Truth Lies Bleeding (26 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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BRENNAN OPENED AND CLOSED HIS FIST. He did this a few times before he noticed the elderly woman at the table next to him watching his actions. He smiled and moved his hands out of view. He sat for a few moments, simmering. His inclination was to batter at the wall with fists, shout. He’d have been happier to batter at someone’s head, shout in their face. The someone was Lauder. He was pretty sure his only other suspect for tipping off the press, McGuire, had been on the level all day yesterday. He’d been busy too; not too busy to contact the press, of course, but absorbed enough in the case to convince Brennan that his intentions were sound. As the call from Galloway was coming in Brennan had noted McGuire’s expression, and the look of real and genuine stupefaction convinced him the DC wasn’t the culprit. Of course, Brennan knew the dangers of jumping to conclusions without hard facts to back them up.
He got up from the table, folded his napkin and placed it over the eggs – they were untouched.
In the hallway Brennan spotted McGuire looking out the open front door. A taxi was dropping off some golfers.
‘Well?’ said McGuire.
Brennan tested, ‘Well what?’
‘Well, something’s up . . . That was the Chief Super, pissed, I presume.’
Brennan watched McGuire’s pupils for signs of dilation. ‘The press found out about the missing baby.’
McGuire clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth wide as he pointed his chin in the air. He emptied his lungs of air, then straightened himself. Brennan watched his every movement. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Watch your language, eh.’ Brennan motioned to an elderly couple welcoming the golfers by the front door.
The DC traced the line of an eyebrow with his finger, began tapping a foot on the floor. ‘Well, that’s all we need.’
‘Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Yeah, but all the same, makes life difficult for us.’
Brennan shrugged, said, ‘I wasn’t aware it was ever easy.’
‘Easier, maybe . . . How did they find out?’
A frown. ‘Search me.’
McGuire stopped tapping his foot, looked at his watch. ‘So, we can expect another witch-hunt when we get back, I suppose.’
Brennan glowered; two creases like warpaint appeared at the sides of his mouth. ‘I doubt there’ll be time for that. We’re going to be seriously up against it. The scrutiny will be intense. If we don’t get rolling, get some leads soon, we can forget about getting a result.’ The thought of Carly’s murderer getting away from him burned Brennan. He didn’t want to see the case written up in a trashy true-crime book with Carly’s life and death reduced to no more than titillation. He’d seen too many cases go unsolved. He didn’t want Carly to be another Andy.
‘Right. Get your kit packed up – we’re back down the road,’ said Brennan.
‘We’re going back to Edinburgh?’
‘Chief Super’s orders.’
McGuire visibly slumped: his shoulders drooped, a deep sigh deflated his chest. ‘I can’t believe this.’
‘Believe it.’ Brennan turned for the stairs. ‘Hurry it up. I want to see if the sheep-shaggers have clawed in any info on our man Sproul yet.’
McGuire followed him, rested a hand on the balustrade. ‘You didn’t like the look of him, did you?’
‘He’s a Paisley buddy.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
Brennan laughed. ‘I haven’t met one yet that wasn’t crooked as two left feet.’
On the way to Pitlochry station Brennan rolled down the car window, lit a cigarette. He couldn’t get any flavour from the mild Silk Cut and wondered if he’d wrecked his taste buds with the full-tar alternatives. He seemed to have wrecked a lot lately, he thought; nothing would surprise him. He thought about his marriage and he thought about Lorraine and the baby again – he knew there were no immediate answers coming to him – the case had to come first; it always did. The rest could wait.
Inside the station Napier was pouring himself a cup of tea. An unopened pack of HobNobs sat beside the kettle. Brennan spoke first: ‘Morning, Napier.’
A nod, nervous cough. ‘Ah, hello, good morning, sir.’
‘You’ll be relieved to hear we’re getting out of your hair soon.’
‘Oh . . . really.’
Brennan smiled. ‘Don’t go all teary-eyed on us, eh.’
The kettle boiled and Napier poured out his tea, offered the others a cup; they declined. ‘Suit yourselves.’
The office was in the same state of disarray as the day before: a dusty old computer terminal, tea-stained tabletop, and piles of case files on the floor. There seemed to be too much dark wood about the place, and too little light; it looked like the land that time forgot. Brennan took a chair, pointed to the fax machine. ‘Anything come in?’
‘Oh, the Peter Sproul stuff . . . It’s over there.’
Brennan motioned McGuire to pick it up, returned his gaze to Napier, said, ‘What did it say?’
A shrug, palms levelled in the air. ‘Don’t know, I’m just in . . . No use till I’ve got a cuppa down.’
Brennan rolled his eyes. ‘Read it out, McGuire.’
‘Sir . . . I don’t think you’re going to like this.’ He walked towards the desk. Brennan eased forward, propped himself on his elbows. He watched McGuire turn over the top sheet, then hand him a mugshot: it was Sproul.
‘He’s got form.’
‘Lots of it,’ said McGuire.
Brennan stood up, took the list of charges.
‘Christ Al-fucking-mighty. He’s a time-served nonce!’
‘
What
?’ Napier was sipping on his tea, spluttered. ‘Pete Sproul?’
McGuire creased the corner of his mouth. ‘And you didn’t even know. Play much dominoes with him, did you?’
Napier put down his cup, picked up the list of convictions that Brennan had just laid down. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He turned to McGuire. ‘Some of these are spent. He’s been inside for a fair few years.’
‘Yes . . . He’s been in Peterhead.’
‘Bad as that. Bloody hell. When did he get out?’
McGuire skimmed the fax pages. ‘Hang on . . . Oh, right, here it is. It looks like he got out about a year and a half ago.’
‘I do not like the look of that. What the hell was Donald thinking, putting a paedo up in the family home?’
Napier’s meaty neck quivered. ‘Maybe he didn’t know.’
‘Oh bugger off, man, not everyone’s as lax about these things as you.’
Napier threw up his hands. ‘Look, I never saw him on the offenders’ list . . . He wasn’t on it.’
Brennan sneered. ‘Maybe you were too busy making tea and stuffing your face with HobNobs. Or maybe it was just in joined-up writing and it fucking confused you.’
McGuire jumped in, shaking his head. ‘Or you were playing dominoes.’
‘I-I’m not clocking the movements of everyone in the town.’ Napier’s cheeks coloured – he flushed red from the jaw up. ‘If he came in under the radar how was I to know? How was I to know?’
Brennan made for the door. ‘Oh, stop your bleating, Napier – and just leave the police work to us, eh.’
McGuire was shaking his head at the officer as they left the building. They broke into a jog on the way to the car. Brennan took the keys from McGuire and opened up. He had the flashing blue lights on as he spun the tyres on the tarmac and headed for the manse.
McGuire held on to the door handle as Brennan sped down the street. There were far fewer cars on the road than in Edinburgh, and the ones that did hear the sirens got out of the way quickly. It was as though they had never seen a police car before, thought Brennan. As he drove, old ladies with shopping bags and umbrellas stopped in their tracks and stared. Brennan didn’t want to contemplate another balls-up. He didn’t want to see the Chief Super’s face if Sproul had shot through, but the way things were shaping up he began to wonder if the investigation was jinxed in some way.
The whole town seemed to have been transfixed by the speeding VW Passat as Brennan pulled in to the manse. He put two wheels up on the kerb, pulled on the handbrake, left the engine running and got out. McGuire followed and ran to the rear of the property without instruction.
At the front door Brennan wasted no time on the doorbell. He plucked a stone from the rockery and smashed one of the windowpanes; it shattered into tiny fragments. As he reached in, grabbed the latch, he was aware at once of the emptiness of the building. When he walked in the place was quiet. He could hear the pounding of his heart on his shirt front.
As Brennan moved around the property there was not a sound. The place was still. He ran first to the living room, then the kitchen. McGuire was at the back door – Brennan opened up and pointed him to the stairs. Brennan checked the dining room and the minister’s study. All were empty. He pulled open the cupboard under the stairs and flicked on the light, but it was empty too. As a last resort he returned to the kitchen and opened the larder, then the press. There was nothing but tins of soup, beans, and packets of flour, bags of sugar.
Brennan walked to the window and looked out into the back garden. For a moment he felt lost, unable to gather his thoughts, and then the momentum that had been gathering for the last few days struck him. He folded over the sink and gasped for breath. His heart was pounding harder now, adrenaline rushing in his veins. He stood, crouched over the sink, staring at his hazy reflection in the polished stainless steel basin, and suddenly became aware of someone else in the room with him.
McGuire appeared at his back.
‘Sir, I found him.’
Brennan pushed himself up from the sink. He turned, rested his hands on the rim of the table; he had to ask McGuire to repeat himself. ‘
What
?’
‘Sproul’s upstairs, in Carly’s room.’
‘Upstairs . . .’ He started to move to the hall, pushed past the DC. ‘Why have you left him alone?’
McGuire raised his voice: ‘Because he’s dead, sir.’
Chapter 33
BRENNAN LUNGED FOR THE STAIRS. He could feel the veins pulsing in his arms as he ran, each step increasing the pressure on his cardiovascular system. He reached the landing light-headed, breathless. There was no indication that the scene had changed in any way from his first sight of it the day before; the only difference was the door to Carly’s bedroom was open this time. Brennan paused on the worn carpet for a second. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and started his slow paces towards the door. As he walked Brennan’s mind lit on what McGuire had said – he couldn’t seem to take it in, to register the new facts. It didn’t make sense to him, but then, the further he went into this investigation the less he understood. Nothing seemed to be stacking up. No sooner had he set his mind to one course of action than he needed to alter it. He started to feel his breath shortening once more and stalled before the open door.
The hinges creaked slightly as Brennan eased the handle further away from him. Light escaped from the room, landed on the hall carpet. When he placed his foot in the girl’s bedroom his heavy leather sole sounded noisy on the bare floorboards. He breathed deep as he brought his second foot forward. There was already a different atmosphere in the room, unwholesome. Did he imagine that? The smell of flowers seemed to have gone. There was a new scent in there; Brennan didn’t like it as much – it symbolised change, a turn of events, and not a good one.
He turned towards the wall and saw only the posters and the small chest of drawers with little golden handles; they were suitable for a girl’s room, but a much younger girl. Brennan’s thoughts were already with Carly – not the girl in the dumpster, or on the slab – the girl who was living her life in this room, until recently. He looked to his right, and over his shoulder he caught sight of a pair of heavy working man’s boots. They were similar to hillwalking boots, the outdoors type people wear for trekking. The boots were muddy and worn, and attached to a pair of legs covered in faded and torn blue jeans. The knees of the jeans were flecked with grass cuttings, filthy, looked to have been patched. As Brennan’s eyes went up the legs he noticed the blotches of dark blood splattered on the knees. A few inches higher the small marks turned into long smears that ran down the outsides of the thighs. Beneath the motionless body the bed linen was a sodden mass of dark wet blood.
Brennan turned his gaze to take in the whole frame. He could see the entire scene now. It was Peter Sproul; there was no mistaking the face was the man he had spoken to yesterday. The features were emotionless, the eyes staring blankly now, but the gaunt and hollowed cheeks, the unshaven chin and the cracked, twisted lips were unmistakable. As Brennan stared his mind seemed to jump from thought to thought. It was as if a light switch was being flicked on and off behind his eyes – one second he saw it all, the next, darkness.
Sproul’s wrists had been cut, probably with the serrated knife that now lay on the floor at an acute angle to the bed legs, smeared with blood. It looked like a kitchen blade, but Brennan found it hard to tell as a pool of blood had formed under the bed and the knife was in shade. He leaned towards the body. There was no sign of a struggle having taken place, no bruising or cuts and scratches. It looked like a clean scene, a suicide.

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