Murder Mile (16 page)

‘I thought you were here about that girl that got murdered.’

‘Lindsey Sloan.’

‘Yes, that’s her … Everyone’s talking about it at school.’

The DI felt himself shift uncomfortably on his chair, he was uneasy about discussing the case with his daughter; it didn’t seem right. He did, however, feel a pull towards the possibility that there might be something to be gained from her. All information, even gossip, had to be weighed up on a murder investigation. ‘And what are they saying?’

Sophie rolled her eyes again, she had her mother’s eyes, large and round. ‘Oh, just stuff … I don’t think anybody knew her, except the teachers, she was years older.’

The DI felt some relief that Sophie was distanced from the case, ‘I see.’

‘Yeah, but, everybody’s getting lifts to school and picked up … They’ll think that’s why you were there.’

Brennan knew the facts of the case and knew that parents, and the public in general, were liable to become irrational when a crime touched their lives. None of them seemed to comprehend that it is out there all the time – every single minute of every single day. ‘I think that’s a bit of an over-reaction, she wasn’t killed at school.’

Sophie had exhausted her attention span. ‘I’ve finished my coffee.’

‘Well, would you like another?’

She looked across to the counter, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Brennan put his hands around his cup, swirled the remains of his coffee. ‘Look, Sophie, the reason I came here was to tell you
that
everything’s going to be OK.’ She looked nonplussed. ‘What I mean is, just because your mum and I are splitting, doesn’t mean we won’t both be around for you.’

Her eyes darted from counter to window, then back to her cup. She lifted it, started to pour out the last dregs of liquid onto a paper napkin.

‘Sophie, do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. It’s important to me … And your mum.’

‘Can I go home now?’

Brennan put down his cup, waved to the door. ‘After you.’

Chapter 21

AS DI ROB BRENNAN
pulled into the Corstorphine street he once shared with his family he felt his emotions eddying inside him. At his side, his daughter stared wearily out the car window, barely covering her desire to be free of him and return to the lone sanctuary of her bedroom. She went there to block out reality, drowned out the world with music. He knew Joyce would be waiting for her to return, they hadn’t been long – just one quick coffee – but it would be enough to set her off. His wife had made her position clear, the trench had been dug at their daughter and Brennan had encroached on her territory. He watched as Sophie gnawed on her scalloped nails, she was oblivious to the coming changes in her life; perhaps it was for the best. Brennan envied her insouciance.

The DI brought the car to a halt, said, ‘Right, you’re home.’

Sophie smiled, ‘So we are.’ She leant forward to retrieve her bag from the floor. ‘Bye then.’

‘Look, love, if you need anything, even just to talk, then give me a call.’

She nodded, gripped her bag. ‘Mum’s waiting.’

Joyce stood at the doorway with arms akimbo; Brennan knew it was a stance reserved for him. He made to wave, got as far as raising his hand from the steering wheel as his wife turned away, moved inside the house.

‘Remember, call anytime. OK?’

‘Bye, Dad.’

He engaged the clutch, found first gear and pulled out. At Shandwick Place the city streets filled with a slow, somnambulant trail of office drones. They slopped down the pavement in silent procession towards home and freedom from the workaday world. Brennan knew life was toil – endless hours given over to mundanity and minutiae. He knew his life was; the job wasn’t all high-speed car chases and adrenaline rushes like Hollywood portrayed.

From an early age the importance of work – the concept, the philosophy – and the consequences of going without work had been drilled into Brennan like a Calvinist dirge. His father had known no better – he had lived all his days to slave away, save the pennies and stay in work. There was no greater achievement on Earth to him. He had longed for Brennan to go into the family firm, but his eldest son had resisted, left that honour to his brother. Andy had resented him for it and he wondered if he had made another choice how different things would have been between them.

As he thought of his father, he knew he was lost now in retirement. Leisure time was wasted on him; the subtle joys of art, music, literature, of a film or even sport didn’t interest him. Work, toil had been his all and any suggestion of an alternative to that assumption was treated with scorn, contempt. Brennan knew there was more to life. There was a whole other world out there that had been denied to him and that he wanted to explore. He had adopted his father’s values at an early stage and – despite his antipathy to them – made them his values. He’d simply assumed so many of those formative influences that it was only now with age and experience that he could see where he went wrong.

Brennan now wondered if he really wanted to continue in life as a policeman. Had it only been a subconscious act of rebellion? A move to disturb his father, and yet at once conform to his code of ethics? It was his age, and awareness, that made him think these thoughts. He knew at its root was his unhappiness: he was seeking an explanation for it. Was there one? Were there many?
Brennan
knew the cards were stacked against him – there was no alternative really. Had he rejected his father’s doctrine and taken another path, surely he would have arrived at the same point. For people like him, life was thrown at you in clumps; it was about taking the small knocks in the hope of avoiding the bigger ones. Lassitude and draining of the soul as though it were a weeping sore were the trade off his father taught him you paid against penury and ignominy. You took the repetition day after day, faced it like a man, because it’s what you are conditioned to do. When your senses, your intellect rebelled, you quashed them with alcohol, drugs, sugary foods or created distractions with football, boxing or car-crash television. In time, it became a routine, a coping mechanism. He knew the urges and wants remained, but the fight for them was lost so long ago that they were conceded without struggle.

Brennan knew he wasn’t alone in feeling this way. It was the human condition – a malady specific to this point in the evolution of the race. We were nothing more than a brooding, amorphous mass of discontent. The streets ran to overflowing with evidence of it and that was why Brennan knew he had no alternative but to carry on, day in and day out. Much as he despised his station, it had grown to define him; perhaps there was nothing else to him now.

The DI had toyed with the idea of dropping into the office to check on the progress of the squad but dismissed the notion outright; if there had been any developments they would have called. He knew he headed back to a grim and empty bedsit but it suited him; he was in no mood for company. A loud siren wailed, cutting through the hum of traffic and clatter of pedestrians as Brennan pulled into Leith Walk. He dropped gears, took the central reservation and snaked back towards Montgomery Street. A lone drunk was yawing from side to side in the road with a red and white striped carrier in his hand; Brennan recognised the bag as coming from the off-licence. As he parked up he kept an eye on the man as he ranted and roared his way down the street. The chip shop
was
open and Brennan bought a haggis supper to avoid a trip to the supermarket, then headed for home.

Black bin bags were stacked on the street outside his front door, a dark lacustral ooze seeped from them towards the gutter; he stepped over and put his key in the lock. Inside the stairwell smelled damp, a gritty silt crunched under his shoes as he climbed the stairs. Once inside his flat, Brennan found the place in semi-darkness; the day was limping wearily into night. He placed his dinner on the table, removed his coat, and poured himself a large Macallan. As he begun to pick at the chips in their greasy wrapper, his phone began to ring, he wiped his fingers on the paper tray, reached for his mobile.

‘Brennan.’

It was DS Stevie McGuire. ‘Hello, sir … Was wondering if you were coming back in today?’

Brennan set him straight. ‘Not without a bloody good reason.’

‘Right, it’s just there was something I wanted to set the record straight about.’

The DI felt a gravid pause settle between them on the line. He knew at once what McGuire was referring to but decided it was for him to open the bidding; he pushed away his haggis supper, said, ‘Now what would that be, Stevie?’

‘You were right about … Elaine.’

‘WPC Docherty … I see.’ Brennan was torn between blasting McGuire for his stupidity, or blasting him for lying to him. In the end he decided to do neither.

McGuire spoke, ‘I shouldn’t have deceived you. That was wrong, you played me straight and I fucked up.’

He sounded sorry, but Brennan was unsure if he had fully learned his lesson. ‘Stevie, don’t you ever fucking lie to me again, even a pissy wee white lie, do you get me?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice had lowered to a whisper. ‘Where will this … go?’

Brennan knew what he was asking, and it wasn’t the same as what he wanted to know. The DI would be within his rights to
drop
McGuire from the murder squad; at the very least he had been tested on his loyalty, and found wanting. It was not conducive to a solid working relationship. He edged forward on his chair, the floorboards creaked beneath him. ‘How would you like me to answer that question, Stevie?’

A pause.

‘Sir?’

‘What I mean is, should I laugh it off … play it like we’re all boys together?’

‘Well, I don’t want to …’

‘Or should I change the habits of a lifetime and play it by the book; now what would that entail I wonder. To be honest with you Stevie, I don’t fucking know what to do. Because after an initially shaky start it has to be said, until today I thought I had your undivided loyalty.’

The DS’s voice rose now. ‘Rob, I mean
sir
, you do. You know you have my loyalty. I made a mistake, I’ve apologised.’

Brennan let a gap of static extend on the line, said, ‘How serious is it, with you and WPC Docherty?’

Another pause, a huff. ‘I’d be compounding the error if I said it wasn’t serious, boss.’

Brennan ran his fingers through his hair, he was grateful for McGuire’s honesty but the reality of his statement hit like a hammer blow. He had put WPC Docherty on undercover with Collins and he didn’t want to lose McGuire either, especially with Jim Gallagher unsettling the squad. ‘Jesus Christ, Stevie couldn’t you keep it in your fucking pants?’ his voice rose like a howitzer. ‘This is all we fucking need.’

‘Sir, I’ll stand down if …’

‘Shut it, Stevie. Leave the thinking to me, eh … Be in early tomorrow morning, we have things to discuss.’

He hung up.

Chapter 22

NEIL HENDERSON STARED
across the bare boards of the grimy Leith flat he shared with Angela Mickle towards the front door and drummed fingers on the tabletop. He had spent the last day and night dreading a knock. He knew he had just about run out of time to repay Boaby Stevens and one of his boys would be around again soon. The next visit would mean a serious beating, breaking bones, something visible so others got the message that you didn’t miss payments to Shaky. Henderson felt tense, nervy. As a key turned in the lock he sat bolt upright; it was Angela. She staggered through the front door after her night on the Links. He watched as she leaned herself against the wall, slipped off her heels and removed her jacket. She looked exhausted, but at the same time, she looked too wrecked to even know it. She was out of it, as usual.

Angela had collected a dark bruise on her neckline; Henderson thought to ask her about it but then realised he didn’t care enough to bother. He watched as she limped a few steps to the stain-patched grey mattress and threw herself down, he saw the soles of her feet were dirty and he wondered when she had last washed. The thought jarred in his mind; her shelf-life on the Links was just about up. No one was going to pay for a filthy junky, he thought. It was time for him to start looking for a new source of income.

Henderson strolled over to where Angela had flung herself and now lay semi-comatose on her stomach. He kicked at her foot, ‘Hey, how much did you make?’

She waved a vague hand towards her jacket that lay rumpled on the floor beside her shoes. Henderson followed her actions, then walked towards the bundle and picked it up, rifled the pockets. ‘This it?’ He removed two handfuls of tens and fives, threw down the jacket; some coins and condoms spilled on the floorboards. He took the money with him to the other side of the room; by the window he sat down on the broken wicker chair and started to count out the cash. It was less than ninety pounds.

Henderson shook his head, he felt a burning sensation behind his eyes, not quite a pain, more of a hot flash. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, girl … Not even a ton? What the fuck have you been doing all night?’

She flapped a hand over her head, she was out of it. Gone. He knew it would be a few hours before he got any sense out of her. She had been out on the Links, got just enough money to shoot up and then grabbed a couple of quick punters to have a few quid to hand over, make it look like she’d been busy. She was suiting herself, not him. Her priority was the smack and he wasn’t even in her sights after that had been fired up. Henderson felt the hot flash behind his eye burn deeper into his head, his jaw gripped tightly. He was going to get something out of her though, something that he wanted, even if it meant beating it out of her. He rose again, hitched up his trousers and removed his belt. He held the buckle in his hand and began to wrap the strap around his fingers, once, twice, until it was good and tight. He looked at the belt; it was thick leather; he smiled to himself then raised it high above his head: as he brought it down heavily upon the table the loud whack of its contact made Angela sit up.

‘What you doing, Hendy?’