Murder Mile (15 page)

McGuire had been watching the exchange of looks. He closed in on Brennan, tapped his chin with the knuckles of his right hand as he spoke, ‘I heard there was some kind of kerfuffle earlier.’

‘What?’

‘On the stairs.’

Brennan sniffed. ‘Bloody Charlie …’

‘Come again?’

‘That who you heard it from?’

McGuire made a half smile. Said nothing.

‘Oh, I get it. Look, it’s nothing for you to worry about … You’ve got more important matters to concern yourself with, laddie.’

The sergeant’s eyebrows shot up together. ‘Like what?’

‘Like what’s going on with you and Elaine Docherty?’

McGuire’s smile disappeared completely, his chin dimpled like the skin of a lemon as he replied, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Brennan let his mind skim the possibilities, could he have picked it up wrong? He was sure he hadn’t, but decided to give McGuire a break. Chances were a subtle word would be enough for them to get the message, and after all, he was hardly one to be preaching about office romance when his own affair with the force psychiatrist had cost him his marriage. ‘All right. Maybe I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Stevie.’

‘I think you must have, sir.’

Brennan let the remark slide, but tagged a warning notice to it; he didn’t like his DS lying to him. ‘But I suppose we’ll see, in
time.’
He dipped his chin to his chest, smirked. ‘Right, about this Sloan girl …’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you to go back to her friends, get the details of all the clubs and pubs they visited when they were out on the town.’

McGuire butted in, he had a biro in his hand, raised it. ‘The night she disappeared, you mean …’

‘No, Lou and Brian have covered that. We know her movements on the night she disappeared pretty thoroughly and …’ he trailed off, his eyes glazed over as he chased a line of thought.

‘What is it?’

Brennan leaned his back on the wall, tapped the marker. ‘You can cross-reference all of this with the Fiona Gow case file.’

McGuire turned, pointed with his pen up the room. ‘Right, Collins has it just now … But what am I checking in there?’

Brennan’s voice was flat, unemotional. He was working his thoughts out on the hoof. ‘She was a hairdresser, wasn’t she … They all like a good night out. Check if she was part of the same scene too.’

‘Pubs and clubs, then?’

Brennan shook his head, ‘Pubs, clubs, names, faces … If they bought a pair of fucking dancing shoes from the same shop I want to know.’

McGuire was biting the tip of his pen now. ‘Boss, they were five years apart.’

‘I know that, Stevie, and I know the club scene changes fast but there might be something in it.’

McGuire nodded. ‘Well, we won’t know until we try.’

‘Exactly.’ Brennan eased himself off the wall, leaned past McGuire and looked down the room. ‘Who checked the last club the Sloan girl visited?’

‘Er, Collins …’

Brennan called out, ‘Collins … Come here a minute.’

Collins rose slowly, strolled down the middle of the room, eying everyone’s desktop as he went. He was chewing gum and had a
cigarette
behind his ear, but when he reached the whiteboard he looked attentive. He thinned eyes, took in the new additions. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘The last club the Sloan girl visited …’

‘Called The Rondo, boss.’

‘Aye, get anything on the CCTV?’

‘Not a morsel … All cheesy quavers and glow sticks.’

Brennan pounced. ‘Right, get yourself hooked up with one of the WPCs and get down there tonight. And tomorrow night. Ask about, casual like, not heavy handed.’

‘Oh, nice one. Paid to go on the piss.’ He grinned at McGuire, but as he checked Brennan’s expression, Collins backtracked, ‘I mean, not actually on the piss, but …’

‘Just remember what we’re doing here, eh?’ He paused, stared at McGuire again, but addressed Collins. ‘Why don’t you take Elaine Docherty with you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

McGuire looked away, Brennan saw him struggle to maintain his earlier indifference to the WPC; he knew for sure he’d been lied to now.

Brennan turned back to Collins, said, ‘And go over that footage again, anything that sticks out, check it!’

Collins’s answer came quickly. ‘Nothing stuck out, sir, she was with friends, dancing and that. We ID’d them all.’

‘Check again; if anyone’s looking at her funny – hoick them in.’

‘Clutching at straws isn’t it?’

Brennan fired up, waved the marker pen to emphasise his point. ‘Fucking right we’re clutching at straws. And we’ll keep clutching till we get a result.’

Chapter 20

DI ROB BRENNAN
turned the key in the ignition of the VW Passat and pulled out of Fettes Police Station. He had a cigarette burning in his left hand as he negotiated the gears. The sun had started to shine through the clouds, but there was little warmth in it. In puddles by the sides of the road, little iridescent patches of light played like lantern-glow. Brennan looked out to the sky, large cumulus sat like a bulwark against the blue of the expanding horizon. He knew by the time he reached Craigleith Road the weather could have changed, but he wound down his window a few inches and swapped his cigarette to his right hand in a move of defiant optimism.

In Ayr, where Brennan had grown up, he remembered nothing but sunny days. Bright, warm afternoons with long walks along the beach and games of football, with Andy playing in goal. They had enjoyed a happy, stable childhood. Was it only nostalgia, he wondered, that made him look back so fondly? Perhaps. He knew he missed his brother, but you couldn’t bring back the dead. Brennan had often thought about an afterlife, about heaven and hell and all the variations in between, but dismissed it entirely. He had seen enough of this life to believe that nothing could be worse in hell. He found his mind returning to the SOCOs’ photographs of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. How could hell not be on Earth?

Brennan dredged up some lines by the Ayrshire poet Robert Burns that he’d learned in boyhood. Burns had created a vision of depravity that still loomed large in Brennan’s mind, it was where ‘sat Auld Nick in shape o’beast’.

As he drove Brennan recited from Burns: ‘Coffins stood round, like open presses … That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses.’

The poet was supposed to be a great humanitarian, and yet he had created such an inhumane vision.

‘A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristaned bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape.’

Brennan thought it was as if the whole country had always been rotten, and here in Edinburgh was the mouldering core. As he drove, he eyed the crowd: how many knew there was a brutal murderer among them? None, except him. It was a burden he always carried, knowing that there was more to the city than people ever imagined. It was not the place of sweeping spires and cobbled streets, of mawkish sentimental Scottishness; it was a hard place. And no one knew it better than him.

With each day that passed Brennan now felt himself drawing further away from Edinburgh in spirit. The city dragged people in, the tourists flocked at Festival time and Hogmanay; the disenfranchised Little Englanders decamped there when the equity was high enough on their commuter-belt maisonettes. But the place had no root, no heart. Its historic residents had long ago got the message that if you were poor you were not welcome. They’d been pushed to the outskirts of the city, to massive dumping grounds where they were left to fester, helped along by criminality, drug abuse and state-sponsored indolence. The game was up in Edinburgh, thought Brennan, the place was choking on its own filth and he despised his role in the mess.

As the car drew closer to Edinburgh High the DI found himself trapped by a wave of guilt; how could he let Sophie grow up in a place like this? Lindsey Sloan had attended the same school as his daughter only a few years ago and she had ended up mutilated, murdered. What had happened to the place? A year ago he had
visited
the murder scene of another young girl, she had been hacked to death, dismembered, and dumped in the lee of a high-rise. He had thought of Sophie then too, worried about where she was for an instant, but dismissed the notion that any harm could come to her because she wasn’t at all like the victim, wasn’t in her demographic. He knew now that he had been wrong to think like that; Sophie was every bit as likely to be a victim now. The battle lines were growing every day and it worried him. How could he keep his daughter safe?

As he got closer to the school Brennan saw the gates were fringed with parked cars; worried parents picking teenagers up from school. He knew Sophie wouldn’t thank him for turning up like this but he needed to see her, needed to talk to her without Joyce around. He took the car into the staff car park, pulled into an empty space by the front of the building. He had a good view of the door he expected to see his daughter walking through at any moment.

As Brennan stilled the car’s engine he watched a group of teenage boys jogging from the football field, banging their boots off the wall to shake away clumps of mud and grass. It was still warm and he decided to step out of the car, remove his jacket. As he did so, a thin, angular man in a tracksuit emerged from the playing fields and raised an oversized hand. For a moment Brennan searched his memory for the man’s identity but his name remained elusive.

‘Hello again, Inspector,’ said the man. He could clearly tell Brennan wasn’t sure who he was. ‘Colin … Colin Crawley, we met at the Sloans’.’

‘Oh yes, of course … Hello.’

The man was sweating, his face flushed red. He wiped the back of his sleeve over his brow, said, ‘Been taking advantage of the good weather, bit of five aside with year six.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Good idea.’

As the man stood before the DI he swayed a little, his hair was stuck to his brow. ‘I heard about the dreadful business with …’ he leaned forward, lowered his voice, ‘Lindsey.’

The DI became aware of a slow trail of students leaving the
building;
his attention diverted to the front door as he scanned the blur of blazers and schoolbags for his daughter.

‘But of course, you’ll be here for Sophie.’

Brennan turned to face the man, he hadn’t mentioned his daughter went to the school. He felt his brows tighten as he stared at Crawley.

‘Mrs Sloan mentioned you have a daughter here …’ he looked away, brushed at a grass stain on his elbow, ‘Just a dreadful business for them … we had a memorial service, for the school. Seemed the least we could do.’ He broke away, took a step to the front. ‘Oh, here she is …’

It was Sophie. As she came through the door with two other girls, she halted in her tracks to stare at her father. She put a hand in the pocket of her blazer and turned down her head as she walked towards the car and got in without speaking.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Brennan.

Crawley raised a supplicating hand towards the car, ‘Of course.’ He stood waving them off as Brennan reversed out of the parking space.

Sophie spoke, ‘What were you doing with Creepy Crawley?’

Brennan smirked, the nickname seemed to fit. ‘Just passing the time of day, love.’

A tut, frown. ‘And could you have parked any closer? … All my friends saw you.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I don’t need a lift, I have a bus pass.’ She started to roll down her window, ‘And this car stinks of fags.’

Brennan gave a wave out the window to Crawley; he was going inside now. ‘Well, we won’t be in it for long, I thought I’d just take you for a milkshake or something.’

‘Christ, Dad … I’m sixteen.’

She said it like she was twenty-six, or forty-six, thought Brennan. He turned to her, ‘And?’

‘I don’t drink bloody milkshakes!’

The DI turned on the blinkers, pulled out. ‘OK, Starbucks then. I’ll buy you a coffee. Does that suit you?’

She slumped in the seat, tucked her schoolbag on the ground beside her feet. Didn’t answer.

The traffic was slow-moving, cars full of teenagers pulling out every few yards. ‘This is a nightmare,’ said Brennan.

‘I never asked you to come and collect me … It’s so embarrassing.’

‘Maybe I should put the sirens on, eh?’

Sophie sprang to life, ‘Don’t you dare.’

Brennan laughed as he caught her eyes burying into him, raised his hands from the wheel in mock surrender. ‘I was kidding. Kidding.’

At the Starbucks on Palmerston Place, Brennan ordered himself a black coffee and a latte for Sophie. They took the last two remaining seats in the café and sat; Sophie disconsolately resting her head on her hands in front of him.

‘Mum said you’ve moved out.’

The words came as a shock to Brennan, ‘Just like that.’

‘Pretty much.’

He eased a spoon into his coffee cup, stirred. ‘It’s not as simple as you make it sound you realise … I mean.’

‘Oh, please. Don’t go dumping all your guilt on me.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know all about this kind of thing, Wendy Cuthbertson’s mum and dad split up in, like, third year … And Claire’s split up last year. I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long.’

Brennan removed his spoon from the cup, looked for a saucer to place it in but found he didn’t have one. ‘I don’t know why, but I expected you to be a bit more …’

‘Broken up? … No.’ She spooned a layer of foam from the top of her latte, smiled, ‘It’s no biggie.’

Brennan constantly found himself blindsided by his daughter; Wullie had once remarked that he thought each generation he’d seen had got softer; as Brennan listened to his daughter’s assessment of his marriage break-up he wondered if the opposite wasn’t true. She seemed unmoved by the event.

‘I’m not sure that’s how your mum and I feel …’

Sophie rolled eyes, ‘Mum’s neurotic at the best of times.’

Brennan made sure to keep his expression clear, he was not getting into an exchange of insults with his daughter behind his wife’s back, even if she was right. Joyce did indeed live on her nerves.

‘But anyway, when I saw you at the school, do you know what I thought?’

Brennan shook his head, ‘No, what?’