself on his territory. But he didn’t want to deny his gut either. ‘I guess we’ll see.’ He rose, straightened himself, leaned back as he attempted to loosen the anxiety in his neck. He returned to the whiteboard, tapped at the picture of Lindsey Sloan.

McGuire had the Fiona Gow file open now, started to stick up her pictures. ‘They’re remarkably similar in terms of …’

Brennan cut it, ‘You mean they’re nothing like your typical murder victims? They never led chaotic lives, they were stable. They didn’t come from poverty, they were workers. They weren’t promiscuous … So where do we start?’

McGuire lit up. ‘If you proceeded on the assumption that most victims know their attackers, then we’re looking at a very bland bunch of possibilities.’

‘Or we’re not looking in the right place at all.’

McGuire closed the file again, turned towards Brennan. ‘Perhaps she did know her killer, only he fits quite plainly into wider society.’

Brennan looked over McGuire’s shoulder, towards the window – a white cloud sat like a smear against the grey sky. He understood
perfectly
what the DS was saying, he understood that the facts pointed to him being right too, but something stopped him buying into the assumption. ‘You could be right, Stevie … or totally wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if it’s random? What if our killer selected these girls on the basis of some random criteria that could mean any number of girls out there might be plucked off the street.’ He raised a finger, pointed out the window. ‘I mean, who’s to say he didn’t select them because they were about the same height and weight … used the same bus stop … smoked the same brand of ciggies …’

‘That’s nuts.’

‘Exactly!’

McGuire looked confused, his eyebrows lowered, stretched his brow. ‘I don’t get you.’

‘What I’m saying is, Stevie, that’s how we need to think to catch this guy. He is fucking nuts. His thought processes aren’t the same as yours or mine. If we’re going to catch him we’re going to have to stop thinking like this is a normal murder investigation, because it clearly isn’t.’

McGuire pinched his cheeks, exhaled a heavy breath. ‘We need Joe Lorrimer in here as soon as.’

Brennan nodded, widened his eyes. His thoughts had already shifted. ‘I need to make a phone call.’ He walked towards his glassed-off office at the other end of the room; as he went inside he closed the door and drew down the blinds. It wasn’t exactly privacy but it was as close as he was going to get. The call he had to make was gnawing at him; he knew it wouldn’t be well received but there was no way of avoiding it. After all, he was still a father.

Ringing.

‘Hello.’

‘Joyce, it’s Rob.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. He let the fact that he was calling register, settle in his wife’s mind for a moment, but she didn’t bite. ‘We need to talk.’

A tut. ‘I don’t think so.’

Brennan felt himself gasp for air, he was full of mixed emotions. He didn’t want to go through this rigmarole with Joyce, their marriage had ended long ago and they both knew it. They had been inhabiting their house in Corstorphine like ghosts, barely encountering each other, rarely sharing words beyond the bare minimum to make their coexistence tolerable. He simply wanted out now, but that didn’t mean he wanted to face the recriminations, have his affair cast up, or say goodbye to his daughter.

‘There are certain formalities, Joyce.’

She was lighting a cigarette now, he could hear the lighter clicking. ‘I have a lawyer for that.’

Brennan didn’t rise to her gambit. ‘Good. That will make things easier.’

‘All you have to do is stay away.’

He couldn’t let that go. ‘If by that you mean not see my daughter, you’re mistaken.’

‘Do you think she wants to see you?’

Brennan’s gaze veered out of focus, but found nothing to alight upon in the middle distance. He felt slightly sick, what had Joyce said to her? Had she told her about the affair? The mounting tension constricted his vocal cords as he tried to speak again. ‘I swear Joyce if you’ve polluted her mind …’

‘What? Fucking what, Rob?’

‘I’ll fight any order …’

Her tone and pitch increased. There was no escaping the anger she directed at Brennan. ‘You destroyed this family … You’re no longer a part of it. You cannot do us any more harm.’

A number of replies queued on his lips, but he never got a chance to give voice to them; the line died. She’d hung up. Brennan put down the phone. The realisation of what had just happened seemed to make him numb; his impressions sank into his mind but none of them came close to anything so coherent as thought. The predominant truth he faced was that he had hurt Joyce; more than he thought possible. He knew it wasn’t hurt at the thought of losing him – he believed she no longer cared about him, or their marriage –
it
was the hurt of a wounded ego. Her husband had rejected her, in favour of another woman. She abhorred him for it and feared the ignominy. She felt too old now to start again, to find a new life partner and the thought burned her. Brennan knew he was the focus for the full brunt of her ire. In the days and weeks to come she would burn him in effigy; bottles of wine would be consumed with friends, or alone, and she would give vent to her spleen. He had ruined her life; Joyce’s outward misery now had an inward direction: she could dump the whole lot on him. And he knew she would.

Brennan rose, he tapped his shirt pocket, removed an Embassy Regal and his lighter. As he walked out of his office, McGuire was sitting at his desk; he stood above him, said, ‘I’ll be at the front door, shout me if anything happens.’

‘Unlikely, but OK.’

Brennan started out for the exit, got as far as the coffee machine, turned and pointed to McGuire’s shirt front, ‘Fix your tie, eh. We can at least look like we give a shit.’

He stomped towards the stairs; as he went, an angry energy seemed to seep from the tensed stock of his body. Things were not going well, and when that happened, he knew he became difficult to live with. He knew this, not just because other people had told him, but because he found it difficult to live with himself.

The soles of Brennan’s shoes slapped noisily on the stairs as he descended. By the window on the first landing he caught a chink of sunlight breaking through the clouds – it painted an irregular ribbon on the wall. For a moment he was gripped by its form and then the sound of familiar voices droned up from the lower staircases.

‘Leave him to me, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, Jim.’ It was the Chief Super. ‘There’s plenty to call into question from his file if needs be.’