Murder Mile (31 page)

Brennan turned the car into the access road, ‘Oh I’ve got many a doubt about you, Jim … Maybe you can clear just one up for me.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Right from the start, I’ve warned you off this case,
my
case, there’s no way you could have been unaware that you weren’t welcome. Yet, you persisted, and even after a spectacular downfall, you’re still here. Why?’

Gallagher fell silent, for a moment he stared out into the fields and then he returned his gaze to Brennan. ‘You don’t get it do you?’

‘Get what, Jim?’

‘That you’re not the only one who cares about the job.’

‘Oh, I know I’m not. But I’ll tell you what else I know: you’re not one of the ones who gives two shits about this job, Jim. So don’t be playing that old tune and expecting me to put coins in your cup.’

Gallagher smirked, exhaled a long breath and turned back to the fields.

Brennan glanced at him, stored away his expression. The doubts he harboured about Jim Gallagher’s interest in the case remained intact as he pulled up to the crime scene fronted by two uniformed officers.

Brennan felt the wet beneath the wheels of the car as he eased the vehicle into the verge. He motioned Gallagher to get out before he blocked his door with a dry-stone dyke. As he left the Passatt, Brennan started to fasten his coat; he scanned the fields for members
of
the force, alighted on the sight of DS Stevie McGuire running towards him.

‘All right, boss,’ McGuire was breathless.

‘Stevie … What’s the SP?’

‘Well, you’re not going to like this.’

Brennan nodded, agreed with him inwardly. ‘Try me anyway.’

McGuire brought himself up to the gate that separated the field he stood in from the road; he leaned his arms over the top rung and eyed the DI directly. ‘It’s a young girl, maybe early twenties …’

‘We got a cause of death?’

‘There’s bruising to the neck and puncture wounds to the torso.’

Brennan eased himself over the gate, jumped down into the field and started to walk towards the small crowd of officers. ‘Sounds familiar.’

McGuire raced after him, he was panting again as he spoke. ‘Sir, that’s not all that’s familiar … There’s the eye gouging and the genital mutilation as well. Boss, this is identical to the other cases; our man’s struck again.’

Chapter 41

DI ROB BRENNAN
took the blue coverings the SOCO handed out and slotted them over his shoes; he was already gloved as he turned the flap on the white tent and proceeded towards the murder scene. Jim Gallagher had reached the corpse before him, was hunched over staring at the victim, his hand pressed firm to his mouth. When he saw him, Brennan halted for a moment, placed an arm in front of DS McGuire and raised a finger to his mouth. As Brennan observed the older inspector at work he felt suddenly suffused with a new opinion of the man.

Brennan turned to McGuire, said, ‘See that?’

‘Oh, I saw it.’

‘He’s rattled, Stevie.’

‘Certainly looks it.’

‘Why though?’

McGuire turned to Brennan, spoke, ‘Aren’t you, boss?’

Brennan thinned his eyes, ‘Not like that I’m not, no.’ He lowered his arm, walked forward. As the detectives reached the corpse, Gallagher rose and placed his hands in his pockets. His complexion was pale, pasty. A line of sweat formed on his top lip as he looked at his colleagues.

‘Everything OK, Jim?’ said Brennan.

He paused, a thought seemed to spark in his mind; his countenance altered. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

Brennan rounded Gallagher, crouched low on his haunches and stared at the young girl lying on her back in the wet field. Her neck was heavily bruised, he identified the finger marks as being consistent with strangulation. Her dyed blonde hair had been soaked in the rain and her arms were splayed behind her, one beneath her torso, one to the side, as if she had been dumped. He ran his gaze head to toe; she was wearing only one shoe, a black high-heeled shoe, and there was more but older bruising on her knees. Above her thin white thighs was a covering of blood that matched the hacking scars on her pubis and extended over her stomach and the exposed parts of her thorax. Half of the girl’s face was submerged in the soggy earth, the other half was bruised and blackened; some blood from a head wound ran from her hairline down her wide white cheekbones. As Brennan stared at her features he felt she looked young, and she looked scared.

‘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 …’