Truth Lies Bleeding (17 page)
Read Truth Lies Bleeding Online
Authors: Tony Black
DC Stevie McGuire rose as the minister and his wife came into the foyer. They had been in the dining room but looked as if they might have just walked from a funeral service. Brennan eyed them cautiously; he could see what McGuire meant at once – they were queer fish. Their faces seemed expressionless, as though they spent their lives rationalising their every move. Even their clothes – deeply conservative brogues and tweeds – looked to be from another era. They unnerved Brennan. He stood up, approached them.
McGuire spoke first: ‘Hello, Minister, Mrs Donald.’ He nodded and extended a weak hand. Formalities over, he turned. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Brennan.’
‘Hello,’ he said.
The minister replied, ‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘I hope I’m not intruding, but I’d like to offer my respects.’
A nod; the slightest of turns showed on the minister’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’
Brennan continued, ‘If it’s convenient, I’d like to ask you one or two questions.’
The minister looked at his wife. She seemed horrified at the suggestion, her eyes moistening and several shades of colour draining from her cheeks. He replied, but seemed to be speaking to his wife: ‘Well, I suppose it’s quite necessary . . . In the situation.’
Brennan stayed quiet, watched them both for reactions, then, ‘It might be best to go to your room, if you don’t object.’
Mrs Donald walked away, headed for the lift. The minister spoke: ‘Yes. That would be fine.’ He watched his wife at the other side of the foyer, said, ‘You will have to excuse my wife, officers, I’m afraid she is in a state of some shock.’
‘I understand,’ said Brennan. He waved a hand towards the lift. The doors pinged and Mrs Donald walked in.
The room was surprisingly large. Part of the original building was Victorian and they had struck lucky with bay windows and high ceilings. The bed had already been made and stood at the far end of the room, tucked beside a writing desk decked out in hotel stationery and leaflets for all the usual Edinburgh tourist attractions – zoo, castle, palace.
Brennan watched the minister point to the chairs in the window. ‘Please, take a seat, gentlemen.’
As Brennan and McGuire sat themselves down in the window’s lee, the minister and his wife stationed themselves on the edge of the bed. The minister took his wife’s hand. They looked like a very old oil painting as they sat before the officers. Brennan glanced out the window as the pair shared a brief moment of reassurance; there was a dull sun breaking through the clouds.
‘I know this will be very difficult for you,’ said Brennan, ‘but I hope you understand we need to move as quickly as possible to build a picture of what happened to Carly.’
The couple seemed to grip each other tighter. ‘Yes, we understand,’ said the minister.
Brennan realised he had not heard a single word from the minister’s wife yet. ‘If I can begin by asking you a little bit about your daughter.’
The pair nodded.
‘Can you tell me when you became aware Carly had left home?’
‘It was a Sunday, the twenty-fourth,’ said the minister. ‘I remember because I was at the second morning service when Frieda alerted me.’
Brennan looked to the quiet woman. ‘You discovered she had gone?’
A nod; she deferred to her husband.
‘There was a note, of sorts. Her room was empty.’
‘Do you have the note?’ said McGuire.
‘I’m afraid not – it was very brief. No more than a goodbye really.’
‘And there was no subsequent contact with her, after the twenty-fourth?’
‘No, none.’
Brennan let the pair settle again, continued: ‘Did she give any indication as to why she was leaving, or where she was going?’
‘No.’
The information Brennan wanted was not forthcoming. ‘Why do you think she chose Edinburgh?’ he said.
‘I have no idea. She knows . . . knew . . . not a soul here.’
Mrs Donald seemed to be getting tired of the questions – she put down her husband’s hand and stood up beside the writing desk, resting a finger on top and staring out over their heads to the sky.
‘It would be best if I could get both your opinions,’ said Brennan.
‘Why would that be?’ said Mrs Donald. It was the first time Brennan had heard her speak and he was surprised by the calm in her voice. It was as if she’d decided the way forward was to block it all out. ‘Nothing’s going to bring her back now, is it? This is all pointless.’
Brennan stood up, indicated the edge of the bed where she had been sitting. ‘Please, Mrs Donald . . .’ He never got to finish his sentence – the minister turned and nodded and his wife returned to her seated position.
‘Was there any upset in the home, or school, at the time of Carly’s departure?’ said Brennan.
Head shakes in unison: ‘No, none.’
Brennan was tiring of the staccato answers. As he eyed the couple he tipped some grit in his voice: ‘Nothing at all?’
The minister answered brusquely, ‘Nothing.’
‘It seems very unusual that Carly would be so happy at home and then just leave, don’t you think?’
There was no answer from either of them. They held firm before the officers.
Brennan let the silence stretch out, watched their faces, then, ‘You don’t think that’s unusual, Minister?’
‘I thought that was a rhetorical question.’ He seemed to have grown irritable, his tone testy now.
‘I’d like an answer if you have one.’
‘Then no. I don’t think it was unusual.’ He blurted his words – his breath had shortened; he finished on a sigh.
‘Why would that be?’ Brennan watched Mrs Donald turn from her husband and raise a hand to her mouth.
‘She was a very headstrong child at times . . . She could be wilful when she wanted.’
‘In what ways?’
The minister rose from the bed. ‘Inspector, is this really necessary? I don’t see how this is helping us. My wife is very distressed.’
Brennan looked at Mrs Donald. She lowered her hand, placed it within her husband’s – he brushed it aside and sat down again. Brennan took this as his cue to continue: ‘Did your daughter . . . Had she made any enemies, had a row at school or something of that nature?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So it’s possible?’
‘I suppose so, yes . . . I didn’t follow her around every minute of the day.’
The minister’s abruptness lit a fuse in Brennan. He had reached the limit of his patience and thought it was time to reveal the fact. He turned to McGuire, shook his head, then rose and made for the door. As he looked back he spoke: ‘I’m going to need a full list of everyone that Carly had contact with in the weeks and months leading up to her death – friends, family, teachers, boyfriends. Everyone. I’d like you to compile that before you leave the city.’
The minister and his wife followed Brennan’s actions as he buttoned his jacket.
The detective continued, ‘I’ll also need full access to Carly’s personal effects, her room, diaries, computer, everything.’ He paused. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation here . . . I don’t want to have to go through this with the parents of another child any time soon.’
As the DI exited, McGuire followed at his heels.
The officers got as far as the foyer before Brennan spoke. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘Boss?’
‘Queer all right. It’s what’s at the back of it that worries me.’
‘You think they’re hiding something?’
Brennan glared at him. ‘I’d bet money on it.’
As he turned for the car park, Brennan’s phone rang. He answered straight away: ‘Yes.’
It was Galloway. ‘There’s been some developments.’
‘Go on.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the hotel . . . I’ve just interviewed the parents.’
‘Good. You’ll want to bring them in now.’
Brennan swapped the phone to his other ear. ‘Come again?’
‘We just got the full pathology report in. The girl had given birth.’
‘
What
?’ Brennan’s thoughts seized. He felt his breath shortening.
What
?’ Brennan’s thoughts seized. He felt his breath shortening.
‘Carly Donald had a child, and we’re talking about a very young child at that . . . Our victim had not long ago had a baby.’
Chapter 22
MELANIE McARDLE SANK INTO THE heavily padded white sofa. There was a slight buzzing in her head, but not enough. She reached for the Beaujolais bottle and tipped some more into her glass. The bottle’s rim chinked on its lip and she giggled. ‘C’mon, Mel . . . Keep the party clean!’ Her giggles descended into full-on laughter as she made another attempt to fill her glass. Some liquid escaped and fell on her chest, ran down into the lacy bodice she wore beneath her dressing gown. Melanie laughed harder now, sat up.
‘Jesus Christ, doll . . .’
As she wiped away the wine, wrung out the edge of her cream-silk sleeve with her fingertips, Melanie’s laughter subsided. It was another item of clothing ruined; some wine had splattered onto the sofa too. ‘Oh fucking hell.’ She put down the glass, rubbed at the stains with her hands. It made no difference – only pressed the redness deeper into the fabric. Devlin would go mad. He would be home soon and see the state of the place, the state of her, and go mad. Melanie slumped onto her knees, lowered her head. He hadn’t hit her for weeks, since the hospital. When she came back with her face stitched he’d said that was it, no more. He’d said sorry – even looked apologetic – and she’d believed him, but that seemed like a long time ago now.
Melanie shook herself, pulled a foot under her. Her head spun a little – she liked it, had another giggle to herself. She dragged her other foot forward, steadied her arms on the front of the sofa and pushed herself up. It wasn’t so hard to stand after all. She rested a hand on her hip and pointed the other to the ceiling in a victory salute. ‘C’mon, girl, you can do it!’
As Melanie twisted, her foot caught the glass of Beaujolais resting on the floor and the contents flew into the air. They seemed to hang there for a moment as she watched the liquid escape, then the light caught the wetness and the scene became real again. When the wine landed there was an almost imperceptible splashing noise, and a three-foot red streak was etched in the pale carpet.
‘No. No. No.’ Melanie brought her hands to her head, scrunched her eyes. The image was still there when she opened them, however. She cried out, ‘No. God . . .’ She flopped to her knees again, began rubbing with the sleeve of her dressing gown, but the stain only, spread further into the fabric. As Melanie rubbed, she felt her wrists ache, her arms grow tired. She could feel the pressure on her knees as the carpet burned into the skin. Devlin was coming home soon. He would in all certainty go mental.
‘Oh Jesus, please no.’
As she rubbed harder she felt her head spinning faster. She kept up the movement for a full minute, then slumped, exhausted. The carpet looked worse, far worse than when she had begun. She had managed to ruin the sofa and now the carpet. Her bodice was stained and the sleeves of her dressing gown were blackened. Melanie reached out for the bottle and raised it to her mouth. She slugged deep. The wine spilled from the tip of the bottle and overran her lips, dribbling down her front. She chugged harder, downed the contents as quickly as she could. If the Deil was coming to beat her senseless, she would get there before him. She finished off the wine and felt her head swim in response. She liked that feeling, the dislocated swirl that said nothing could come between you and true happiness. She knew it was an illusion, that it never lasted, but she didn’t care.
Melanie threw aside the bottle. ‘Fuck you, Devlin McArdle!’ She staggered to her feet, swayed a little, then headed to the kitchen. As she went, she steadied herself on the walls. She knocked a lampshade on her way through the door; it made her grimace. The kitchen tiles felt cold on her bare feet but the sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant. As she reached the refrigerator she had a craving for more alcohol. Her eyes were starting to slow-blink and her mouth had curled into a louche smile. She tugged the dressing gown round her as she opened the door, stared in. A bottle of Absolut vodka seemed to wink at her from the shelf. She reached for the neck. It was cold as she raised it, slammed the door shut in one swift movement.
Melanie removed the cap and threw it on the ground. She downed a mouthful and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. ‘That’s the trick!’ She let out a long exhalation of breath as she steadied herself on the countertop. She took another deep swig and then she walked, shakily, towards the breakfast bar and sat down with the bottle of vodka in front of her.
For a moment she stared at the clear liquid swirling in the bottom and then she sighed, raided the mug rack and poured until the brim was overflowing. She raised the mug, drank greedily until it was drained. ‘Fuck, Mel . . .’ she laughed at herself for a moment and then, inexplicably, her laughter turned to tears and she lowered her head in front of the bottle.
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