Truth Lies Bleeding (29 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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Brennan stalled, turned and shouted, ‘Don’t tell me you’re learning now.’
McGuire raised his middle finger in a salute. Brennan laughed. ‘Known associates . . . Pull them, then. I want to talk to everyone who knew Tierney and Durrant. Even their fucking window cleaner.’
In the tent the SOCOs in their white overalls busied themselves trying to erect a trestle. Brennan eyed their movements for a moment or two, then turned to the pale corpses on the ground. It had been a cold night and the flesh had quickly lost colour – as he kneeled closer he saw the lips of the man, Barry Tierney, had turned blue. There was a dark black hole in the top of his left temple where a bullet had entered and ended his life instantly. The sight of the bullet hole set Brennan’s nerves jangling, and his memory lit. When he had gone to identify his brother’s corpse there had been a bullet hole in the left temple. It was higher up, closer to the hairline, but it had looked similar and the sight of another one jolted Brennan. He recalled looming over Andy’s face; the life force had departed – there was no sign of his brother. He had touched his cold flesh and had tried to hold back his tears for Andy. He had tried to warn him about taking that job at the big house. He’d told him about Grady, about his Ulster connections, about the ongoing investigations . . .
Brennan took a deep breath. What was the point of going over old ground?
He got up and looked to the other body. They were about four yards apart; the reason for the bigger tent seemed obvious now. Brennan called out, ‘When are you moving these?’
A shrug. ‘When we’re ready.’
Brennan walked towards the white-suited SOCOs. ‘What you got there?’
One of them held up a little clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of metal. As Brennan took the bag, moved it towards the light that was streaming in through the front of the tent, he turned the item over. It was a bullet casing.
‘You know what that is?’ said a tall SOCO.
‘Oh, yes . . . Do you?’
The SOCO smarmed: ‘Are you serious?’
Brennan pointed to the bullet. ‘And this?’
‘Some kind of residue.’
‘These bullets are
gold-washed
 . . . I’ve seen this before.’
The SOCO took the bag back, peered deeply. ‘I think you could be right.’
Brennan smarmed back: ‘I fucking know I’m right. These bullets are serious – this was a pro hit.’ He left the SOCO staring at him as he walked out of the tent and found McGuire. The DC was on his mobile; he hung up when Brennan approached.
‘Well?’ he said.
Brennan halted in his stride, motioned up the hill to his car. ‘Back to the office.’
McGuire followed on his heels. ‘I’m waiting . . .’
‘It’s a professional hit, no question. High-calibre rifle. Gold-washed ammunition. Close range.’
‘What’s that about the ammo?’
‘Makes it all the more lethal; rare as hobby-horse shite. Only serious craftsmen insist on it. Someone had this pair of dafties knocked off, and paid a high price for it. I want to know why.’
McGuire jogged ahead of his boss, raised the blue-and-white tape. ‘Any ideas who?’
Brennan looked at him. ‘I’d say someone who’s fucking shitting themselves.’
As he spoke, the reporter from the
News
approached. She came running from the edge of the road with a digital recorder in her hand. ‘Detective, are these killings related to any other ongoing investigation?’
Brennan halted, stared at her. ‘Who’s pulling your strings, love?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t come the innocent.’
She lowered her hand; the digital recorder dropped out of range. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head to one side. He loomed over the reporter. ‘So am I. My job’s about catching murderers and scum, keeping the streets safe. What’s yours for?’
She looked perplexed, narrowed her eyes. ‘
What
?’
Brennan eyed her up and down. He’d had just about enough of seeing her at his crime scenes. ‘If you don’t know the answer to that question, maybe you’re in the wrong job.’
As he walked away and got into the car, Brennan caught sight of the reporter again. She hadn’t moved from where he had left her. When he started the engine she jutted a hip and slapped a palm off it. He knew he’d given her something to think about: it was never a good idea for reporters to get on the wrong side of the police.
‘She’s not pleased with you,’ said McGuire as they pulled out.
‘Good. She’ll get hers.’
‘You still think she’s being fed a line from inside the station?’
Brennan took second, pulled from the side street. ‘I’d bet a pound to a pail of shite she’s going flat out, probably on her back, to work her contact.’
McGuire laughed. As he did so, his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out his pocket. ‘Shit. It’s Galloway. Do you want me to answer it?’
Chapter 37
BRENNAN LOOKED AT McGUIRE, who held out his mobile. ‘Dump her,’ he said.
‘You sure?’ The DC looked pensive now.
Brennan nodded. ‘As shooting.’
They continued back to the station. Brennan turned things over in his mind. First there was the situation with Peter Sproul. The plan had been to pull him, rattle some details about his living situation with the Donalds in Pitlochry. But finding him in a pool of his own blood had put paid to that. He couldn’t see the minister revealing anything about him – he had been too wary of letting details of his life slip. Brennan wondered if the Donalds knew more about Sproul than was good for them. If they believed the sex offender to be the father of their grandchild then perhaps that was why they had been so cagey. It was a delicate situation, thought Brennan, but the time for treading gently was over. Time had run out.
Brennan gripped the wheel tighter the closer they got to Fettes. He had thought he wanted back to the city when he was in Pitlochry but now he’d got home he realised how wrong he was – the sensation was like picking up a cold beer on a warm day, and finding the bottle empty. He rolled up the window. The air outside was heavy with fumes; he could almost taste the diesel. As he stared out the buildings looked dirtier than he remembered. Everywhere he looked the stone was grey or blackened. The streets were awash with litter, the bins overflowed and spilled into the gutters – cans, fag dowps, crisp bags, all blowing like bunting in the foetid wind. He worked though the gears as he hit a quiet stretch of Orchard Brae. ‘We have to call in the minister, find out what the hell was going on there.’
McGuire stretched round in his seat to face Brennan. ‘For a father to take in a repeat sex offender, with a young daughter at home, defies logic.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’ Brennan knew the minister was blinded by some sense of religious duty – that had been obvious from the start – but why had he kept Sproul’s presence a secret from the police?
McGuire said, ‘Unless he wanted to rehabilitate Sproul. Y’know, if he was taken in by a sob story, perhaps some claim about him being a changed man.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Or having found the Lord in Peterhead.’ The DI had answers of his own, but he knew he would be making a mistake applying his logic to the minister’s situation. Carly was dead, though. A man’s daughter had been killed and he’d shielded a potential suspect from the investigating officers. Why? Worse, Beth was still missing. The minister’s granddaughter, his innocent flesh and blood, was who knows where and still he hadn’t revealed Sproul.
Brennan knew the case was in chaos. Nothing was fitting together. He knew there was a bigger picture, something that linked up the missing pieces of the assassinations at the Water of Leith, but he couldn’t pull it into focus. They were drawing near to the station. He lowered his speed as he went into the car park, pulled up. He turned off the engine and moved to face McGuire.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, sir?’
Brennan’s voice rose: ‘Why have two minor-league scrotes professionally hit?’
‘Someone wanted them knocked off quickly.’
‘Obviously. But who? And why?’
McGuire looked straight ahead. ‘Well, for a start, someone with the money to pay for it.’
It didn’t make sense; their necks weren’t worth the price or the trouble. ‘If someone higher up the food chain was going to put up money to have that pair wiped out then they must be scared shitless.’
McGuire returned his gaze to Brennan, tapped the top of the gearstick. ‘You know, they’ve most likely seen the
News
piece and thought we were getting close . . . Shat themselves.’
‘Are we getting close?’ said Brennan.
McGuire turned up his palms. ‘Maybe we’re closer than we realise.’
Brennan hoped he was right. He turned to face the windshield, looked at the station. He felt his stomach tighten, sighed, ‘Galloway’s waiting in there to kick our arses all over the place.’
‘You’re right there, sir.’
‘Get your phone, call Lou . . . See what he’s got on the door-to-door.’
McGuire reached into his coat pocket, removed the phone and dialled. Brennan watched his movements and facial gestures. The DC spoke to Lou for a few minutes then hung up.
‘So?’ said Brennan.
‘You’ll like this. Flat above says they heard a baby screaming all hours for the last few days.’
Brennan’s head snapped to the side. ‘Really?’
‘More yet – folk next door said they saw a young girl with the woman . . . No positive ID as Carly but a definite maybe. They haven’t seen the girl again; she just disappeared.’
Brennan slapped the dash. ‘That bastard’s had his, Stevie . . . We might just be getting closer.’ He opened the car door, leaned out. ‘Come on then, let’s go face the dragon!’
As he opened the station doors, strode in, the desk sergeant got up and called Brennan over: ‘Rob, hear about Lauder?’
‘Not now, Charlie.’ He waved him away, made for the stairs.
The sergeant sat back down as Brennan and McGuire took the staircase.
Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway was waiting for Brennan and McGuire as they reached their floor. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and a cream-coloured silk blouse that had elaborate collars pulled out across the shoulders. As ever, she wore heels that added an extra three inches to her height. Brennan composed himself for a confrontation, tried to make a straight eye contact but Galloway turned her head and pointed a palm to her office. Brennan and McGuire led the way with the Chief Super following, her heels clacking on the hard flooring like a tribal drumbeat.
As they entered, the door was closed quietly behind them and Galloway directed them to seats. The atmosphere in the office was heady; added intensity came from an expensive perfume that the Chief Super had applied liberally. She was always groomed, thought Brennan, but today she looked like something from an eighties soap opera.
Dynasty
or
Dallas
– one where the shoulder pads came from the AFL.
‘Quite a body count you’ve amassed over the last two days, is it not?’ said Galloway.
Brennan crossed his legs, undid the button fastening his jacket. He turned to McGuire. ‘Stevie, perhaps you could fill the Chief Super in on Peter Sproul.’
‘I know about Sproul, I’ve seen the file,’ she bit back. ‘What I don’t know is how he ended up dead in Carly Donald’s bedroom.’
McGuire cut in: ‘It was a suicide: the lab have confirmed the wounds were self-inflicted and we have a note of sorts which he added to a social networking site.’
Galloway’s face held firm; her lipstick seemed to have been baked on. ‘So, let’s have a stab at tomorrow’s headline in the
News
 . . . “Repeat Paedo Tops Himself in Murder Victim’s Bedroom and Leaves Message on Facebook.”’
Brennan turned to McGuire. Neither was smiling. ‘It’s our belief Sproul had good reason to want a fast route out of the picture.’
‘Oh, you think?’ Galloway put a finger to her chin and pulled a ditsy expression. ‘Why? Maybe he didn’t want to go back to Peterhead . . . I’ve read that report too, the one about the sharpened chicken bone he got in the lung.’
‘I think, in time, we’ll establish Sproul’s involvement. It’s my assumption he might be the father of Carly’s child.’
Galloway slapped the desk. ‘I’m not fucking interested in assumptions, Rob. Yours or anyone else’s. I’m interested in facts and what we can prove to the Fiscal, and more than that I’m interested in having a murderer under lock and key and a missing child back with her family. I’m interested in proper police work and not having my force traduced all over the papers.’
Brennan rose, closing up his jacket. ‘Then I’ll get back to work.’
Galloway got up too, faced him. ‘You’ll do what I tell you, Rob.’ She turned to McGuire. ‘Go and gather the team in Incident Room One, Stevie.’
McGuire eased himself from the chair. He looked at Brennan, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

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