Murder Mile (24 page)

She had hung up.

The memory of the night he had met Joyce had grown opaque now. There had been a party, one of the weekly crop of them that had sprung up that long summer of his early twenties. At some point they had got chatting – he seemed to think it was in the kitchen, but that might have been maturity rearranging memory for conveni-ence sake; hadn’t all his party appearances convened in the kitchen? She wore her hair up and had a beautiful, slender neck that he had longed to kiss, that much was credible fact. He stored the image of her like a daguerreotype and brought it out when he had mourned its passing. Joyce was no longer the clubbable, girly party-goer, was no longer smooth skinned or supple necked. He wasn’t so superficial a man as to be swayed by her physical diminution – what plagued Brennan was the boy who had once been stripped of all reason, all sense, by the sight of a pretty girl. What he saw now was the vision of Joyce laid bare – the subcutaneous woman – and that was something he had failed to notice on their early encounters.

There was a harshness in Joyce, not a meanness of spirit exactly but a nagging, dispiriting malaise at the singular unfairness of life. He had wondered – had it always been there, his wife’s bitterness? Or, had it been a late surfacing – perhaps even brought about by a sense of lack at their own station in life, or, indeed, her own reassessment of her poor early judgement. But he dismissed this. That was Brennan the detective doing his due diligence; Joyce’s underlying angst, her enmity, had always been there. The markers were not hard to find. He could recall cutting, carping comments directed at their social circle that had irritated him at first. They sprouted in sparse patches like paving weeds – unsightly, certainly unwelcome, but always overlooked. As her opinions became entrenched, became a dogma she preached, the weeds proliferated. There was no point in him passing his own remarks – lobbing rejoinders – he had admitted early on he couldn’t compete. His spleen wasn’t strong enough for the counter-attack, and when attacked – when faced with her insensitivity – the issue itself became
an
irrelevance, bawled out by the censure of a caterwauling harpy. The weed-skirted edges of their existence had soon been supplanted by rainforests of animosity – dark and impenetrable lands that swallowed up even the strongest of constitutions.

When he thought about it, about Joyce and the choice he had made to marry her, Brennan was perplexed now. He had seen the signs – even as an inexperienced, naïve young man – and yet he’d avowed himself to her. He had willingly signed up for a life of misery and discontent, wilfully ignorant of the roaring sirens warning him to get out of the way. Should he regret it now? Should he regret any of his erroneous, hasty, foolhardy decisions taken in his youth? Yes, he thought – but also – no. He could mourn the lost lives he may have lived. The happy, fulfilled, sun-lit, soft-focused days that played on the screen of his mind like ruddy-cheeked children were phantoms. They no more existed in reality than wishes. He was where he was and nothing could change that. Not now. Decoupling from Joyce had been the rational thing to do but – he knew in retrospect – rational thought was not the proclivity of a young man.

Brennan looked out to the grey–purple wash of the sky, and sighed. He reached for the door handle, opened the car and stepped out; some fragments of red tail-light glass crushed under his shoes as he walked to the edge of the road and lit a cigarette. A loud motorbike roared past, dragging his attention back to the present.

He cursed out, ‘Fucking hell.’

Brennan inhaled deep on the cigarette; at first his breathing felt constricted but then the anodyne rush of nicotine worked its way into his lungs. He exhaled slowly through his nostrils, looked towards the burning tip of the cigarette. He knew his mind was cartwheeling; was it the job? His life? He ran a hand through his hair and sighed as he stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette and returned to the car. Inside he sat with the door open for a bit, his head leaning back. He knew he needed to refocus, he needed to get his mind on the job, the case; he had let far too many infinitesimal distractions take him from his aim lately. He sat forward,
rested
his brow on the rim of the steering wheel for a moment; a damp patch stared back at him as he withdrew it. What was going on? What was happening to him? Brennan had never questioned his career choice before, he had never felt the weariness that now settled on him. He wondered where this uncertainty, this questioning of his lot had come from, and, where was it leading? The answer to the last part of the question scalded him; he knew there was no place on the force for someone who was conflicted like him, the job required more. But how could he give it his full attention when his life was imploding?

A chill wind blew down the wide sweep of the street. Brennan watched it carry an empty take-away carton with it and closed the car door. A sneer rose on his face as he reached for his mobile phone and brought up the contacts. He scanned the names, found what he was looking for and hoped might be a solution of sorts: Wullie Stuart – he pressed ‘call’.

Ringing.

Brennan cleared his throat.

Wullie answered on the fourth ring, ‘Hello.’

‘Hello, auld fella,’ said Rob; his voice sounded lyrical.

‘Rob Brennan … Haven’t heard from you for donkey’s.’

His conscience pricked, ‘Well, sorry about that … How are you keeping?’

Wullie’s voice dropped. ‘Aye not bad. And you? How’s the job?’

Brennan steered the conversation back to where he wanted it to be, ‘Well, there’s time enough to get round to that, I was wondering if I could take you for a pint?’

‘A pint … Christ Almighty, Rob … you must be in some bother if you’re after a pint with me!’

Chapter 33

BRENNAN DREW UP
outside the Sloans’ house, stilled the car’s engine. He sat for a brief moment, then yanked on the handbrake and reached for the door handle. His thoughts were whirring as he stepped onto the road. The long straight street was silent, save for occasional stirrings of dulcet birdsong in the chill air. He looked up to the whitewashed sky, caught no sight of the culprits and headed for the kerb. Brennan felt conscious of himself, his role, and what he was there to do as he paced forward, heavy-footing the soles of his shoes on the tarmac. He didn’t want to bring any more grief to the household, he knew there was already plenty there. He remembered his last visit and the way Mrs Sloan had looked: she was wrecked with loss. How could she be anything else? She had mentioned Sophie when she came into the station and Brennan felt her deep hurt at the sounding of his daughter’s name; she had lost her own daughter and the thought burned him. He didn’t know how any mother or father moved on from the loss of a child. To see people destroyed by the actions of others was the hardest part of his job; he had seen too much of it and felt the past visions were accumulating inside him like a cancer. Where was the good in this world? he wondered. Where was the happiness? Where was
his
happiness? He knew it had been there once, when he was a boy – when he was growing up, with Andy – but it all seemed so long
ago
now, another world away. Did life have to be like this? he thought. Did moments of happiness have to be stored away, brought out and imbibed like a drug in times of grim despair? He didn’t want to think his best days were already behind him, but the distance between him and his solid memories of happiness seemed to be growing every day and the job only added to the mileage.

The Sloans’ gate was secured with an iron hasp; Brennan released it and moved onto the garden path. His steps felt heavy on the paving stones; made too much noise. The home looked well kept, tidy: the windows had been washed recently and the path swept. The grass could have taken another cut – blades overhung the lawn’s edge – but the recent rain had kept the mower away. He looked up and down the height of the building, stalled for a second or two as he watched the curtains for movement, then he steadied himself before the door. As he reached forward, rung the doorbell, the sound of a dog barking began inside; it seemed to echo from the other end of the house, through the building, and then a small white blur scratched at the frosted glass of the door.

Brennan stood square-footed on the path, brushed down the shoulders of his overcoat as he watched a figure appear behind the glass. It swayed a little, seemed to steady itself, and then the DI heard the sound of someone reaching for the lock. The door’s hinges squealed as Mr Sloan pressed his head through the narrow gap between door and jamb. His wiry grey hair sat low on his brow as he reached a thin hand towards the wall and leaned his body-weight there, ‘It’s you … Hello.’

Brennan felt an uneasy doubt seep into his mind; he had started out on the road to Pilrig with a bolt of anger turning in his gut following the
News
article. He knew he couldn’t blame the Sloans for that, they had no idea what they were doing, they were hurting and reaching out for something to relieve the pain. As Brennan looked at Mr Sloan – stooped and beaten before him – he felt his pulse still. He didn’t feel welcome there, but how could he? He was the public face of a murder investigation – their daughter’s murder. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr Sloan …’

The man interrupted, widened the door and stepped back. He looked worn, seemed to have lost so much weight that his shoulders poked through his cardigan. ‘No, it’s quite all right …’ Mr Sloan bowed, grabbed the little white dog’s collar, ‘Will you come in?’

As Brennan crossed the step, Mr Sloan released the dog; it ran into the living room in a mood of high excitement that seemed wholly out of place to Brennan. He halted in the hall and waited as Mr Sloan closed the door behind him. The dog returned with a fat tongue lolling from the side of its jaws.

Mr Sloan’s voice came softly as he walked, ‘Has there been any … developments?’ He seemed to drag out the last word, as if it pained him to say it.

Brennan stifled an urge to walk back to the door he had just come through; there had indeed been developments, only not the type he had been hoping for. He wanted to be able to tell the Sloans he had found their daughter’s murderer, that he had the killer in custody and ready to face the full force of the courts. He knew this wasn’t the case, however. As he looked at Mr Sloan’s dark-ringed eyes he understood he was holding out a forlorn hope. Brennan motioned a hand towards the open living-room door, ‘Can we sit down, please?’

Mr Sloan stood silently in the hallway. His face lay still as he eyed the DI quizzically for a moment, then his whole body sprang to life. ‘Of course, yes.’ He pointed with his open palm, ‘Make your way through.’

In the living room Mrs Sloan sat straight backed on the edge of the sofa, her knees were held tight together, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She nodded to Brennan, then tucked a handkerchief in the cuff of her cardigan. Her hair was mussed, she pressed the sides of it with her hand as she spoke, ‘Would you like some tea … coffee maybe?’

Brennan stood before her, smiled and shook his head.

Mr Sloan walked into the room, paced the carpet towards the sofa and sat himself down beside his wife, ‘Please take a seat, Inspector.’

Mrs Sloan watched as Brennan turned his head, she seemed to predict his next movement and rose quickly; she removed a copy of the
News
from the chair next to the window and placed it on a low-slung side table.

Brennan fanned the tails of his overcoat behind him as he lowered himself onto the chair, his hand brushed the newspaper as he and Mrs Sloan sat down. ‘Actually, my visit’s not unrelated to this.’

The couple looked blankly at him; Mr Sloan was first to speak, his voice rising with a note of optimism, ‘Oh, really?’ His tone suggested he was unaware that talking to the press would have any impact on the investigation other than a positive one.

Brennan crossed his legs, he felt his movements being scrutinised. His shoe, sitting stiff against his ankle, suddenly reminded him it should have been polished some days ago. He lowered his leg again, said, ‘We had hoped to put the media to use on the case in due course …’ his words sounded too formal to him, they verged on corporate-speak, but how did you find the right words to address the parents of a recently murdered young girl? There was nothing he could say that was going to make a difference now, there were no words that could mend what had happened to Lindsey Sloan and the aftermath her family was now dealing with. If there were words, any he could say, he would have uttered them. Brennan forced himself to continue, he knew he had to. He couldn’t show the Sloans that he was anything less than a professional – they needed to know that someone was there for them, on their side; someone who would right the wrong. ‘I thought I should warn you that there will likely be a substantial amount of interest in this case now.’

Mrs Sloan looked at her husband, all the light seemed to have faded from her eyes, her voice droned, ‘What’s he saying, Davie?’

Her husband shrugged, his face was immobile as he turned back to the DI, then he drew a solitary breath and his thin lips began to move, ‘Has there been some development you’re not telling us about?’

Brennan felt the rhythm of his heart change as he looked at the
couple;
he had started out with the idea of persuading the Sloans to appear in a televised appeal for witnesses but that plan seemed to have been waylaid the moment he stepped inside the door. He needed to give them something, they looked at him with pleading in their eyes; these people wanted someone to make sense of what had happened, to bring them back to a life with some humanity in it. Brennan edged forward on his chair, pressed his fingers together in a dome above his thighs. His breathing thinned as he prepared to speak, ‘Look, I really don’t want to alarm you …’ he smoothed the corners of his mouth with his finger and thumb, ‘But we believe Lindsey’s murder may be related to another case which is very similar.’

Mr Sloan’s dark eyes sunk in his head, he parted his thin lips again and stared at Brennan for a moment. His wife spoke his name but he didn’t seem to register it, then he suddenly tilted his gaze towards her. Mr Sloan took his wife’s hand, she settled her head on his shoulder, said, ‘Not another lassie, Davie … Not another one.’