Truth Lies Bleeding (8 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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As Brennan stared into the mirror, assessing his lot, he realised none of it added up to who he wanted to be. There was a void he couldn’t fill. He turned from the mirror, looked towards the row of cubicles and selected the one nearest the door. As he entered, Brennan put down the toilet seat, sat. He leaned forward and slid the bolt into the catch. As he eased back he sighed. For a moment he let his head rest on the cold wall tiles, then he removed his wallet and the newspaper cutting he still carried inside.
He read the date; it never changed: Thursday, 11 June. The paper hadn’t had time to yellow yet. He unfurled the cutting at its crease. It seemed pathetically small for such an important piece of news. Important to Rob Brennan. The edges of the paper were starting to deteriorate, little nicks and tears making it look flimsy; it would soon be too fragile to touch.
He read the headline first:
POLICE PROBE LOCAL MAN’S SHOOTING
. That always made him shake his head; they were still probing the case. There was a subheading on the article which read:
FORCE BAFFLED BY DAYLIGHT KILLING AT FARMHOUSE
. He had almost memorised the rest:
The shocking midday shooting of a much-loved and respected Glasgow builder was being investigated by Strathclyde Police today.
Andrew Brennan, 37, was shot three times at point-blank range in what police have confirmed bears all the hallmarks of a ‘gangland hit’.
Mr Brennan, a father of two, was undertaking refurbishment work at the farmhouse on the outskirts of the city when the incident occurred at around 2 p.m. yesterday. His wife and children were said to be in shock after the news and being comforted by friends and family. Floral tributes appeared outside the family’s Bearsden home soon after the news broke and well-wishers continued to gather on the doorstep until late in the evening.
Those who knew Mr Brennan described him as a popular and much-loved local figure.
Councillor Tom Fulton, who worked alongside Mr Brennan in the construction industry, said it was ‘heartbreaking news’.
Cllr Fulton commented: ‘I knew Andy since he was a boy. He came up with his dad, Gregor, and took to the business with great enthusiasm. He was a lovely, decent, solid bloke and this news is just heartbreaking. My thoughts and feelings are with his family and Jane and the boys right now.’
Police confirmed they were not investigating any links Mr Brennan may have had to underworld activities. They said no positive identifications had yet been made but several witnesses had reported seeing a ‘limping man’ in the area and they appealed for anyone with any information to come forward.
Detective Inspector Ian Lauder confirmed: ‘We are exploring all avenues but proceeding on the assumption that this tragic incident was a case of mistaken identity.
‘There is no indication of any wrongdoing on Mr Brennan’s part whatsoever and likewise we have been unable to establish any connections to organised crime.’
He added: ‘Several people did attest to there being a man with a pronounced limp in the area and we are keen to locate him in order to eliminate him from our inquiries.’
No funeral arrangements had been released at the time of going to press.
Brennan smoothed down the edges of the newspaper cutting, stared at it without taking in the printed words. It was becoming an artefact, a holy relic of the brother he once knew. Brennan berated himself for being so weak, for allowing himself to torment his emotions, self-flagellate. Why did he carry the story around with him? He knew every word of the short piece by rote. Reading it again and again didn’t make him feel any better, but he knew what it did do: it kept his anger aflame. He needed these little reminders to himself that no one had solved his brother’s murder, and the longer it went on, the less likely it was that his killer would be found.
The door to the gents banged open; loud chattering bounced off the walls. For a moment Brennan was thrown. He was still deep in his reverie, but then the tones took on a familiar sound. He knew the voices, and they were two people he’d have paid to eavesdrop on. Slowly, he slid the newspaper cutting back into his wallet, and his wallet into his jacket. He raised his shoes from the floor and tucked them on the rim of the toilet pan; it was an uncomfortable seating arrangement but necessary. The door latch was loose and slid from its catch easily; it would show green for vacant on the other side if anyone looked.
The voices cackled. The most prominent was Lauder’s.
‘I’m sure Galloway fancies me, you know that?’
‘Oh, really.’ It was McGuire, playing the straw-man role.
‘Every time I’m in her office she’s leaning over me, flashing the flesh an’ that.’
McGuire laughed, played up: ‘So, you think it’s her
orifice
she wants you in?’
Loud guffaws. Brennan sneered inwardly.
‘You could say that, Stevie, you could say that . . . You see, the thing with me is, I get a lot of women coming on to me like that.’
‘I see . . .’
‘They want me for a shag, think I’ll be good for a bit of the old wham-bam-thank-you-man . . .’
‘No strings attached, eh?’
‘Exactly, I just give off that kind of vibe, y’know, and I’m discreet – ask your missus, she’ll tell you.’ Lauder burst into laughter. He sounded like a teenager to Brennan.
When the laughter subsided, the topic of conversation touched on something that was more interesting to the DI in the toilet cubicle.
‘What about Brennan, then? Must have put the shits up him to see Aylish from the
News
there,’ said Lauder.
‘I hear he wasn’t chuffed . . . Apparently she near lamped him with a voice recorder. Jesus, what a picture that would have been. Galloway would have had his balls for earrings . . . !’ McGuire’s voice halted.
‘What is it?’ said Lauder.
‘Nothing.’
‘No, come on . . . What’s up?’
McGuire exhaled loudly, his words coming out like a puncture. ‘I’m getting kicked about on this case already.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I just . . .’ He held schtum. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’
‘No, say . . .’
McGuire sounded livelier: ‘They say Brennan’s a top operator, don’t they?’
Lauder bit: ‘Do they?’
‘I mean, that’s the word about the station, that he’s a good cop and has landed some good collars in his day.’
Lauder arked up, ‘You fucking fancy him now?’ The DI raised his voice: ‘I’ll tell you this, I don’t rate him and I’ve been in this game long enough to know who the top operators are, son.’
McGuire didn’t respond. The atmosphere in the toilet block seemed to have cooled. Brennan felt his legs start to ache. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold them up for much longer.
The sound of a tap turning, the splash of water, took over from the silence. A hand dryer blew out a violent blast.
‘I’ll catch you later, Ian,’ said McGuire.
Lauder didn’t answer.
Brennan waited for the creak of the door. He let the hinges sigh and the wood kiss the jamb before he stood up. Lauder had started to whistle; as Brennan opened the cubicle door he saw the DI pitching up on his toes as he relieved himself into the urinal. He had his head facing the tiled wall, but cocked it sharply to the side as his colleague appeared.
‘This’ll be where the pricks hang out then,’ said Brennan.
Chapter 10
DEVLIN McARDLE WAS SITTING IN the Wellington Café on London Road when the cabbies came in, asked for the television to go on. They saw McArdle and nodded, took some more nods from the bloke behind the counter and moved to sit at the rear of the premises where the dusty windows faced the street. The PVC seats squealed as the men lowered themselves down. The cabbies looked over the greasy, laminated menu and clawed at the new prices that had been stickered over the old; there was already a rim of sauce and crumb-dust ringing the white tabs. McArdle looked the other way, towards the television. He waited for the midweek football results to come on. He was only interested in the fortunes of Heart of Midlothian but in the absence of a fixture for his team, scanned the rest of the division. They were all losers to him – anyone not on the Deil’s side was a loser.
‘Can you believe the run United are having?’ said the bigger of the two cabbies.
‘Dundee United?’said McArdle. ‘Fucking Scum-dee . . . Who cares what kind of a run they’re having? Do they even have a stadium up there? Does the manager take the strips home for his missus to wash? There’s only one team: Hearts . . . The fucking glorious Jam Tarts!’ McArdle felt his face warming as he spoke. He knew his voice had risen because there was an old couple sitting at the front of the café who looked at him. They had to crane their necks over a rack of vinegar bottles to see him. Their effort bothered McArdle; he didn’t like being put on show. ‘What do you fucking want, Granny?’
The elderly couple turned away immediately, dropping gazes back to their fish teas. The cabbies laughed it up. The bigger one spoke: ‘Nice one, Deil . . . Showed them!’
‘Fucking pair of p-r-i-c-k-s-s-s . . .’ He stretched out the word for effect, savoured the sound of it on his tongue. For a moment he seemed satisfied within himself, but the expression soon changed. ‘Right, what you pair got for me?’
The cabbies dropped hands in their inside pockets, removed rolls of banknotes. They were mixed denominations, tightly bound and held by elastic bands.
‘These are a bit fucking light,’ said McArdle.
The thinner of the two, a stubbly chin and chalk-blue eyes, said, ‘No one’s got the money, big man.’
‘What do you fucking mean, no one?’ McArdle’s eyes widened. He showed his bottom row of teeth – they were yellowed, stubby.
‘It’s the recession an’ that,’ said the other man.
McArdle slammed his fist on the table. The elderly couple flinched; the woman dropped a knife. ‘Since when did schemies feel the pinch? They’re on the dole, on the rob.’
The pair looked at each other. McArdle knew he had them scared. He grabbed one by the shirt front. ‘Don’t you be coming to me for gear, taking the fucking gear, and then not selling it. I’m not a fucking charity, right?’
‘Yeah, I know . . . I know.’
‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’
‘We’ll go back out.’ The cabbies turned to each other, nodded. ‘We’ll go back out. No bother.’
The old man and woman crossed to the counter to pay up. They hadn’t finished their meals. McArdle blared, ‘You’re fucking right you will. Get down to the Links and crack onto the brasses. There’s no recession for punters looking for blow jobs last time I heard. And if they’re not on it, get them on it . . . Right?’
The pair nodded. ‘Yeah, sure. Sure.’
McArdle stood up and the two men followed. As they did chairs scraped on the laminate flooring and put a scare on the old woman. She hurried towards the door. ‘Boo!’ yelled McArdle. The couple increased the speed of their steps and McArdle laughed as they fumbled with the door handle. ‘Night-night, you old p-r-i-c-k-s-s-s.’
As the door closed McArdle returned to the cabbies; his demeanour returned to assault mode. In a flash he fired out a fist. It caught the large man clean on the nose. His head shot back on contact and he stumbled into the orange plastic chair he’d just left. The back of his thighs caught the tabletop and stopped him from falling to the floor. He was dazed, his eyes rolling wildly in his head.
‘Take that as a taster,’ said McArdle. He held up a roll of cash. ‘You come back to me with a bundle like that again and it’ll not be your nose I’m bursting next, it’ll be your fucking head with one of those big cleavers out the kitchen.’
The man behind the counter laughed as he turned a dishtowel over his shoulder. The cabbies turned for the door, the bleeding one helped by the other.
McArdle raised a thumb to them. ‘What do you make of that pair of pussies?’
Shakes of head. ‘Can’t get the staff, eh?’
‘Hard times, I tell you . . . Hard times.’
McArdle sat back down and the waiter brought him over a mug of coffee. As he counted out the takings, separated it into denominations, then clear plastic money bags, McArdle glanced idly at the television. The football scores had finished and the Scottish news headlines were being read out by a pretty young girl in a red party dress.
It was the same old stories: job losses, strikes. Some eighty-year-old in the finals of a talent competition. None of it interested McArdle. He only liked the news when there were serious crimes reported. Then he would shout at the screen, blast the criminal’s idiocy. He knew better than most how to make crime pay. No one was ever going to put the Deil behind bars again. He’d spent the eighties in Bar-L, had a stint in the Nutcracker Suite. He’d learned all he needed to know in there about staying out and he’d put it into practice every day since.

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