Truth Lies Bleeding (34 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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‘There’s very little coming together on this one, Wullie. There’s a lot going on but nothing slotting into place.’
The old man reclined further in his chair. ‘Go on.’
Brennan recounted the main points of the investigation; he left nothing out that he thought could be of any use. As he spoke, Wullie seemed thoughtful. Rubbing at his chin once in a while and allowing his fingertips to wander through the hair on the sides of his head. He didn’t interrupt, but Brennan knew there were going to be questions. When he was finished speaking he stood up and stretched his legs in front of the mantelpiece. Wullie looked down towards the window, out into the street. He seemed about to speak and then he stopped himself, flagged Brennan to sit again.
‘What is it?’
‘This Sproul character . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t link him to anyone in Edinburgh?’
Brennan curled his toes in his shoes. ‘He was Paisley.’
‘No connections down this way?’
‘None we’ve turned up.’
Wullie’s eyes rolled. ‘It’s probably nothing, then.’
‘What were you thinking?’
Wullie crossed his fingers over his stomach. ‘There’s a child missing; he was a beast.’
Brennan spoke: ‘It was his child, I’m almost certain of it.’
Wullie huffed, ‘Since when did that fucking bother them?’
‘Even if he was connected to Tierney – say they did some time together – that doesn’t help me when the bastard’s dead and nobody else is talking about him.’
‘Maybe his connection wasn’t Tierney, then.’
Brennan touched the crease of his trouser, brought it into a tent point. ‘Or maybe he was . . . but Tierney was a middle man.’
Wullie pointed at him. ‘That makes more sense.’
‘But none of this helps me. I still have four dead bodies and a missing baby.’
Wullie got to his feet. He eased back his broad shoulders, spoke: ‘Well, take a few steps back the way, Robbie . . . What were you telling me a minute ago about your inquiries?’
Brennan crossed over his leg, twisted his ankle in his hand. ‘Well, we’ve had Tierney’s known associates in, put the thumbscrews on them . . . Nothing.’
‘How hard have you turned them?’
‘Bloody hard.’
Wullie put a hand on the wall, leaned over and punctuated his words with the point of his finger. ‘Then you have to ask yourself why they’re not talking.’
Brennan let go his ankle, showed palms. ‘That’s obvious: they don’t want to go the same way as Tierney.’
‘Correct!’ Wullie took a long cigarette from a packet of B&H 100s, put it in his mouth; it moved up and down as he spoke. ‘Tierney’s connection is higher up the tree than you’ve been looking.’
‘You think I should start climbing a bit.’
Wullie lit his cigarette, pointed to an ancient television screen in the corner of the room. ‘After last night’s performance, the bastard might be climbing down himself . . . Make sure you bump into him on the way up, eh.’
Brennan put both feet on the floor. He kept an eye on Wullie as he removed his mobile phone, dialled the station.
‘Lou, it’s Rob.’
‘Hello, sir.’
Brennan kept his tone businesslike, but his mind was sparking. ‘Any movement from those scrotes you brought in again?’
A pause on the line. ‘It’s like they’re in shutdown, boss.’
Brennan nodded to Wullie. ‘Right. Turf them out. All at once – I want them to be bumping into each other in the fucking street as they go.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now he let the emotion into his voice: ‘And when that’s done, I want every dealer who might once have sold Tierney an ounce of puff hoiked in.’
Lou couldn’t hide the doubt in his voice. ‘That’s a lot of dealers. There must be dozens of them he could have scored from.’
‘Start at the top. Ones known to be dealing skag in Muirhouse. Don’t go to their delivery boys – right to the top, Lou, and go in hard . . . I want them rattled until their ears bleed, get me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As Brennan was about to hang up Lou spoke again: ‘Sir, I don’t know if there’s anything in this, but we took a call and . . .’ He stalled, seemed to be searching for the right words.
‘Go on,’ said Brennan.
‘We took a call from a woman in Dean Village who says she saw someone on the night of the shootings.’
‘
And
?’
‘It’s not much of an ID, but she insists she saw a limping man soon after the shots were fired.’
Brennan felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. ‘How sure is she?’
‘Very. She seems reliable too.’
‘Okay, Lou, circulate that to the team . . . And all the other channels.’
He laid down the phone, put eyes on Wullie. The old man seemed to be a step ahead of him already.
Chapter 43
BRENNAN CHECKED HIS WATCH WHEN he got onto the street – it was approaching 6.30. Bryce’s celebration for Lauder and their team would be in full swing at the Bull. He really didn’t fancy it; just thinking about seeing Lauder and Bryce gloating was enough to make him want to throw up. His mind was awash with thoughts of the Limping Man; Lauder had never traced him, never came close. Brennan knew he was better than Lauder, he had more invested in catching the bastard, but pros had a way of ducking under the radar and this guy was obviously good, very good.
Brennan crossed the road at the Foot of the Walk. The town was being dug up to make way for trams that never seemed to materialise. He played with the idea of skipping Bryce and Lauder’s celebration, but there was a definite advantage to be had from seeing them with their guards down. He made his way to the Bull. The tram works had been going on for years, had driven some of the firms on the Walk out of business, and now there was talk about the trams only going as far as York Place because of a financial crisis. It made Brennan shake his head as he looked at the statue of Queen Victoria. What the hell was going on with this city? he wondered.
In Pitlochry he had been reminded that there were other places to live, places with clean air and clean buildings. Green spaces and bins that got emptied. Drunks safely tucked away in their middle-class homes instead of spilling from every shopfront. He had grown tired of the city, was exhausted by it. As he put his hand in his pocket he felt the picture that Lorraine had given him. He toyed with the idea of removing it, looking at his growing child, but he didn’t want to risk being seen by someone. Instead he removed his mobile phone, dialled Lorraine’s number.
‘Hello, Rob.’
‘This is getting ridiculous.’
‘What is?’
‘Oh Christ, stop with the shrink-speak.’
‘If you like.’
Brennan moved the phone to his other ear. ‘I need to see you.’
A note of sarcasm: ‘At last a window opens in your diary.’
‘Say when.’
‘Tonight?’
Brennan sighed. ‘I can’t make tonight.’
‘Brilliant! Why did you call, Rob?’
‘Look, I do need to see you. I just can’t make tonight.’
‘Well, when?’
‘How about Monday?’
She raised her voice: ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
If he was, he didn’t get the joke. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Rob, you have an appointment with me on Monday . . . I am still your doctor, remember?’
He had forgotten about the session, must have pencilled it in before he was handed the case by Galloway. ‘Well, Monday it is then. I’ll try to be on time.’
‘Don’t try too hard.’ She sounded harsh. ‘Goodbye, Rob.’
She hung up. Brennan watched the phone’s light go out, then moved off at a slower pace than before.
The Bull was a cellar bar, dark and dingy. When he arrived DC Stevie McGuire spotted him coming through the door and went to greet him. ‘Hello, sir.’
‘You can drop the honorific, Stevie, we’re off duty.’
‘Okay, boss . . . I’m kidding! What can I get you?’
‘A pint, heavy.’ Brennan watched McGuire order up the drinks and scoped the bar for familiar faces. Lauder and Bryce were already knocking them back, holding court in the window seats. Prominent positions so no one could miss them. As Lauder caught sight of Brennan at the bar he raised a glass in salute. Brennan nodded, pressed out a weak smile. The bastard was having a laugh with him.
McGuire brought his pint, sat it on the bar counter; Brennan retrieved it, supped. He always stuck to just one pint on these occasions. It didn’t do to get drunk in front of colleagues. It was a weakness and that was the one thing everyone on the team was looking out for. Wullie had always told him, ‘Have a drink, enjoy a drink, but don’t let the team know about it.’ Getting drunk meant getting out of control and when that happened, mistakes were made. Brennan couldn’t afford mistakes in his position. Mistakes were for people like Lauder; he’d make one soon enough, and when he did Brennan was going to be there to roast his balls over a hot spit.
‘You’ll have heard the good news, then?’ said McGuire.
‘About Her Majesty?’
‘Yeah . . . Think that’s her official title now, isn’t it?’
‘She fucking thinks it is already.’
‘Still, better for us if she’s sweet. And she’ll be off to the top floor . . . Slim chance of us bumping into her.’
‘She’s not off yet.’
‘True. And neither are we.’
Brennan brought his pint up to his mouth again, sipped, lowered it. ‘We still have some moves.’ He looked at the glass in McGuire’s hand. ‘How many of those have you had?’
He jutted his jaw. ‘Two. This is my third.’
Brennan took it out of his hand. ‘Get yourself an orange juice.’
‘What? I thought I was off duty.’
‘You are . . . And I’d like it to stay that way for both of us, so orange juice for you tonight.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McGuire slumped off.
‘And I told you about that before.’
A nod, thin smile, paired with a wink.
Brennan walked over to the table where Lauder and Bryce sat. He took his pint with him and put it down as he greeted them. Bryce stood up. ‘Sit down, Brycey,’ said Brennan. ‘Just coming over to give my best to the team.’
Lauder looked away, sneering. He picked up a glass and tipped it back; the ends of his moustache caught stray static around the rim as he lowered his drink. ‘Very kind of you, Rob. I’ll be sure to bear it in mind when I’m making up the duty roster next week.’
Laughter rung out around the table. Brennan looked at Bryce, who seemed embarrassed; he was a good enough sort, but Lauder was digging a grave for himself.
Brennan picked up his pint again. ‘Don’t get too cocky now, Ian. There’s a bit of time left before you get your feet under the table.’
Lauder smoothed down the edges of his moustache. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? . . . Expecting to clean it up on the weekend?’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Not fucking many. I think you’re delusional, son. We want to get that Fuller woman a more powerful torch to shine in your ear.’
A couple of sneers turned to laughter, but most stayed quiet around the table now. Lauder had stepped over the line; Brennan knew it and so did everyone else. Bryce got out of his seat. ‘Come on, Rob, I’ll get you a drink.’
Brennan put a cold eye on Lauder as he turned for the bar. His pulse kicked, adrenaline spiked, but he had mastered keeping those out of sight long ago.
‘Sorry about Ian,’ said Bryce. ‘He’s a prick sometimes.’
‘Just sometimes?’
‘Well, most of the time. Look, don’t let him get to you, eh.’
Brennan touched the detective’s elbow. ‘It’s fine, Brycey. Go and enjoy your night. You had a good result, the boys deserve it.’
Bryce returned to the table and McGuire approached, orange juice in hand. ‘What was all that about?’
‘That? . . . Nothing at all.’
Brennan took another sip from his pint and watched an exchange of words between Bryce and Lauder; there seemed to be a disagreement. Brennan wished he could place money on the outcome. Lauder got out of his seat and picked his drink up from the table. A beer mat stuck to the base of the glass as he quaffed the last few swallows. The mat hung on for a few seconds then floated to the floor. Lauder slammed down the glass and stomped for the door. Bryce raised his hands in mock defiance but he was flagged down.
‘Right, Stevie, you ready to roll?’ said Brennan.
‘What? I just got this orange juice – two fucking quid it cost.’
‘I’ll buy you one later, come on.’
Brennan followed Lauder out onto the street. He watched him get into his car and put his phone to his ear.

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