Murder Mile (35 page)

Brennan stared at the back of the Chief Super’s head, ‘I’ll send in the paperwork.’

There was no reply.

As the DI raised himself from the chair, the dim scrape of the chair legs on the carpet tiles seemed to stir the atmosphere of the long office.

‘Oh. One more thing, Rob,’ the Chief Super turned, ‘where is Inspector Gallagher?’

Brennan had reached the door, held the handle in his hand; he released it, turned to face Benny. ‘Last I saw of him, he was at the scene in Straiton. He should be on his way in … I have instructed the team, those on the needs-to-know, to play dumb.’

‘Thank you, Rob. Send him downstairs when he appears … And let me know, please.’

‘Sir.’

Brennan reached for the handle, turned. As he walked out the door he spotted the Chief Super returning his gaze to the wide window.

The DI dipped his head towards Dee on the way out, ‘Thanks,’ he said.

In the hallway he took a deep breath, then removed his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He felt somehow unclean to have talked to the Chief Super about Gallagher – like he was a schoolboy telling tales. He wondered if Wullie would have approved, he wondered if he approved of himself. Brennan tramped towards the coffee machine and rested a hand on the fascia; he ferreted for coins in his pockets and slotted the amount required for a black coffee. As the machine spat and gurgled, he waited, silently staring at the slow drain of black liquid into the plastic cup. When the machine quietened, he watched the last drops of coffee escape and then the bubbles resting on the surface, first in the centre, and then drifting to the sides. He reached down and removed the cup, walked away.

On the stairs, Brennan was met by DS Stevie McGuire, ‘Ah, it’s yourself … Ready for round two with Henderson?’

Brennan raised his coffee cup to his lips, blew. He looked towards McGuire, turned and continued towards the interview rooms without uttering a word.

A few steps from the bottom of the staircase, McGuire spoke again, ‘Lou and Bri called in … Crawley’s home’s deserted.’

‘What do you mean, he’s fled?’

‘Well, it’s empty. There was no sign of him, but … Jim turned up.’

Brennan halted where he was. ‘Jim lobbed up to Crawley’s house?’

McGuire nodded, ‘Lou and Bri spotted him.’

Brennan scrunched a handful of hair from his fringe, ‘Christ Almighty … That means he knows we’re onto him. Where is he now?’

‘Lou and Bri are bringing him in.’

Brennan shook his head, ‘Right, cells. But you tell me when he’s in – and before Benny knows …’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on then, get onto the Brothers Grim, make sure they fucking-well know the score as well.’

As McGuire removed his mobile phone, Brennan proceeded down the corridor towards the interview rooms. When he entered,
Neil
Henderson was sitting in the facing seat, smiling to himself. Brennan placed his cup of coffee on the table and started to remove his jacket. As he hung it over the back of the chair, McGuire entered and nodded.

‘All done?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Henderson folded his arms, then just as quickly unfolded them and showed his palms to the officers. ‘Well, did you get it … The diary?’

Brennan picked up his coffee and took a sip; he winced a little, it was still too hot. He returned the cup to the table and removed a packet of Embassy Regal from his jacket. Henderson watched him as he moved, each turn followed by his twitching eyes.

‘How did you come to know about the diary, Hendy?’ said Brennan.

‘She showed me it, didn’t she.’ He smirked as he finished his sentence.

‘What just out of the blue … She tells you about Crawley.’

Henderson tapped on the table with a dirty fingernail. ‘No, well, not really … It was after the thing on the news, about the murder and that.’

‘Set her off did it?’

‘Yeah, did a bit.’

McGuire crossed his legs, looked over Henderson. ‘And so she turned to you as a sympathetic ear, is that right?’

‘Yeah, I was all she had.’

Brennan leaned in, removed a cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘You were all she had … Bit sad that, isn’t it? All she had was her pimp.’

Henderson brought his palm down on the table, ‘Look, am I getting out of here or what? I gave you the fucking diary, you know who you should be looking for.’

Brennan and McGuire exchanged brief glances. The DI took a long draw on his cigarette, watched the slow trail of blue
smoke
making its way towards Henderson as he exhaled. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to work like that, Hendy … You see, Crawley’s done a runner, and I want to know who tipped him off. I think you might know Crawley a bit better than you’re letting on.’

‘Bullshit … He’s a fucking beast.’

McGuire reached behind his seat, produced a blue folder and placed it on the table. Brennan opened the folder, turned a few pages. ‘You know what these are, Hendy?’

He shrugged, looked away.

‘Well, let me explain … They’re bank statements, Crawley’s to be precise, and they tell an interesting story, say they were emptied up to the maximum amounts a wee while ago …’

Henderson remained impassive.

Brennan continued, ‘Now when I spoke to a close friend of yours recently, Boaby Stevens that is, he told me you repaid a substantial part of your loan to him, and the amount matches the withdrawals from Crawley’s bank accounts …’

Henderson sat back, stared at the wall. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

Brennan smiled, ‘I don’t fucking need to, Hendy, you’re in enough shit as it is … Did I mention you’re in the frame for Angela’s death?’

‘That was fucking Crawley!’

Brennan shook his head, stubbed his cigarette. ‘The forensics team tell us a different story … Now, look, I’m going to be very generous to you, Hendy, so generous you’ll be thanking your lucky stars you ever met me. I’m going to ask you, nicely, to tell me all about your involvement with Crawley, from your first meeting to your last. I want to know how much money you took from him, how much more you were planning to take, I want to know what you told him about Angela and her diary and I want to know, most importantly, where the hell he is now.’

Henderson stood up, knocking over his chair. ‘Dream the fuck on!’ Brennan watched him walk to the end of the interview room and kick out at the wall. He turned away from the officers and walked towards the other end of the room, launching at the opposite
wall
with a fist. He put his hands up to his head and stomped from left to right, then lashed out again. He continued in this pattern until he looked back to Brennan and pointed, ‘Crawley’s the fucking beast!’

Brennan reclined in his chair, put his hands in his pockets. He watched Henderson pace a little more and then kick over the chair. ‘Pick it up, Hendy, sit yourself down and tell us what we want to know. You’re going nowhere from here except a cell … How long you go there for depends on what you tell us, so grow some fucking sense.’

Henderson stood still for a moment; he watched Brennan through wide staring eyes and then he took a few steps towards the upturned chair and righted it. He sat down. ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

Brennan nodded towards McGuire; the DS removed a cigarette from the pack and handed it to Henderson. As he placed the filter in his mouth, McGuire leaned over to light the tip.

Brennan spoke, ‘Now, Hendy, in your own time … And don’t leave anything out.’

Henderson’s hand shook as he brought the cigarette towards his mouth, ‘He knew what he’d done, knew I was onto him, and he was scared.’

‘How do you know he was scared?’ said Brennan.

Henderson lifted his head, ‘Because he went to the Links, pulled up Ange … He was shitting himself.’

‘But you told him he had nothing to fear, if he paid up, right?’ said McGuire.

Henderson turned his gaze, his voice was a slow trail of words. ‘Yeah … But he got all cocky, after he saw Ange.’

‘What do you mean, cocky?’

‘He’d put the shits up her, he thought she would be too frightened to tell anyone about him … That’s when he said he wasn’t going to pay up again, and I showed him the diary.’

Brennan removed his hands from his pockets, sat forward. ‘And what did he make of that, seeing his name in there?’

‘He was still acting cocky, trying to make out he didn’t care … But I knew he would. I knew he was a fucking beast, he was trash …’

‘But he had something you wanted didn’t he, Hendy? Money. And when that wasn’t getting coughed up easily that’s when you thought you had to up the ante a bit wasn’t it? … You killed Angela to scare him into giving you more money.’

Henderson had smoked the cigarette down to the filter tip. His fingers held the long trail of ash as he sat silently, unmoving. When the ash fell, landed on the floor, something sparked in him. Henderson’s eyes widened as he turned to face the officers, ‘It wasn’t like that, she attacked me with a knife.’

‘You struggled?’ said McGuire, ‘And then what?’

Henderson leaned forward, placed the empty filter tip on the table. ‘She cut me, there was a lot of blood and … I just snapped. It wasn’t until after that …’

Brennan pushed back the legs of his chair; the noise ricocheted off the walls of the interview room. He stood up and leaned on the edge of the table, ‘Hendy, I want you to think very carefully about your next answer.’ He reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘Did you tell Crawley about Ange’s death?’

Henderson looked towards Brennan’s hand, turned his eyes towards his arm and followed all the way to his shoulder, and then his face. ‘No. I-I was going to wait a bit …’

‘What do you mean wait a bit, until the word got out?’

‘I thought, y’know, after it was in the papers and that … He’d be easier to hit up.’

Brennan turned away from Henderson. He walked round behind the desk, sat down and closed the folder. He turned to McGuire, said, ‘Charge this arsehole.’

Chapter 46

DI ROB BRENNAN
stepped from the front door of the police station and removed a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. There was only one cigarette left in the box of Embassy Regal; Brennan placed the filter tip in his mouth and scrunched the empty container. He lit the cigarette and stood staring into the distance as the tobacco filled his lungs. He could see the roofs of tenements catching the last rays of a tarrying sun. There had been a spill of rain earlier in the day, the pot-holed car park held dark pools of water that reflected the last of the day’s light. It was cooling now, not just the temperature, but the sky’s colour too, the cobalt expanses greying from the edges towards the centre. The scene set Brennan’s pulse racing – time was ticking away. He knew what he needed to do before the sky turned from blue to black but he doubted whether he would be able to achieve it. There were too many uncertainties stacking up around him; too much he couldn’t control.

As he drew the cigarette towards his mouth once more, the DI thought of Angela Mickle and the other girls. He had spent plenty of time going over the deaths of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan but somehow he felt differently towards Angela. Her life had been ruined by what had happened in her past – Brennan recalled the entries she had made in her diary and wondered how the young
girl
who wrote them must have felt about the world and its new cruelties she was discovering. Brennan shook his head, took another drag on the cigarette and tried to regain his focus. He knew none of this was helping the investigation; was it helping him? He had always tried to compartmentalise his sympathies, store them away. It was a hindrance to have to feel like a normal human being at times like this; he wanted to be able to bring down the shutters, block out his emotions, but it was difficult when the victim was a young woman who had once been a young girl so much like his own daughter. How did these turns of fate transpire? he wondered. How did Angela Mickle go from one day being just another member of her school’s gymnastics team to the object of a predatory paedophile’s fantasy? Her fall from preyed-upon schoolgirl to preyed-upon prostitute looked like a long drop, but in reality – in her mind, he surmised – was probably no more than a matter of weeks. Angela Mickle had lost any grip she held on normality the day Crawley started to take an interest in her; when she met Neil Henderson, she lost everything else. He thought of the shabby flat the pair shared in Leith, the used condoms littering the floor, the dirty, stained mattress in the centre of the living room. They lived like animals, worse than animals. It struck Brennan that, perhaps, she was in a better place now – but he doubted it – it was a preprogrammed part of his brain lobbing out platitudes to make him feel better. One thing was for sure, wherever Angela Mickle was now, she was out of Crawley’s clutches, and as far away from Neil Henderson’s reach as could be.

Brennan scrunched his brows, flicked his cigarette into the car park. The amber tip fizzed as it came into contact with the wet tarmac. He watched the dim embers of the tobacco turn to grey as the white paper absorbed the moisture, and then a gust caught the cigarette butt and blew it out of sight. He felt the muscles stiffening in his shoulders as he braced against the sudden wind, his shirt sleeves billowing. He wanted to be away, somewhere else; he didn’t want to think about the case and the deaths of three young women who he had only got to know once they had been killed.
He
thought it was too much for one man to have to deal with and then it struck him how strange it was for himself to have such a thought. He had dealt with many brutal murders before, so what was it about this case that sickened him so much? Was it his age, the age of his daughter, the end of his marriage? The fact that he had found one of his own officers covering up important evidence? He resigned himself to never know the answer, but the fact that he no longer had the stomach for the work was something he knew he would have to face.

The station doors swung open; DS Stevie McGuire stood in the jamb for a moment then paced into the cold. He was holding a blue folder. ‘Thought I’d find you out here.’

Brennan nodded to the DS, ‘And you did.’