Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2) Page 6

  Brennan felt his brain itch, ‘Did you get hold of Lorrimer?’

  McGuire raised an eyebrow, looked ready to say ‘Who?’ then, ‘Oh, profiler, Strathclyde … aye, he’s coming through.’

  ‘When?’

  The DS turned away, exhaled. ‘Well, he said soon as … I’m hoping tonight or tomorrow.’

  ‘Call him, get a definite time. And don’t tell Benny, we’ll wait until Lorrimer’s on the job before we do that.’

  ‘Yes, boss … anything else?’

  Brennan released his seatbelt, ‘I’m sure there will be, just let me get a look at the files before we plan the next move.’

  The pair left the car, headed for the front door. Charlie was manning the desk again, nodded to them from behind the pages of the News. He seemed unchallenged, content. Brennan didn’t know whether to envy him or feel sorry for him. He had his foot on the first step as his mobile started to ring. He looked at the caller ID, it was Joyce.

  ‘I’ll catch you up there, Stevie.’

  Ringing.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I want you out tonight,’ she sounded nervy, distraught.

  ‘Joyce, what are you on about?’ Brennan turned around, passed Charlie and headed out to the car park.

  ‘I want you out of our house and our lives.’

  A vision of Sophie flashed before Brennan’s eyes, ‘Well, that’s never going to happen and you know it.’

  ‘We’ll see about that … How well do you think your affair will go down with the divorce courts?’

  ‘Joyce …’ His affair was almost a year ago, he hadn’t seen Lorraine in that time and he had no intention of changing that. ‘Why are you bringing that up now?’

  There was a gap on the line, some shuffling. He heard her inhale a cigarette. ‘I’ve changed the locks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard … And I’ve packed up your things. There’s two suitcases sitting in the garage, you can come and collect them when you like, but don’t try coming to the house.’

  ‘I want to see Sophie.’

  Joyce tutted, ‘Since when? You don’t normally have any time for her.’

  Brennan felt confused, his thoughts spiralled. Of course he had time for her, it was the job alone that kept him from seeing her. ‘You’ve no right to do this … You’ve just no …’

  ‘I’ve every fucking right. Every fucking right after what you did to us!’

  ‘Joyce, get a hold of yourself.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fucking together,’ she was roaring now, roaring into the phone.

  ‘Can we talk about this at least? I mean, where am I supposed to go?’

  ‘Why don’t you go to your slut, Rob? … Huh? Why don’t you go there?’

  She hung up.

  Brennan stared at the phone for a moment, then quickly turned towards the station. He hoped no one had seen him engaged in the call; his home life was something to keep separate, the two worlds could never mix. He pocketed the mobile and started to walk back towards the building. His thoughts filled with Sophie. How would she feel? How would she react? He tried to press delete on those thoughts but their impressions remained. He felt hollowed out like the hull of a shipwreck. He halted in mid-stride for a moment and tried to gather himself; a blackbird swooped on the car park, raised its yellow beak and set off again. Brennan watched the bird, wings spread, as it crossed the cloud-covered sky and felt he was watching a part of himself being carried away.

  The DI steadied himself some more; this wasn’t the time or place for ratiocination, for dissecting the failure of his marriage. The job always had to come first, always. He returned to the station, his gait slow, but sure.

  Upstairs, in Incident Room One, there was some activity but Brennan’s gaze alighted on McGuire and WPC Elaine Docherty smiling at each other like there was no one else in the room; he approached the whiteboard, turned to DS Collins, ‘This all we have on the Sloan girl?’

  Collins leaned back in his seat, ‘Sally, anything to stick up?’

  ‘No, not yet. Once they’ve done the postmortem there will be.’

  Collins returned to the DI, ‘That’s it for now, sir.’

  ‘What about Smeeton’s door-to-door?’

  A shrug of shoulders, ‘There weren’t any doors really, nearest house was a couple of miles away … and it was a pitch-black night, remember.’

  Brennan shook his head, returned to the board. The background details were sketchy, they had an address and a place of work but there were no friends, boyfriend listed. ‘Collins, what’s happening with all this fucking white space?’

  The DS rose, approached the board. ‘Well, Lou is down at the travel agent where she worked, talking to her colleagues, and he’s going to follow up any names that come from there. And Bri is going through her history, school and previous jobs … There’s nothing standing out, though. She seemed very ordinary.’

  ‘Check out everybody she’s had contact with in recent years – youth club, local pub … if she knew a bus driver with a fucking speeding ticket I want him brought in. Got me?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And Collins …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Interview her classmates from school … She’s not long out the place, she’s likely kept in contact … Facebook generation and all that. Anything, no matter how insignificant, fire it up to me.’

  Collins nodded, he looked as if he was about to say something, raised a finger towards the board, but Brennan cut him off. He spoke in hushed tones, ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’

  Collins turned round, Brennan watched over the DS’s shoulder as the Chief Super and DI Jim Gallagher walked down through the incident room.

  Gallagher nodded, ‘Rob, how’s it going?’

  ‘Fine, Jim … is this a social call?’

  The Chief Super hitched his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as he looked at the board. ‘Everything ticking along all right, Rob?’

  Brennan nodded, ‘Yes. Just fine.’ He watched the Chief Super peer over the details that had been written up in marker pen then quickly remove his gaze as he caught sight of the bloody photographs.

  ‘Right, well, got a moment, Rob? Something Jim and I would like to talk to you about?’

  Brennan felt his spirit shrivel inside him; he looked over at Gallagher, he was smiling. Not a real smile, a false, painted-on one. They were up to something and Brennan knew it. He pointed towards his glassed-off section at the other end of the room.

  ‘This way, then,’ he said.

  The Chief Super headed for the office, Gallagher laid up behind Brennan and let him go first, motioning him to go ahead with the palm of his hand. Brennan paced out, but he didn’t like the thought of Gallagher descending into obvious politesse – it made him feel wary.

  The Chief Super took Brennan’s chair, sat. The two DIs stood there like schoolboys before the headmaster.

  ‘Is somebody going to tell me what this is about?’ said Brennan.

  Gallagher laid a blue folder down on the desk, ‘You better take a look at this.’

  Brennan reached forward, picked it up; it contained details of an unsolved murder case. There were pictures of the victim, bound and tied, her name was Fiona Gow. As Brennan scanned the files he immediately saw the similarities to the murder of Lindsey Sloan.

  He said, ‘These deaths are five years apart … you think they’re connected?’

  Gallagher readied himself to reply; the Chief Super stepped over him. ‘We don’t know, Rob.’

  Brennan bristled, ‘Then why are you showing them to me?’

  ‘We believe,’ said Gallagher, ‘there may be a connection.’ He leaned forward, plucked a photograph from the file. ‘Look at the ligatures, the genital mutilation … and the eyes.’

  ‘It’s almost identical,’ said the Chief Super.

  Brennan had to agree, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He could see where this was going; he now knew why Gallagher had been snooping aroun
d in his earlier briefing. ‘I’ll need this confirmed by the lab.’

  ‘Of course. But I can tell you now, this was my case, Rob, and the killings are identical,’ said Gallagher.

  The Chief Super edged an opinion in, ‘I would have thought you’d welcome Jim’s input in this situation, Rob.’

  Brennan leaned forward, closed the file. He was staring at Gallagher, but talking to the Chief Super when he replied, ‘You never solved this case, did you, Jim?’

  Gallagher faltered, his mouth opened but no words came out. He seemed to recover quickly though. ‘We came close.’

  ‘Not close enough, Jim. If you had we might not have Lindsey Sloan’s name chalked up out there.’

  Gallagher’s face flushed, he seemed to inflate. The Chief Super rose, stepped between the two men. ‘Right, well, I was going to suggest some co-operation on this case between you both, given the undeniable similarities …’

  ‘That’s not what we discussed …’ burst Gallagher.

  The Chief Super flagged him down, ‘Rob, I’d like you to take Jim onto your team, he’ll report to you …’ He looked at Gallagher, ‘For the time being.’

  Brennan’s head buzzed, he felt like an angry wasp had got in there. He looked at Gallagher and then back to the Chief Super. He didn’t know which one to despise the most. He knew Gallagher had cooked this up, it was trophy hunting, he was after the case because it was the biggest one going. Benny, though, he was just playing the only game he knew: divide and rule.

  Brennan held himself in check, kept his tone low and flat. ‘And if I object, sir?’

  ‘Object all you like, Rob,’ said the Chief Super as he reached for the door handle, ‘it won’t make a blind bit of difference.’

  Chapter 10

  NEIL HENDERSON AWOKE with a blowtorch burning behind his eyes. His head throbbed, soundly and persistently. His mouth felt like there was something in there, something alien, a sponge perhaps or blotting paper – something that absorbed all the moisture. He had forgotten how hard it was to return to old habits. Even alcohol; your resistance was never the same after a short spell away. It took time and repeated bouts of abuse to build up tolerance; he wondered how long it would take him.

  Henderson rose on the mattress, Ange was still sleeping at his side; she had passed out long before him. He remembered her hysterics, the fit of near panic, and the terror on her face as she shrieked out. What the hell was wrong with her? He had seen all kinds of bad trips, he’d seen withdrawals where punters thought their demons had taken them over – it was all inside their heads. Henderson knew Ange was losing it; Christ, she had just about lost it before he went away, so where did that put her now? He turned, eyed her bare back where she lay on the mattress, her shoulders shivering.

  ‘You’ve got some problems girl.’

  He lifted the covers, exposed her naked frame. ‘Still got a fine arse on you, though.’

  Of course she had, he thought, the girl was only twenty. It would take a fair few years yet – even at her rate of intake – to totally wreck herself. He ran his hand over her backside, down the edge of her thigh. ‘Few bawbees to be made off that yet!’

  Henderson pulled back the cover, started to shake Angela by the shoulder. She turned over and fumbled her way to his side of the bed; as she grabbed his groin, lowered her head, the move seemed altogether mechanical, too practised.

  ‘Hey, hey … What the fuck you up to?’ said Henderson.

  Angela carried on, seemed barely aware of his presence.

  ‘I’m talking to you.’ Henderson grabbed her hair, twisted a handful of it; it took some tightening of the knot to alert Angela, wake her from her daze.

  ‘Ahh …’

  ‘Sort yourself out, eh,’ said Henderson. ‘Sit up, I want to talk to you.’

  Angela reached hands to her head, her eyes widened. Immediately she seemed to have wakened, fell into a coughing fit.

  Henderson flared his nostrils. ‘Look at the fucking kip of you, who’s going to pay for a skank, eh?’

  Angela rubbed her head, ‘What was that for?’

  ‘To wake you up … Seen the time?’

  Angela looked towards the window; it was dark outside. Time she should be out on the Links, scoring punters. Henderson tweaked the tip of her nose, ‘You hearing me?’

  ‘Aye, I hear you.’ She pushed his hand away, withdrew to the far side of the mattress. ‘You got any fags?’

  ‘Fags is it?’ Henderson put one foot out of the bed, tried to hook a toe under his jeans, dragged them over. He took a packet of Club Kingsize out of his pocket, sparked up, then chucked the packet at Angela. ‘This better not be the start of you scrounging off me, you know I can’t be doing with that kind of patter … There’s no free rides in this world, Ange.’

  She took out a cigarette, put it between her lips and lit it. ‘I’ll get out there in a minute, Hendy … Just have a quick fag, eh.’

  Henderson got off the mattress, pulled his jeans on; the belt buckle rattled as he fastened the buttons. When he was fully dressed he went round to Angela’s side of the room and crouched down.

  ‘See that way you went off there, when I put the telly on …’ he watched her press the cigarette into her mouth, inhale deep. ‘What was that all about?’

  She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  Henderson grabbed her face in his hand, ‘I’m not playing fucking games with you, Ange … I want to know.’ She yanked her face away. He saw the imprints of his fingers in the white flesh of her jaw line. He wagged a fist at her. ‘I mean it, if I’m going to be looking out for you, I need to know that you’re fit for it and not going to be getting fucking locked up … Not worth my time, is it?’

  Angela looked away, pinched her lips. Her eyes flickered as she raised them towards the ceiling. Her reply came hard and flat, ‘I’m fine.’

  Henderson knew she was keeping something from him; experience had taught him that when whores had secrets there was a good reason for it. Someone else was stamping their mark on them; they had a few quid stashed away; or a secret punter that was paying big. He didn’t know what it was that Angela had to keep quiet about but he knew he needed to find out. He grabbed her by the throat, pinned her to the wall.

  ‘Now you better fucking loosen that gob of yours, or I might be forced to close it once and for fucking all … You get me?’

  Angela whimpered, her eyes reddened – intricate little red lines like fine cracks in pottery appeared over the whites. ‘It’s nothing … nothing.’

  Henderson gripped her throat tighter, forced his thumb deep into the crevice of her neck; Angela started to splutter, gasp for breath. Her face darkened as he brought the cigarette up to her eye.

  ‘How many fucking punters do you think you’d score out on the Links with one eye, eh?’ He moved the glowing amber tip of the cigarette to within an inch of Angela’s eye, pointed it like a dart. ‘I’ll fucking do it … I will.’

  ‘OK. OK. Let me go.’

  ‘And you’ll tell me?’

  ‘Yes. I will. I promise.’

  Henderson released his grip on her neck; Angela fell forward and landed face down on the mattress. She shot hands up to her throat as she coughed and gasped for breath. She was still spluttering as Henderson loomed over her and inhaled deeply on the cigarette he had threatened to blind her with.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ he said.

  She coughed again, some long trails of spit escaped her mouth.

  ‘I’ve not got all fucking night!’

  Angela forced herself up onto her knees, her thin fingers traced the line of her throat as she tried to massage some of the pain away. She looked ready to fold again, pass out. Henderson reached over and yanked her to her feet; he was surprised by how light she was.

  Angela shrieked again, as she stood, shivering and naked before him.

  ‘Right, talk …’ he said.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek, ‘I-I can’t …’

  Henderson lit up, he drew back a fist.
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  ‘OK. OK,’ yelled Angela.

  ‘I’m losing the fucking rag with you, girl …’

  She gripped her waist in her arms, spoke softly. ‘Can I show you something?’

  Henderson’s face shrivelled into confusion. ‘Show me what?’

  ‘It’s just, I’ve never told anyone before.’

  ‘Told anyone what?’

  Rain started to patter on the window; Angela looked away, slowly got down from the mattress and walked towards the other side of the room. By the doorway sat a small coffee table with a drawer in the top; she opened up and removed a Yellow Pages. Underneath the directory sat a little mauve-coloured diary. ‘I wrote it in here.’

  ‘Wrote what?’ said Henderson.

  She held up the diary, she seemed to have trouble even looking at it. Some more tears rolled over her cheekbones. ‘What happened … out there.’

  Henderson stubbed his cigarette in the smoked-glass ashtray by the mattress, walked towards Angela. He snatched the diary out of her hand. ‘This is like a fucking notebook.’

  Angela watched him turning over the pages. ‘It’s a journal … I used to keep it, before I met you.’

  Henderson held it up, ‘Well, what the fuck’s in it?’

  Angela looked towards the window, it was dark out and the rain was getting heavier. ‘I need to go. We’ve no money.’

  ‘What about this?’

  ‘You asked what it was about … It’s in there.’

  ‘So I have to fucking read this?’

  Angela nodded, moved away. She pulled on her black mini-dress and stuck her bare feet into her heels. As she put on her coat she saw Henderson flicking through the diary.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Tell anyone what?’

  ‘What’s in there.’

  He looked at her, smiled. ‘I haven’t read it yet … so I guess that all depends, doesn’t it?’

  Chapter 11

  NEIL HENDERSON WATCHED Angela teeter towards the front door of the cold-water flat in Leith. He didn’t know what to make of her. The tart had gone downhill, rapidly, since he went inside. They were all the same, none of them knew how to look after themselves. She hadn’t even put on a bit of lipstick: what kind of punter was she going to score without even a bit of lipstick? Some of them, he thought, just weren’t worth the bother.