Truth Lies Bleeding (19 page)

Read Truth Lies Bleeding Online

Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
2.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘I’d ask how you were getting on, but I think I’ll just catch it on the news later.’
It was a low blow, designed to rattle Brennan. He returned a volley of his own: ‘We’re doing fine here, so you can take yourself elsewhere, Lauder, I don’t want you fucking up our mojo.’
Lauder riled, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Now Brennan smiled. ‘How’s the shooting case going?’
Lauder shook his head. ‘That’s a complex investigation; it would take me too long to explain to you, Rob.’
Brennan walked past him. ‘Broad-daylight shooting, in a public place . . . Sounds it!’
Lauder looked ready to spit as he turned for the exit. Brennan knew he was storing up trouble for himself if he didn’t ease off on him, but he didn’t care. The man had messed up the investigation of his brother’s murder and the thought rankled, more than a bit.
Outside the interview room Brennan stalled, looked in the peep-hole. The minister sat silently inside, head bowed. Brennan lowered his eye, rested his forehead on the door for a second or two, then jerked his neck back and walked into the room opposite. DC Stevie McGuire was sitting inside. He had a sandwich box open on the desk and a styrofoam cup filled with grey coffee halfway to his mouth. When he saw Brennan he lowered the cup, said, ‘Sir, how’s it going?’
‘It’s me that should be asking you that.’
McGuire took a quick sip of the coffee. ‘Well, I warmed him up for you but didn’t get much.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Brennan sat on the edge of the desk.
‘Not a lot.’ McGuire exhaled slowly. ‘He said he was going to tell us about the baby . . . in due course.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Oh, really . . . When, exactly?’
‘That he didn’t say.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing much. I didn’t go in too hard, just wanted to give him a foretaste, make him think, y’know.’
Brennan knew exactly what he meant – he was leaving it to him, didn’t want to mess up. ‘And the wife?’
‘I’m just going in there now. Thought I’d question her whilst you took the husband. We can compare notes.’
Brennan made a conscious effort to keep his expression blank, register nothing. He rose from the edge of the desk, turned for the door he’d walked through a moment earlier. He was about to close it behind him when he retreated a step, said, ‘I saw Lauder through there.’
McGuire’s eyes widened. ‘You did?’
‘Yes. I did.’ Brennan let the statement hang in the air for a little while, then, ‘If there’s any media enquiries come in, say nothing.’
McGuire’s lips parted. He seemed to be unsure of his answer, then: ‘Yes, sir . . . Of course.’
Brennan closed the door behind him. As he turned for the interview room, he took a moment to think about his strategy: he was going in hard, studs first. There was nothing to be gained from holding back. They had treated the minister with too much civility already. A man that hides the fact that he has a missing granddaughter, in the wake of his daughter’s brutal killing, deserves no leeway.
Brennan reached for the handle, turned it briskly and strode in. He did not acknowledge the minister, merely removed his jacket and flung it over the back of the chair. There was an empty plastic cup on the table. It toppled in the draught the jacket’s landing threw up; a little sliver of brown tea spilled on the table. The minister stared at it, seemed unsure of what to do next. He righted the cup and returned his hand to beneath the table.
Brennan spoke: ‘Who was the father?’
‘
What
? I-I’ve no idea.’
‘You never asked?’
‘She wouldn’t say.’ The minister looked away.
‘And you accepted that?’
A nod. ‘It seemed irresponsible to press her, she was very unsettled then.’
‘She must have had a boyfriend, someone you suspected?’
‘No, no one.’
Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it was hardly an immaculate conception, Minister.’
He riled, ‘I have no idea who the father of the child was, Inspector.’
Brennan paused, took a deep breath. He had already been through all the possibilities and their permutations in his mind. ‘We can have that checked.’
The minister nodded. ‘I’m sure you can.’
The line of questioning had stalled. It gave Brennan an opportunity to change tack: ‘I see you’re in line for the big league.’
‘Excuse me?’ His voice sounded tired.
‘You didn’t expect that to escape us, surely . . .’ Brennan turned his cheek, squinted. ‘I’m talking about the job – Moderator of the Church of Scotland.’
The minister nodded, brought his hands out in front of him and laid them on the table. ‘You present that like it is an important piece of the puzzle, Inspector.’
Brennan smiled. ‘Maybe it is.’
‘And why would that be?’ His tone grew cockier.
The detective settled himself in the seat, made a show of turning up the cuffs on his shirtsleeves. ‘Do I need to paint you a picture, Minister?’
A head tilt. ‘I’m afraid you might have to, because I don’t see any connection between my career prospects and this unfortunate turn of events.’
‘“Unfortunate turn of events” . . . You make it sound like your washingmachine’s on the blink.’ Brennan sat forward, rested elbows on the table. ‘Your daughter has been murdered and your granddaughter – Beth – remember her?
She’s
missing.’
The minister looked away, his pallor faded.
Brennan let the implications of his words settle. He rose from the chair and paced the room, spoke: ‘Now, here’s how I see it: you’re up for the top job in the Kirk, and young Carly is
unfortunate
enough to get herself pregnant. Now, how does a respectable Church of Scotland minister deal with that? Does he throw a party in the manse? Take an ad out in the paper? . . . I wonder.’ Brennan stared at the minister – he was looking away. ‘No, here’s what I say he does: he thinks about how this will look for
him
. Oh, now, the parishioners won’t like it, he thinks. No, no. They’ll talk, they’ll complain, they’ll put words in ears, maybe even write letters. No, no. That would never do. Am I painting a clear enough picture, Minister?’
‘Yes, very clear.’ His speech was blunt, brisk.
The DI leaned over him, shouted, ‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much.’ He didn’t like the minister’s demeanour – he was acting as if he had some cards in reserve, and Brennan knew full well he had no such thing. He fired on, ‘You see, when I found out you were in line for the Moderator’s job, it made me think. What did it make me think? you’re wondering . . . Well, it made me think that if an opportunity like that presented itself, an opportunity of a lifetime, you might say, some people would do almost anything to stop it slipping through their fingers.’
‘No, this is wrong . . . You are wrong about that,’ said the minister.
Brennan returned to the table, leaned over. ‘I doubt it. You see, I watched you talking about your daughter and I think I learned one or two things about you, Minister. You are a very secretive man, you like to keep your private life, as the saying goes, private. Am I right or am I wrong?’
The minister nodded, said, ‘Is there a law against that, Inspector Brennan?’
A smile, wry one. ‘No. Not against that. But there is a law against murder.’
The minister’s eyes flared. He rose. ‘This has gone far enough. I demand to have a lawyer, now.’
Brennan eased back, lowered himself into the chair. ‘You can have a lawyer any time you like, but jumping the gun a bit, aren’t we? No one’s charged you with anything.’
The minister sat down again, ran fingers through his thick grey hair. ‘This infernal questioning is leading nowhere.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that . . . and more besides.’
‘Meaning?’
‘
Meaning
I’d like you to start answering some questions, with some straight answers. Like why didn’t you tell us about Beth?’
The minister laced his fingers, looked at his palms, turned them over. The actions seemed perfunctory. ‘That would seem like an error now.’
‘I’d say so. But you’re not answering my question.’
The minister raised his eyes. ‘My wife and I, well, we were in so much shock . . .’
Brennan wasn’t buying any of it. ‘Why did Carly run away?’
A sigh, followed by a deep breath. ‘We discussed with her about putting the child, erm, Beth, up for adoption.’
‘And Carly wanted to keep her.’
‘No. Well, not at first . . . Before the birth, Carly was in favour of adoption.’
‘But then she had the child, she held Beth in her arms and changed her mind, is that it?’
The minister nodded his head.
‘So, you pressed her to have the child adopted?’
‘No. Not at all . . . It’s very complex, Inspector.’
‘Then explain it.’
His gaze turned away from Brennan; his eyes drooped in time with his shoulders. He spoke: ‘We . . . removed Carly from school when the pregnancy was uncovered. We tried to keep her from prying eyes.’
Brennan knew exactly what he was saying, and wasn’t saying. ‘You were ashamed.’
The minister’s lower lip curled into his mouth, sat over his teeth for a moment, then subsided. ‘There was some element of that, yes.’
‘You were ashamed, and you were afraid you’d miss your chance to be Moderator.’
The minister didn’t answer the question, said, ‘It was very . . . complex.’
Brennan rose from his chair again, began his pacing ritual. ‘And then Beth was born.’ The child’s name seemed to unsettle the minister every time he heard it.
‘Yes. Carly had the child at home. My wife was a midwife when we met and . . . It was a simple procedure for her.’
‘And the adoption?’
‘We had made all the arrangements.’
‘Go on.’
Talking like this was a trial for the minister – each word was drawn from a deep, dark well. ‘Somewhere along the way, Carly had a change of heart. She didn’t want to give up the child and . . . there were words.’
Brennan turned, pointed to him. ‘You laid down the law.’ He raised his voice: ‘You told her she was giving up her child whether she wanted to or not!’
The minister raised his hands to his head, lowered his brow towards the table. His words were inaudible. Brennan watched as he rested his eye sockets on the heels of his hands.
‘Well, this is all very interesting, Minister . . . All very interesting indeed, wouldn’t you agree?’
Chapter 25
DC STEVIE McGUIRE WAS WAITING for Brennan as he left the interview room. He had a blue folder pressed to his chest, said, ‘I have a media statement back from PR . . . Do you want to cast your eyes over it?’
Brennan took the piece of paper, read:
Lothian and Borders Police investigations into the death of a young woman on the Muirhouse Housing Estate in Edinburgh are ongoing. Police are treating the matter as suspicious. The victim’s identity will not be released until all family members have been informed. Police are keen to hear from anyone in the locus between the hours of . . .
Brennan returned the paper, pinned it to McGuire’s folder. ‘Release the name.’
‘
What
?’
‘You heard.’
He walked off; McGuire trailed him.
‘Sir, are you sure that’s—’ He broke off as Brennan spun round.
‘Look, Stevie, how many calls from the hacks have we had on this?’
The DC shrugged. ‘A lot . . .’
‘More than that, son. We’ve given them nothing and they’re getting antsy. If we hold off on the ID then they’re going to know we’re playing them hard . . . We’ll be upping the pace, but we need to keep them onside, make them work for us.’
McGuire nodded, said, ‘You’re the boss.’
Brennan placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. ‘Don’t you forget it.’ He smiled at McGuire. There was another reason behind his thinking, and he wanted to relay it: ‘Look at it this way, Stevie – we might be jumping the gun a bit, but we’ll piss off our mole something rotten.’
The pair shared a brief laugh as they walked towards the incident room; Brennan wondered if he was coming round to the DC. Phones were ringing, uniforms running to and fro. There was a message coming through the fax – a WPC waited for it. Brennan nodded to the crowd who looked up as he entered. He pointed to one of them. ‘Lou, what’s the go with the door-to-doors?’
A short man in a Markies shirt and tie, open at the collar, bedraggled, spoke: ‘I’m about fifty per cent through them.’
‘And?’ Brennan moved his fists in a circular motion.
‘And . . . nothing, sir.’

Other books

The Patriots Club by Christopher Reich
Dark Moon by Victoria Wakefield
Medieval Master Warlords by Kathryn le Veque
Panic! by Bill Pronzini
The Knotty Bride by Julie Sarff
Louse by David Grand
Burning Up by Sami Lee
Murder Most Austen by Tracy Kiely