Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2) Page 13

  ‘Remember, call anytime. OK?’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  He engaged the clutch, found first gear and pulled out. At Shandwick Place the city streets filled with a slow, somnambulant trail of office drones. They slopped down the pavement in silent procession towards home and freedom from the workaday world. Brennan knew life was toil – endless hours given over to mundanity and minutiae. He knew his life was; the job wasn’t all high-speed car chases and adrenaline rushes like Hollywood portrayed.

  From an early age the importance of work – the concept, the philosophy – and the consequences of going without work had been drilled into Brennan like a Calvinist dirge. His father had known no better – he had lived all his days to slave away, save the pennies and stay in work. There was no greater achievement on Earth to him. He had longed for Brennan to go into the family firm, but his eldest son had resisted, left that honour to his brother. Andy had resented him for it and he wondered if he had made another choice how different things would have been between them.

  As he thought of his father, he knew he was lost now in retirement. Leisure time was wasted on him; the subtle joys of art, music, literature, of a film or even sport didn’t interest him. Work, toil had been his all and any suggestion of an alternative to that assumption was treated with scorn, contempt. Brennan knew there was more to life. There was a whole other world out there that had been denied to him and that he wanted to explore. He had adopted his father’s values at an early stage and – despite his antipathy to them – made them his values. He’d simply assumed so many of those formative influences that it was only now with age and experience that he could see where he went wrong.

  Brennan now wondered if he really wanted to continue in life as a policeman. Had it only been a subconscious act of rebellion? A move to disturb his father, and yet at once conform to his code of ethics? It was his age, and awareness, that made him think these thoughts. He knew at its root was his unhappiness: he was seeking an explanation for it. Was there one? Were there many? Brennan knew the cards were stacked against him – there was no alternative really. Had he rejected his father’s doctrine and taken another path, surely he would have arrived at the same point. For people like him, life was thrown at you in clumps; it was about taking the small knocks in the hope of avoiding the bigger ones. Lassitude and draining of the soul as though it were a weeping sore were the trade off his father taught him you paid against penury and ignominy. You took the repetition day after day, faced it like a man, because it’s what you are conditioned to do. When your senses, your intellect rebelled, you quashed them with alcohol, drugs, sugary foods or created distractions with football, boxing or car-crash television. In time, it became a routine, a coping mechanism. He knew the urges and wants remained, but the fight for them was lost so long ago that they were conceded without struggle.

  Brennan knew he wasn’t alone in feeling this way. It was the human condition – a malady specific to this point in the evolution of the race. We were nothing more than a brooding, amorphous mass of discontent. The streets ran to overflowing with evidence of it and that was why Brennan knew he had no alternative but to carry on, day in and day out. Much as he despised his station, it had grown to define him; perhaps there was nothing else to him now.

  The DI had toyed with the idea of dropping into the office to check on the progress of the squad but dismissed the notion outright; if there had been any developments they would have called. He knew he headed back to a grim and empty bedsit but it suited him; he was in no mood for company. A loud siren wailed, cutting through the hum of traffic and clatter of pedestrians as Brennan pulled into Leith Walk. He dropped gears, took the central reservation and snaked back towards Montgomery Street. A lone drunk was yawing from side to side in the road with a red and white striped carrier in his hand; Brennan recognised the bag as coming from the off-licence. As he parked up he kept an eye on the man as he ranted and roared his way down the street. The chip shop was open and Brennan bought a haggis supper to avoid a trip to the supermarket, then headed for home.

  Black bin bags were stacked on the street outside his front door, a dark lacustral ooze seeped from them towards the gutter; he stepped over and put his key in the lock. Inside the stairwell smelled damp, a gritty silt crunched under his shoes as he climbed the stairs. Once inside his flat, Brennan found the place in semi-darkness; the day was limping wearily into night. He placed his dinner on the table, removed his coat, and poured himself a large Macallan. As he begun to pick at the chips in their greasy wrapper, his phone began to ring, he wiped his fingers on the paper tray, reached for his mobile.

  ‘Brennan.’

  It was DS Stevie McGuire. ‘Hello, sir … Was wondering if you were coming back in today?’

  Brennan set him straight. ‘Not without a bloody good reason.’

  ‘Right, it’s just there was something I wanted to set the record straight about.’

  The DI felt a gravid pause settle between them on the line. He knew at once what McGuire was referring to but decided it was for him to open the bidding; he pushed away his haggis supper, said, ‘Now what would that be, Stevie?’

  ‘You were right about … Elaine.’

  ‘WPC Docherty … I see.’ Brennan was torn between blasting McGuire for his stupidity, or blasting him for lying to him. In the end he decided to do neither.

  McGuire spoke, ‘I shouldn’t have deceived you. That was wrong, you played me straight and I fucked up.’

  He sounded sorry, but Brennan was unsure if he had fully learned his lesson. ‘Stevie, don’t you ever fucking lie to me again, even a pissy wee white lie, do you get me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His voice had lowered to a whisper. ‘Where will this … go?’

  Brennan knew what he was asking, and it wasn’t the same as what he wanted to know. The DI would be within his rights to drop McGuire from the murder squad; at the very least he had been tested on his loyalty, and found wanting. It was not conducive to a solid working relationship. He edged forward on his chair, the floorboards creaked beneath him. ‘How would you like me to answer that question, Stevie?’

  A pause.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What I mean is, should I laugh it off … play it like we’re all boys together?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to …’

  ‘Or should I change the habits of a lifetime and play it by the book; now what would that entail I wonder. To be honest with you Stevie, I don’t fucking know what to do. Because after an initially shaky start it has to be said, until today I thought I had your undivided loyalty.’

  The DS’s voice rose now. ‘Rob, I mean sir, you do. You know you have my loyalty. I made a mistake, I’ve apologised.’

  Brennan let a gap of static extend on the line, said, ‘How serious is it, with you and WPC Docherty?’

  Another pause, a huff. ‘I’d be compounding the error if I said it wasn’t serious, boss.’

  Brennan ran his fingers through his hair, he was grateful for McGuire’s honesty but the reality of his statement hit like a hammer blow. He had put WPC Docherty on undercover with Collins and he didn’t want to lose McGuire either, especially with Jim Gallagher unsettling the squad. ‘Jesus Christ, Stevie couldn’t you keep it in your fucking pants?’ his voice rose like a howitzer. ‘This is all we fucking need.’

  ‘Sir, I’ll stand down if …’

  ‘Shut it, Stevie. Leave the thinking to me, eh … Be in early tomorrow morning, we have things to discuss.’

  He hung up.

  Chapter 22

  NEIL HENDERSON STARED across the bare boards of the grimy Leith flat he shared with Angela Mickle towards the front door and drummed fingers on the tabletop. He had spent the last day and night dreading a knock. He knew he had just about run out of time to repay Boaby Stevens and one of his boys would be around again soon. The next visit would mean a serious beating, breaking bones, something visible so others got the message that you didn’t miss payments to Shaky. Henderson felt tense
, nervy. As a key turned in the lock he sat bolt upright; it was Angela. She staggered through the front door after her night on the Links. He watched as she leaned herself against the wall, slipped off her heels and removed her jacket. She looked exhausted, but at the same time, she looked too wrecked to even know it. She was out of it, as usual.

  Angela had collected a dark bruise on her neckline; Henderson thought to ask her about it but then realised he didn’t care enough to bother. He watched as she limped a few steps to the stain-patched grey mattress and threw herself down, he saw the soles of her feet were dirty and he wondered when she had last washed. The thought jarred in his mind; her shelf-life on the Links was just about up. No one was going to pay for a filthy junky, he thought. It was time for him to start looking for a new source of income.

  Henderson strolled over to where Angela had flung herself and now lay semi-comatose on her stomach. He kicked at her foot, ‘Hey, how much did you make?’

  She waved a vague hand towards her jacket that lay rumpled on the floor beside her shoes. Henderson followed her actions, then walked towards the bundle and picked it up, rifled the pockets. ‘This it?’ He removed two handfuls of tens and fives, threw down the jacket; some coins and condoms spilled on the floorboards. He took the money with him to the other side of the room; by the window he sat down on the broken wicker chair and started to count out the cash. It was less than ninety pounds.

  Henderson shook his head, he felt a burning sensation behind his eyes, not quite a pain, more of a hot flash. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, girl … Not even a ton? What the fuck have you been doing all night?’

  She flapped a hand over her head, she was out of it. Gone. He knew it would be a few hours before he got any sense out of her. She had been out on the Links, got just enough money to shoot up and then grabbed a couple of quick punters to have a few quid to hand over, make it look like she’d been busy. She was suiting herself, not him. Her priority was the smack and he wasn’t even in her sights after that had been fired up. Henderson felt the hot flash behind his eye burn deeper into his head, his jaw gripped tightly. He was going to get something out of her though, something that he wanted, even if it meant beating it out of her. He rose again, hitched up his trousers and removed his belt. He held the buckle in his hand and began to wrap the strap around his fingers, once, twice, until it was good and tight. He looked at the belt; it was thick leather; he smiled to himself then raised it high above his head: as he brought it down heavily upon the table the loud whack of its contact made Angela sit up.

  ‘What you doing, Hendy?’

  He walked over to her, stood with the belt in his hand, tapped it off his leg. His heart pounded beneath his T-shirt.

  ‘Hendy? … What are you doing with that?’ Her voice trembled, her eyes darted between the flapping belt and the fist that held it tightly.

  Henderson smiled, a weak smile at first, then it grew up the side of his face like a smirk. He felt Angela’s fear, her terror growing with each second, and he drank it in.

  ‘What did I say to you?’ he said. He could feel the blood surging in his veins, his arms tensed.

  Angela put her hands out behind her, started to edge backwards on the mattress, towards the wall. Her feet pushed her back in a slow, cautious movement. Henderson watched her feet, saw they weren’t just dirty on the soles, they were caked in filth that rested in her high arches and sat between her toes. He raised the belt, his chest expanded briefly as his shoulder swung, and then he brought the leather down upon her legs with a loud smack.

  Angela curled over and screamed, she brought her hands towards her legs. Henderson lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, ‘What did I say to you?’

  She was crying now, tears streaming down her red cheeks. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  Henderson raged, ‘Too fucking right you don’t. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told you … I’ve fucking lost count.’ He brought the belt up to her face, paraded it in front of her eyes. ‘I’ll take the fucking skin off you … Every fucking inch of it. I mean it. Do you fucking doubt me?’

  Angela raised her hands from her legs, tried to grab at Henderson’s arms as he struggled with her. He knocked her arms down, forced the fist with the leather strap into her mouth and she fell heavily to the exposed floorboards. For a moment she was lifeless, lying like a doll on the floor and then she started to shift her head from side to side, moaning all the while. Henderson stood over her, dangled the leather on her face; as he did so he saw her open her mouth; her teeth were bloodied.

  Henderson knelt down, draped the belt over Angela’s neck and positioned his hands either side of it. As he pressed down he watched her struggle, her legs thrashed, her nails dug into the belt as she tried to free herself. Her face tightened and grew dark, her eyes started to bulge. When he was sure she was about to pass out he released the belt but kept his knee in her chest.

  ‘Now, I want that teacher’s name, Ange … and I fucking-well want it now.’

  Angela coughed, spluttered. She pushed at the knee on her chest and Henderson lowered it into her windpipe. ‘I’m telling you, if you think he was a bastard, you want to see me when I get going … Now give me the fucker’s name or it’s the end of the road for you, Ange.’

  She continued to struggle, her eyes tightening then bulging out once more. She smacked at the knee in her windpipe and tried to speak but no words came. She looked like a trapped animal, thought Henderson; he enjoyed the power he had over her.

  ‘Now if I let you up you better tell me what I want to know … I mean it,’ he slapped the belt off the floorboards beside Angela’s head. ‘I’ll fucking take the skin off you if you mess me about, Ange.’

  Henderson withdrew the belt, stood up slowly, cautiously. He watched Angela’s every move as he rose. She shot hands to her throat, then started to cough. She lay on the ground spluttering for a few moments and then the colour started to return to her face. Henderson continued to watch her, feeling nothing but contempt. He would gladly end her days, he thought. She was nothing. Worse than nothing. She’d been on the streets since she was seventeen, and by her twenties she was worn out, worthless. Nobody was going to be paying for her skanky arse in the years to come, she was finished. He watched her pitch herself up on her elbow, lean over and start to gag; she was always puking up. Fucking puking up or shooting up, he couldn’t face looking at her. He gripped the belt tighter in his hand, felt an urge to bring it across her face, but resisted; she could do one thing, just one thing that would pay her way.

  Angela coughed, fitted. Her eyes were veined in a red spider’s web as she slowly began to speak, ‘Crawley …’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She hesitated, tried to gather her breath. ‘The teacher, he’s called Crawley.’

  Henderson felt himself draw a wide smile. He watched as Angela toppled over once again, started to gag on her own vomit. He let her be sick, then pushed her onto the mattress with the heel of his shoe. As she curled into a foetal position he started to thread the leather belt back through the loops of his jeans. He laughed out, said, ‘Aye, well, you came good in the end, Ange … Told you it wasn’t going to be hard, didn’t I?’

  Angela brought her arms around her, started to shiver. Her eyes were closed tight; it was as if she was reliving a memory she didn’t want to see again. She looked like a small child in the grip of a nightmare. ‘You won’t find him,’ she said.

  Henderson halted, dropped the buckle in his hands, it dangled over the front of his jeans. ‘What did you say?’

  She was trembling harder now, brought her hands up to her head and gripped at her dirty blonde hair. ‘He left the school,’ the words looked like a struggle for her. ‘Not long after what happened, he moved to another school.’

  Henderson raised his hands, clenched fists, then dropped them at his sides. He put a heavy foot on the mattress and stepped forward, his eyes darted. ‘What do you fucking mean moved schools?’

  Angela’s words
were shrill and sharp. ‘He moved. That’s all I know. I don’t know where he went. I don’t fucking care.’

  Henderson got down from the mattress, walked towards the window. He stood there fastening his belt buckle, hoisting up his jeans again and tucking in his T-shirt. A dog barked outside the window as he looked into the city streets. It was early morning and suited-up businessmen were lined seriatim at the bus stop. A woman on a bicycle passed them by. Henderson watched the day unfolding before him from his first-floor vantage point and then he stroked the stubble on his chin.

  ‘He’s not fucking far away though,’ he said.

  He heard Angela stirring behind him as he reached forward and removed a Kensitas Club from the packet on the window ledge; there was only one cigarette left. He lit up, inhaled.

  ‘What?’

  Henderson continued to stare out into the city streets. A homeless man swooped the gutters for dowps, he gave up and started to beg at the bus queue. Henderson shook his head; a woman with a dog was crossing the road now.

  ‘I said, he’s not far away … Crawley.’ He savoured the word, his new knowledge was power to him.

  Angela pushed herself up on the mattress, brought her knees under her chin. ‘I don’t know that.’

  Henderson turned from the window, pointed his cigarette at her. ‘Aye, well I do. And it’s best you leave the thinking to me.’

  She rubbed at her shins, said, ‘How, though? How do you know?’

  Henderson had turned away from her again, he leaned forward, his nose pressing hard to the window. As he spoke, his breath frosted the glass. ‘Because if he’s up to his old tricks, like they said on the news the other night, then he must be in Edinburgh.’

  Chapter 23

  HENDERSON’S PLAN WAS a simple one, but it involved one more piece of help from Angela. After waking from a doze and watching her fitful dreams for a few minutes he realised he wasn’t able to sit in the flat with her; he decided to let her sleep off her fix for a few hours. The place stank anyway, it was utterly rank. Worse than prison. There were pools of vomit on the floor; used works scattered every where; used condoms. How could he live like this? He didn’t want to be there any more, but he had nowhere else to go, no money. Certainly not the type of money he needed to repay his debts to Boaby Stevens. The thought burned in him, haunted his every thought like an incubus.