Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2) Page 11

  The DI had manoeuvred himself into the Chief Super’s ambit; that wasn’t such a big deal, thought Brennan. Benny was a typical careerist, he watched out for himself. He nurtured lackeys and brown-nosers, but only so long as they were not a threat. If they evinced any attempts to climb the greasy pole to his level, he quickly quashed such incursions. Gallagher was no such threat – he was nearing the end of his days in the job, he was in handover mode. So what was in it for Benny? It wasn’t the clean up, because Gallagher had little or no chance of attaining that on his own, his previous failings on the Fiona Gow case had proven that. And Benny was too proud, too pompous to be swayed by any old-school experience that Gallagher might pass on in an avuncular, back-slapping manner; Benny was an egotist, he’d be far more likely to see himself as teaching the old dog new tricks. There was only one possibility that Brennan could countenance: the Chief Super saw Gallagher as a way of keeping one errant DI in check. Benny was using Gallagher to teach Brennan a lesson. And the lesson was, Benny was the boss.

  Brennan knew his next meeting with the Chief Super was likely to be an uncomfortable one. There would be some wrist slapping, dressed up as a retreat from the proper arse-caning that he should have delivered; then there would be a detailed account of what was expected of DIs on Benny’s watch; finally, there would be the ‘I’ve no choice in the circumstances’ speech that ended with the repositioning of Gallagher at the front of the murder squad. It was a subtle mix of management psychology and testosterone that Brennan had encountered more than once before. Wullie had said, ‘They’re all out to hack the billiards off you, Rob … It’s a miracle if you get out the force with a full set.’

  Brennan had no intention of putting his knackers in a poke for Benny or Gallagher; he liked them where they were. There was only one way to avert that outcome, however, and that was wrapping up the murder of Lindsey Sloan sooner rather than later. He wondered if he’d get the chance.

  At the foot of the stairs the desk sergeant stood with an arm resting on the banister; he eyed Brennan and ran a dry tongue over his lower lip as he indicated upwards with a nod. ‘He gone?’

  ‘Benny? … Aye, thanks for the bail out, mate.’

  ‘What’s got his goat?’

  Brennan felt his chest expand as he took breath. ‘Does he need an excuse?’

  Charlie lowered his arm from the banister, stepped closer. ‘Watch that bastard Gallagher, he’s sleekit.’

  Brennan was glad that somebody shared his opinion, but Charlie was too much of a fount of gossip to confide in, much as he liked the man. He played possum, ‘Come on, Jim Gallagher … He’s old school.’

  Charlie huffed. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘You telling me different?’

  ‘The pair of us joined up around the same time; now, I’m not saying you can read too much into this but do you think he got to be a DI by being a better cop?’

  Brennan lowered a consoling hand onto Charlie’s shoulder, joked, ‘Maybe he just had the marbles, mate.’

  Charlie bit back. ‘If it was about marbles, mate, I’d be sitting in Benny’s chair now.’ He turned for the front desk, reeled. ‘Ask Wullie Stuart what he thinks of Gallagher, he’s not a fucking fan either.’

  Brennan felt a smirk pass up the side of his face; he was glad to have Charlie confirm his suspicions, but people like Charlie were rare on the force, and getting rarer. It would take an army of supporters like him to ward off the Chief Super and Gallagher, and Brennan knew, in reality, he was on his own.

  He set out for the interview room, trying to refocus his thoughts onto the more pressing matter of what he was going to say to the Sloans about the brutal murder of their daughter. Brennan felt a band begin to tighten around his chest as he walked; he knew it was stress – the job got you like that, took a grip of you when you least expected it and tried to warn you that something wasn’t right. Brennan didn’t need any reminders.

  A few moments ago, he had been staring at the pictures of the Sloans’ daughter – pale-white against the dark of a field in night-time. They were pictures no one should have to look at; when he thought of the girl’s fate the trivia of his own life seemed to disperse, evaporate.

  Brennan reached the door of the interview room and stalled, he felt his jaw clench and he forced himself to release it. He wanted to greet the couple with an open expression. As he walked in Mr Sloan was sitting tense with the heel of his shoe tapping on the chair leg; the man was lost in thought, staring out the window at the empty, sun-crossed street.

  ‘Hello again, thank you for coming in,’ said Brennan.

  Mr Sloan stood up, his wiry grey hair sat flat on his head as he spoke. ‘Hello, Inspector, hello …’ He sat quickly, returned to a cigarette he had burning in the ashtray.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, a coffee or a tea perhaps?’

  Mr Sloan shook his head. ‘I think we’d sooner just get this over with as quickly as possible, if that’s all OK with you, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brennan turned his gaze to Mrs Sloan. She was a slight, bunched-up woman with timid movements; her eyelids were dipped towards the tabletop. ‘You’ve been to see the pathologist, I believe.’

  Mrs Sloan shut her eyes.

  ‘Yes, we have,’ said Mr Sloan.

  ‘Can I just say again, how very sorry I am.’

  ‘We know, thank you.’ He raised the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply.

  Brennan sat down, hooked his feet beneath his chair as he leaned forward with his hands flat on the table. ‘I know it’s all happened so quickly for you both, and you probably haven’t had a chance to take any of this in, but I want you to know we’re doing all we can. There isn’t a soul on the force who isn’t determined to catch …’ He realised he’d blocked himself in with his choice of words, ‘What I’m saying is, we’re working as hard as we can.’

  Mr Sloan nodded. ‘I know …’ He turned to his wife, ‘We both know that, don’t we, love?’

  Mrs Sloan sat impassive.

  ‘Can I ask, are you ready to answer some questions about Lindsey?’ said Brennan.

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  Brennan tapped delicately on the table surface, he felt his shoulders tighten at the prospect of addressing the victim’s demise. ‘Can you tell me a little about Lindsey … What kind of a girl was she?’

  Mrs Sloan answered, her reedy voice came as a shock the first time Brennan heard it. ‘She was our daughter …’ she raised her eyes, ‘what do you want us to say? Everybody loves their daughter, adores her. Do you have a daughter, Inspector?’

  Brennan nodded, ‘Yes. I do.’

  Mr Sloan grabbed his wife’s hand, ‘Lindsey was just a lassie, she was working away and doing her thing … She would never have harmed a soul.’

  ‘Did she have a wide circle of friends?’

  ‘She was a popular girl at the school, but she’d been working and seeing a few boys lately; she never had that much time for her old friends I don’t think, except for maybe one or two she went out clubbing with.’

  Brennan locked his feet under the front legs of the chair, sat back. ‘Any regular boyfriend?’

  Mr Sloan rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, ‘There was a boy, think he was a trainee mechanic … He was a nice boy, we had him to the house, y’know, but that was months ago. No, I don’t think she had a steady boyfriend, Inspector.’

  Mrs Sloan lowered her head, there were tears rolling down her cheeks; her husband turned towards her, started to rub at her hand.

  ‘Are you OK to continue, Mrs Sloan?’ said Brennan.

  Mr Sloan answered, ‘We’d sooner get this by with.’

  Brennan laced his fingers, he knew the questions he wanted to ask, he knew the information he wanted to draw from them, but he could see they were deep in their grief and it wasn’t the time to pry much further. He kept the tone of his voice low and flat, ‘You said Lindsey had some friends she went clubbing with … Where was that?’

  ‘Just the clu
bs, you know, up the town … I don’t know their names.’

  ‘Have you any idea what part of the city they went to?’

  ‘Aye, it was George Street and all that New Town bit.’ He looked to his wife, smiled. ‘She liked the trendy bars, our Lindsey.’

  The DI made a mental note, asked if it would be all right to speak to some of her friends and then he changed subject. The picture he was getting of Lindsey Sloan was remarkably similar to that of Fiona Gow, but he had found nothing to link the pair, no commonality.

  ‘Can I ask, Mr Sloan, did Lindsey ever change schools?’

  ‘No, no. Always the one school … Edinburgh High.’

  Brennan flinched, his mind reeled for a moment, then steadied itself as he recalled the case notes had said Fiona Gow had gone to Portobello Academy. ‘What about clubs, or games at school?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t into that sort of thing.’

  ‘Gymnastics,’ Mrs Sloan’s voice had firmed. ‘She liked her gymnastics for a wee while there at the school but she gave it up.’

  Brennan leaned in, ‘She gave it up?’

  ‘Said it wasn’t her thing. She took her notions, Lindsey, one minute it was all this, the next she wasn’t interested … A typical teenager,’ said Mrs Sloan, ‘How old is your daughter, Inspector?’

  Brennan took a sharp intake of breath as the question came his way, ‘She’s sixteen … Sophie’s sixteen.’

  ‘What a lovely name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You should cherish her, Inspector.’ Mrs Sloan looked out to the street, she had no more tears, but her hurt was so palpable it could almost be touched.

  ‘I think, Inspector, we should call it a day, for now,’ said Mr Sloan.

  Brennan rose, his chair scraped noisily along the floor and he winced, but Mrs Sloan didn’t falter. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,’ he said.

  The man put his arm around his wife and helped her from her chair, led her to the door. The pair looked frail, older than their years, as they shuffled slowly out of sight. As Brennan watched them go he felt a pinch in his throat; he had seen too many good people destroyed by the evil that was out there. He wanted to help them, wanted to right their wrongs, but he wondered what use he could possibly be to them now. Their daughter had been taken, there was nothing he could do to alter that; he couldn’t bring Lindsey back. The thought hacked into him, tugged out his pity and replaced it with a febrile anger.

  Chapter 19

  AS DI ROB BRENNAN walked into Incident Room One his attention was drawn towards WPC Elaine Docherty. She was standing next to the coffee machine, throwing back her blonde hair and laughing loudly. It was a scene that looked out of place in the sombre setting. Beside her, DS Stevie McGuire placed a hand on her arm – they seemed to be sharing a joke, the moment looked intimate – but the vision shattered before Brennan’s eyes as McGuire spotted him coming and made a quick retreat. Brennan let his stare linger on the pair for a moment longer, he watched the WPC pick up a blue folder and press it to her white shirt front; she quickly exited the room, averting her eyes as she passed him. McGuire closed his mouth like a zipper and manoeuvred himself clumsily behind his desk.

  Brennan approached. ‘Stevie,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The room fell into hushed silence; Brennan looked around him, heads that had sprung up dropped suddenly as his eyes roved around the room. He saw at once this wasn’t the kind of conversation they should have in the open. ‘Never mind, I’ll see you later,’ he said.

  ‘Sir.’

  As Brennan strolled through the room he felt as though he had brought in an air of anxiety; either that, or the team was unsettled. He knew they needed a break. They had been working hard, had done everything the DI had asked of them, but nothing had turned up. They needed some encouragement, a reminder that their roles were worthwhile. They were a murder squad and if that wasn’t something to be valued, Brennan didn’t know what was. He had his own troubles and wondered if he’d been neglecting the team. Was it his fault that there hadn’t been a break? Had he missed something? He checked himself; knew that wasn’t the case. Brennan had watched doubts creep in before, they didn’t carry any weight, they didn’t mean anything. They were merely reminders, prompts that kept you on track. Without the doubts, his actions – the team’s actions – went unchecked and that was something he would never allow to happen. The process was continual, non-stop. If doubts crept in, they kept them on their toes, and that was something to be welcomed.

  Brennan halted himself in the middle of the room, looked around. The place was busy enough, but there was none of the adrenaline high that came of getting close to solving a case. He needed to prod them, cajole.

  ‘Right, listen up everyone,’ he said. ‘I know we’ve not had a break on this case yet, but we’re still in the early days.’

  A chorus, ‘Sir.’

  Brennan took in the team’s gaze; he had their attention, it was important to hold it. ‘You’re doing fine, no one has put a foot wrong and as long as we keep at it, keep doing what we’re doing, then we’ll get that break. That’s all it takes, I’ve seen it a million times before: a case can rest on a single scrap of information that turns everything on its head. Keep looking. Keep turning over the stones, because that’s how we’ll get this bastard.’

  The team stood around, some shuffled; they were waiting for more. Brennan didn’t want to overdo it, but conceded to the call. ‘I’ve just spoken to the Sloans, they’re good people.’ He paused, drank in the team’s interest; he knew that they understood him. ‘That family deserves our best, so let’s bear that in mind.’

  Heads dipped, some looked at each other, exchanged mournful expressions. Everyone in the room absorbed the import of Brennan’s words; he saw that they knew what he meant: he was proud of them. There were times on the force when he wanted to throw things, turn over filing cabinets, clear his desk; but not now. He looked at his team with such affection that the thought touched his mind like a kindness.

  Immediately Brennan withdrew into himself; it wasn’t right to show his sentiments. ‘Right, that’s all. Back to work.’

  The DI strode towards the whiteboard, eyed the photographs that had been stuck up of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. He stood with one hand in his trouser pocket and with the other he removed the black marker pen from the thin shelf and started to fiddle with the cap between thumb and forefinger. His mind was flitting to and fro, between the meeting with the Sloans and what he knew about the case as it stood. The Sloans had not given him much to go on, but what could he expect? They had just lost a daughter, he had felt their anguish every second he had been with them. It was painful to watch. The woman was ruined; she would never be the same again. How could she? How could anyone recover from that? What they were going through was not something you could adequately comprehend; his mind darted towards Sophie once again. She would be getting out of school soon, there would be no one to collect her from the gates because she was too old for that now. But was she? The girls on the whiteboard weren’t much older than Sophie. Brennan felt an urge to pick up his daughter, hold her in his arms and keep her safe. The urge had presented itself before; at first he had thought it was a side-effect of the job, but now he knew it was nothing to do with it. It was about being a parent, about wanting to hold on to your child for ever. He had seen that in Mrs Sloan and he knew her devastation was drawn from the realisation that she could never keep her daughter close to her, and now she would never see her again.

  Brennan removed the cap from the marker as in his peripheral vision he spotted DS Stevie McGuire and DI Jim Gallagher approaching. McGuire seemed to be striding ahead of the older DI; he looked back towards him as if he wondered why he was being followed or just what Gallagher was going to ask the boss. His eyes told a story all of their own: he clearly had Gallagher down as a challenge to his position as head boy. He reached Brennan first, said, ‘Well, how did it go?’

  Th
e DI turned from the whiteboard, put a stare on Gallagher then moved his gaze towards Stevie. ‘Not well.’

  ‘Did you get anything?’ said Gallagher, his voice rising with an unnatural inflection.

  Brennan stood before them for a minute, let them digest his manner and then turned to the board. He wrote the word ‘nightclubs’ and suffixed it with a large question mark. ‘She did the George Street scene,’ he said, his voice was matter of fact, blunt.

  ‘Pricey on a travel agent’s wage,’ said McGuire; he said it to the DI but was looking at Gallagher as he spoke.

  ‘Trainee travel agent,’ said Brennan ‘but we don’t know how much of a regular she was. Maybe she was drinking lemonade, maybe someone was buying her drinks for her …’

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ said Gallagher. He sounded over-eager, his vowels clipped and prim as a schoolmaster. He turned from the board, brushed past McGuire and had the receiver of a telephone raised to his ear when Brennan stopped him.

  ‘No, I want Stevie on that. I’ve something else for you, Jim.’

  Brennan faced the board, raised the marker and drew a sharp line from the picture of Lindsey Sloan, topped it with an arrowhead and wrote the word ‘gymnastics’.

  He turned to face the others.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ said Gallagher.

  ‘Just about the only thing her parents could remember her taking an interest in at school … There might have been some kind of club, some kind of social scene. I don’t know … But that’s the whole point. I want to know.’

  ‘She’s a wee while out the school, sir.’

  ‘I know that,’ Brennan’s voice rose, ‘I also know we’ve got nothing out of the group of friends she’s been associating with so far, or the old school pals we contacted. Her Facebook buddies and so on. This might be a stretch, Jim, but it’s a new line of enquiry and I’m not going to ignore it … Get on it right away and report back to me.’