Truth Lies Bleeding (27 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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McGuire appeared behind him, his footfalls ending some metres from the bed, and the blood. ‘I called it in, sir.’
Brennan didn’t acknowledge him. He held his thoughts for a moment then looked about the room. Everything was as he remembered it yesterday. Nothing seemed to have changed, or been moved. The only difference was the dead body of a serial sex offender lying in Carly’s bed. Brennan stared on, tried to make sense of it all. Why? They hadn’t pressed him; they’d given him no real indication he was a suspect. It didn’t make sense. But then, nothing that went on in a pervert’s mind made sense to Brennan.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
McGuire answered quickly, ‘I think the bastard took the easy way out.’
‘Why?’ He turned, put eyes on the DC.
‘He knew we were on to him.’
Brennan snapped, ‘No he didn’t.’
‘Come on, he would have guessed for sure, sir. He’s not exactly new to dealing with police – he knew we’d go away, check him out and haul him in.’
Brennan looked at the corpse, felt nothing, said, ‘So he was in and out of prison for years, he knew what to expect – does that explain it?’
McGuire didn’t flinch. He knew Brennan was working through possibilities; maybe testing him too. ‘Maybe his last stint put the shits up him; didn’t want to repeat it.’
Brennan walked round to the other side of the bed, crouched down. He looked at the floorboards, ran a finger along the ground and inspected the tip. There was nothing there but dust. ‘Maybe he heard about the
News
’s report.’
‘You wouldn’t get that rag up here.’
Brennan looked up. ‘Never heard of the internet?’
‘Right enough . . . But why’s that going to make a difference? He’ll have seen the previous stories before now, surely.’
Brennan stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked left to right along the line of the corpse. ‘None of them mentioned the fact that Carly’s child was missing.’
Sharp radial lines creased the corners of McGuire’s face. ‘You think he knew something about the kid going missing?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘He was a paedophile.’
‘That’s true.’
McGuire’s mobile phone started to ring. He answered: ‘Yes.’
Brennan watched the DC talking into the handset.
‘All right, Brian. Yes, he’s here.’
Brennan shook his head.
‘Er, he’s just left the room right now, you can tell me. What you got for us?’ McGuire smiled into the phone. ‘Very nice indeed . . . Right, thanks for letting us know, he’ll be made up.’ He hung up. ‘That was Brian.’
Brennan spoke: ‘What’s he got?’
‘Good news, sir. They’ve unearthed some CCTV footage from the bus station and Carly’s in it.’
‘Brilliant!’ Brennan made for the door; he wanted to put distance between himself and Peter Sproul. ‘Tell me more.’
‘She’s been positively ID’d and she’s talking to a man, some random punter in the station . . . And get this: she leaves with him.’
‘Did she have the baby?’
McGuire grabbed his earlobe. ‘Ah, I, er, didn’t ask.’
‘Fucking hell. Get on the phone to Brian again and get the details.’ Brennan’s voice was forceful. ‘I want the media kept in the loop and I want you to tell them we need this footage aired on all the news channels tonight.’
McGuire leaned back, scratched his jawline. ‘Big ask, sir.’
‘I’m all about the big fucking ask, lad. Do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McGuire spun, halted as Brennan began to speak again.
‘Might just piss off those wankers at the paper – put them off our mole.’
McGuire looked ahead, spoke: ‘Sir, you never told me what your theory was.’
Brennan stared at him, full on. ‘Who said I had one?’
‘But you think Sproul might have known about the baby?’
‘I’d say he knew very well about the baby. If he was the father I’d say Donald would feel compelled to let him know . . . Be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t you say?’
McGuire followed his boss as he took long strides towards the stairs. ‘This is wrecking my head, sir.’
Brennan stalled halfway down the first step, turned. ‘Expect it to get a lot worse when we get back to Edinburgh. I can’t see Galloway being overly pleased that we let a possible suspect slip through our fingers, even with the footage card to play.’
McGuire bit his lip. ‘But he killed himself, sir.’
The DC was running ahead of the facts; Brennan reined him in. ‘Did you see a note, Stevie?’
‘Well, it looks that way . . .’
‘It does indeed, Stevie, but let’s not jump to conclusions.’
Chapter 34
DEVLIN McARDLE GLANCED AT THE clock. It was approaching six. He’d spent the day waiting for a call from his German contact, but it never came. He knew these people were secretive, had to be because the filth were all over their activities, but he didn’t like waiting for the rest of his money, or the child to be collected.
Melanie walked through from the kitchen. She was carrying a baby’s bottle, smiling as she said, ‘Why the long face?’
McArdle pressed his back hard to the sofa. He had his leg over the arm of the chair and he lowered it when his wife spoke. ‘What you on about?’
Melanie tipped her head, jauntily. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny.’
It was a stupid phrase, the kind of thing Melanie always came out with when she wasn’t drinking. When she was drinking it was bearable – she was bitter and ranting. He knew where he was with her; she could be manipulated, controlled. This new state of mind unsettled him. ‘Away and see to that kid,’ said McArdle. ‘I want to watch the news.’
As Melanie sauntered off McArdle picked up the television remote control and directed it at the screen. Anne Robinson was hectoring the contestants on
The Weakest Link
. Just the sight of her was enough to make McArdle curse. He flicked the television to off.
In the silence of the room he felt grateful the baby he’d taken from Tierney and Vee wasn’t making its usual racket, but he was far from happy. McArdle wasn’t going to be settled until the Germans took the child and did whatever it was they wanted to do. McArdle knew what they were, what they were capable of. He wasn’t a fool. He’d met their type in prison; the others called them beasts. No one on the inside would dare to associate with a beast – they were beneath contempt, not real people. There was a hardcore of cons who made it their business to wipe out beasts. Shanks, sharpened spoons, anything that could be used as a weapon was useful currency among those who wanted to wound, or worse. McArdle had read stories in the papers about the beasts; he knew how they operated and what they were after. Snatching children off the street and subjecting them to all kinds of torment and indignity before suffocating them, if they were lucky, beating them to death if they weren’t.
He started to fidget on the sofa as he thought of the things he had heard and read about beasts. They were called beasts because they were just that – animals. Fucking beasts. McArdle pressed his lip against his bottom teeth and paced the living room. When he reached the far wall he let out a blow with his fist. The action set a standing lamp quivering and when he withdrew his knuckles he saw there were three little declivities in the plaster.
‘Fuck it!’ he roared.
He heard Melanie stir upstairs. She moved to the landing and hung her head over the banister. ‘Dev, what’s going on?’
He looked up, shouted, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Get back to that kid . . . Get saying your goodbyes – it’ll not be here much longer.’
Melanie seemed to stall for a moment or two before moving off. She made no reply.
McArdle moved back to the sofa and threw himself down. He had a pack of Carlsberg sitting on the seat beside him and pulled a tin towards himself, cracked the seal. ‘Fucking German beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Get me my money and get the fuck out my face.’
They could do what they wanted with the child; that wasn’t his concern, he thought. No one had ever looked out for him. Why should he care if no one was looking out for that kid? They could have their fun with it and drop it in a pit; he didn’t care. It’s not my lookout, he thought. The kid’s nothing to me. He knew he had watched his wife bond with the baby over the last few days and he didn’t like that. He never let his emotions get in the way of business, and that’s all this was, business. He’d sold a child to the Germans before and they had paid promptly. They had collected promptly too, however, and he wondered why they were taking so long this time. Was it the price? He’d increased the price, of course he had, but not by that much. It made him nervous.
McArdle knew how they treated beasts inside, had seen it first hand. He didn’t want to be associated with them. Even though he was certain in his mind he was nothing to do with them – it was business, that’s all – there would be people who would see it differently. The police, for sure.
He didn’t like the waiting. It unsettled him, made his mind seek out possible reasons for the delay. Every minute of the day that the child stayed in his keep was a minute too long. He needed to get rid of it, fast.
McArdle supped on his tin of Carlsberg, put it back on the arm of the sofa and removed his mobile phone. He checked his calls to see if he had missed one from Günter, but there were no messages at all. He went into his contacts, looked out Günter’s number and contemplated ringing him again, and then his mind froze. If the filth were watching him, they could be tracing his calls. He knew he couldn’t take the risk. The thought lit a taper in him; his anger erupted again and he rose, kicked out at the sofa. The tin of Carlsberg went over and poured onto the cover.
‘Fuck it! Fuck it!’
He wiped at the lager with the back of his hand, sprayed the majority of it onto the carpet and worked it in with his foot. He didn’t care about the mess. Melanie could clean it up later . . . if she was ever finished with that fucking baby.
He touched his brow, wiping away the line of sweat that had formed below his close-cropped hairline. He ran his lower lip over the tops of his teeth and tried to think but there was nothing close to a solution in his mind. The frustration started to create a burning feeling in his chest; the beat of his pulse increased its rate. He was getting worried, irrational now – he knew the signs. He needed to calm himself, keep a level head, that’s what he’d always been told. It was the ones who lost it that got locked up.
McArdle lowered himself back on the sofa and picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television screen.
The Weakest Link
had finished and the news was on now. He watched the day’s headlines and the endless jousting of political rivals that went on every night of the week, and felt somehow secure enough in his own home once more to let his mind settle. The world was a mad place, he thought; you did what you had to do to get by, find a way through the madness.
By the time the Scottish news headlines came on McArdle had relaxed enough to open another tin of Carlsberg. The pounding in his chest had subsided and his thoughts seemed to have settled into a more peaceful commentary on the day’s affairs. Everything changed when the newsreader shifted to the next item. It was as if her voice had been altered to impart the seriousness of the story she was relaying. As she spoke a picture appeared behind her head. Whatever it was she was saying seemed to be cancelled out by the image for McArdle. As he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees he couldn’t quite take in what he was seeing. The photograph, obviously blown up from a CCTV image, was of a face he clearly knew.
McArdle felt his breathing alter right away. He leaned back and tried to compose himself but his surging blood wouldn’t let him. He felt as though he was drowning, like his head had been shoved under water and his mind was being flooded with strange memories, sensations, premonitions. He knew the sight of Barry Tierney’s image on the television was the beginning of a nightmare.
McArdle grabbed up the remote control, pumped the volume as he dropped to his knees in front of the television screen.
The newsreader’s words came like arrows: ‘
Police investigating the murder of Pitlochry schoolgirl Carly Donald have today released images of a man they would like to identify. The footage, taken from inside Edinburgh Bus Station, shows Carly, who was sixteen at the time of her death, and her baby daughter, Beth, who has been missing since her mother’s murder, and an unknown man
.’
McArdle put his hands to his mouth. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was Tierney. The bastard. ‘What the fucking hell has he done?’ he blasted. McArdle sensed the seriousness of the situation at once. It was on the evening news, for Christ’s sake.
The woman on the screen introduced another man, a police officer. His name was printed along the bottom of the picture:
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ROBERT BRENNAN
.
The officer spoke: ‘
Lothian and Borders Police are very keen to trace the man in the picture. These images were taken only the day before Carly Donald’s remains were found in the city’s Muirhouse housing scheme, and we believe he may be able to help us with our inquiries
.’

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