Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1 Read online

  Galloway pinched her lips, slapped the door. ‘Now. Right now.’

  Chapter 8

  DI Rob Brennan watched his Chief Super staring at him across the room. He could feel the burn of her gaze — she’d slit her eyes for effect and Brennan wasn’t convinced by it. If she was mad, really angry, she’d have no need to embellish it. After a hard slap on the door she started drumming her painted fingernails, seemingly impatiently, but Brennan wasn’t buying that either. He had grown accustomed to her bouts of high drama. It was a show; she loved an audience. What was it Wullie had called her? An actress. One of the lads from the Met that he’d been on a course with — a prat, full of management-speak — had known Galloway in her early days, before she’d got on the turkey runner. He’d said: ‘She likes the visibility, but lacks the credibility.’ Brennan had stored the statement away, but thought it an overly ornate way of describing what Wullie had managed with one word.

  Brennan refused to let his emotions play on his face. He knew his shoulders had tensed automatically but there was nothing he could do about that and he knew it wouldn’t be seen through his outdoor coat. Galloway had her audience: a WPC and some civilian administrators halted their actions to better view the goings-on. The one nearest, a matron-type with a twinset and dripping Morningside smarm from every pore, slid her glasses down her nose to better peer at him. It took a strong concentration of the will not to snap fingers in her face and put her back in her place, but Brennan resisted. There was nothing to be gained from letting anyone else know what you were thinking — you did that, you lost your edge. Keep them guessing, keep them wondering. If you gave anyone any information, they only used it to judge you on. In the workplace this was especially true: the forced union of opposites indeed bred contempt and no one was immune to the typecasting that went on at water coolers and in the canteen.

  He was a so-and-so… Such-and-such are all the same… He’d heard it all.

  The trouble with people, Brennan thought, is that they don’t really like each other. All contact is false, and forced. They wear masks, different ones for different occasions. When the masks come off, or you get a peek behind them, the truth comes out. We are all out for what we can get, we are users and after a certain level, or is it age, all we are capable of is measuring our self-worth against each other. It was pathetic, sickening even. He knew there were exceptions, he knew he wasn’t a misanthrope because he could still be amazed, moved, shocked even, when he was proven wrong. However fleeting and rare the occurrence.

  Brennan took his change from the coffee machine. He heard the nozzle fizz, cease pouring, and he watched the bubbles set on the brim of the plastic cup but didn’t pick it up. As he straightened his back, he put his change from the coin slot in his trouser pocket. He kept his hand there as he walked towards Galloway’s office.

  The Chief Super watched Brennan approach for a moment then backed inside. The DI had expected her to glance into the wider office to see how much attention she had garnered — this was her usual way. She would carpet someone from her door, then yell to the room, ‘Get back to work.’ It was the curtain-fall on her theatrics that the workforce had come to expect, but she seemed to be playing it cautiously with Brennan. He started to worry about what had passed between Lorraine and the Chief Super earlier in the day. He was sure Lorraine still had his best interests at heart, but he’d tested her mettle lately and she had a temper. She was still holding all the cards. As his force-appointed therapist she could decide when or if he rejoined the ranks permanently; at least, she had the power to influence the decision.

  Brennan stepped into the Chief Super’s office; it felt like getting into a bear pit. He removed his hand from his trouser pocket and reached for the door handle. The blinds on the back of the door, and all round the glassed office, had been drawn.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Galloway. She was curt, brusque even. She stood over her desk with her arms folded. Brennan had heard somewhere that this was a defensive posture. He didn’t think that was her style, though — Galloway was a classic ‘attack is the best form of defence’ type and they both knew it.

  Brennan pulled out the swivel chair, sat. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘We’ll come to that… What’s the SP?’

  The DI relayed the details of the case: a summary of the crime scene; the position of the corpse; the SOCOs’ findings; his assessment; his instructions so far.

  ‘I think she’s probably local,’ he said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘It’s Muirhouse and looks sloppy. I don’t think there’s any reason to believe that someone planned this, dumped her there-’

  Galloway cut in, ‘Why?’

  ‘Exactly… You’d go somewhere less obvious. I think the girl was killed near by and then dumped close to the scene. The removal of the limbs could have been to make the drop less obvious — smaller bags are easier to carry about.’

  Galloway leaned over the desk; her heady perfume attacked Brennan’s nostrils. ‘Then why the move to obscure the prints and dental?’

  Brennan leaned back, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘I don’t get that at all… Maybe it’s to throw us off the scent. Or a last-minute cover-up. It says hurried, rushed to me. That kind of obscuring of ID would only make sense if the girl was known to us… Of course, maybe she is — we don’t have the arms yet.’

  Galloway tutted. ‘Yes we do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A paper boy’s dog found them in an Aldi carrier bag… Was just a couple of streets away.’

  Brennan felt a firework go off in his head. ‘When did this come in?’ He had expressly told DC McGuire to report all findings to him straight away.

  ‘Don’t have a cow, Rob. It came in about half an hour ago.’ She leaned back again, put her hands on her hips and pushed out her breasts. ‘Or are you more upset that DC McGuire disobeyed you and told me first?’

  Brennan riled, ‘I’m the investigating officer.’

  She slapped her hands on the desk. ‘And since when does that give you the right to call all the shots?… You’ve some balls, Brennan.’

  He stood up, laughing. ‘Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me, ma’am.’

  ‘Sit!’ She pointed at the empty seat. ‘I am far from finished with you.’

  Brennan snapped, ‘Well, you better make it quick because I want to find out what else I’ve missed out on in the last half-hour.’

  Galloway removed her chair from under the desk. It was luxuriously padded and covered in black leather. Slowly, she eased herself down. Brennan heard her cross her legs below the desk. Her voice came low and flat: ‘Rob, don’t think about undermining me, I won’t stand for it. You’re old enough and ugly enough to know how this works — I will not think twice about a public crucifixion if you piss me off.’

  Brennan looked away. It was on his mind to tut, but he let it pass, drew in his composure, said, ‘I understand. I’ll be a good boy.’

  Galloway’s tone changed again, brightened: ‘I hear you’ve dropped another rung on the station’s popularity rankings as well.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She smiled. There was pink lipstick on her front teeth. ‘Lauder was in here pissing on your chips.’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘He’s just a whining bitch.’

  Galloway seemed to object to the remark. ‘I thought he had a point… Were you trying to get his back up turfing him out like that?’

  ‘No. Look… Lauder’s had the shooting case on the go for long enough and produced squat all. The next move for that case will be a filing cabinet and you know it.’

  The Chief Super looked at the watch on her wrist then spoke up. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with your brother’s shooting, does it?’

  Brennan felt his jaw clench, then release. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t play coy, Rob. You know Lauder was on the Strathclyde team then.’

  Brennan didn’t like to delve into the past;
he had enough trouble with the present. He certainly didn’t like discussing his brother with Aileen Galloway — who the hell was she to bring him up? She wasn’t family, and it wasn’t any of her business. Brennan started to gnaw at the inside of his cheek. He resented the fact that she’d taken the conversation in this direction, but he felt he couldn’t avoid commenting. ‘And what a team they were — hardly the fucking A-Team.’

  ‘I’ve seen the files: it was a thorough investigation.’

  Brennan had seen the files too. He’d pulled strings and indebted himself at the favour bank for years to come, but he couldn’t let on about that. Instead he called her bluff. ‘Really?’

  Galloway crossed her legs again. ‘Yes, I asked for the file when you were on sick leave. I thought it responsible in my position to be apprised of all the variables.’

  Christ Almighty — Brennan knew she was looking for something to burn him with. It was a typical management witch-hunt — she’d done the same with Wullie. Galloway wanted young blood in the station, easily pliable types, fodder. Bright new pins that were going to shine for her. Dipping into Andy’s murder file was a new low, though. Brennan felt the bile heating in his gut. He rose from the seat, swallowed hard, said, ‘Well, it’s clear you know all there is to know now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to work.’

  He strode for the door.

  Galloway stood up. ‘Rob, some free advice: you’re running out of friends fast around here. Mind how you go when you get out that door.’

  ‘Don’t let it hit my arse on the way out, you mean?’

  She flicked her hand in the air. ‘Whatever.’

  Chapter 9

  Brennan closed the Chief Super’s door harder than he should have. The blinds rattled on the windows. A couple of heads bobbed up, but this wasn’t a part of the show anyone wanted to see. The main attraction was over. Any further viewing was likely to come back with an icy blast from Brennan — his stride suggested it.

  As the DI walked he was heavy on his feet. He held his hands at his sides as though he expected to swing at someone, or fend off a blow, perhaps. His mind was awash with competing emotions, anger predominant, but he was intelligent enough to know there was no redeeming feature of anger. He had never seen his own father give in to anger; Gregor Brennan wasn’t a quiet man, but he was a calm one. When Brennan was about fifteen he recalled a fight with his brother; as the Scots say, Brennan had lost the rag. ‘Son, if you lose your head, you lose the argument,’ his father had told him. He wasn’t a man given to much wisdom or eloquence, but the few times he’d expressed his inner workings had stayed with Brennan.

  At the edge of the corridor, towards the main incident room, he spotted a pile of cardboard boxes, brimming with manila files. A few had spilled out. There was a loud exchange taking place in IR One and Brennan couldn’t face it. He touched his stomach. The other emotion, hurt — hurt at the thought of Andy’s death being bargained with — seemed to rest beneath his palm. He stroked his stomach, up and down, thought there might be a chance of sickness but dismissed it as unfeasible. Brennan couldn’t remember the last time he had actually been sick. Still, he needed to gather himself before facing the squad, and McGuire especially.

  Brennan walked towards the gents toilet; he felt lighter on his feet now. Perhaps he felt lighter in the head too. The toilet block was empty. He ran the nearest cold tap, cupped water in his right hand and splashed it on his face. The chill of it was a shock at first. He recoiled, closed his eyes and drew back the edges of his mouth. The second attempt, closely followed by a third, was more successful. Brennan brought both his hands together, filled them with cold water, and seeped his tired face. As he did so, in the darkness, he saw an image that took several seconds to materialise: it was the girl. Brennan stared at the murder victim’s pale flesh again and quickly dropped his hands towards the sink. His heart rate quickened as he shook off the drips, wiped at his brow.

  ‘Shit. Shit.’

  It was not good, seeing things. There was enough talk about him circulating in the station. Brennan put his hand back on his stomach. It hadn’t settled, but the churning was drowned out now by the beating of his heart. He moved his palm towards the fast-moving muscle in his chest. Someone had once said he had a good heart; who was it? He knew it was Joyce, but which one? The one he met and fell in love with, or the one he married and fell into domesticity with?

  ‘Get a grip, man,’ Brennan scolded himself. He was giving in to the same demons that had given Galloway the upper hand. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked different. The face hadn’t changed much — he’d kept his hair, the jawline was still firm — but it was the expression he didn’t recognise. This man looked miserable, worn down by life. What was his problem? He had his health, a settled home, daughter, wife, and the career he’d craved all his life was still there, despite everything that had happened. He even had Lorraine, the ultimate midlife crisis accoutrement; though she was far from a guilt-free vice.

  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…’