Read Truth Lies Bleeding Online
Authors: Tony Black
Truth Lies Bleeding (10 page)
Tierney dragged his legs back into motion, made for the kitchenette and started to fill a pot with water. There was a small gas burner with a blue canister. He lit it and placed the pot over it to boil. As the water heated he walked back to Vee and the child. ‘The Deil better sort us out.’
‘Do you think he won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s not sure.’ He raised an arm, a thin finger extended towards the child in Vee’s arms. ‘About that.’
‘He was before.’ She seemed nonplussed, already looking towards the possibilities.
Tierney nodded. ‘He’s not sure now . . . He said he was, but then . . .’
Vee moved the child to her other shoulder, jutted her jaw. ‘But then what?’
Tierney heard the water boiling up, turned. Vee grabbed his arm as he moved. ‘But fucking what, Barry?’
‘Got to get the milk.’ He pulled his arm away.
As he went to the kitchen, Vee followed him. She watched him take off the saucepan, drop in the bottle of milk.
‘Barry, we can’t mess this up. We need to get sorted out or he’s going to lose patience. You know what that means.’
Tierney faced her. ‘I know.’
He didn’t want to think about being in debt to Devlin McArdle. He’d seen what happened to people who had run up sums they couldn’t pay back to the Deil; the idea he might join them scared him. He had thought he had the answer but now he wasn’t so sure. It had all gotten out of control, so much so that he couldn’t think of a way out. He couldn’t see any possibilities.
As the pair stared at each other there was a loud knock on the door. It sounded twice, then became a thud. Next was the sound of the post-slot being rattled and a familiar voice yelling in for them, ‘Open the fuck up!’
Vee stopped patting the baby’s back. She was the first to speak: ‘It’s him . . . the Deil.’
Chapter 12
BRENNAN WATCHED LAUDER. His lips were pinched but he had ceased to whistle. As he stood, an arc of piss sprayed the urinal. The expression on his face was hard to analyse – somewhere between startled and slightly chuffed. He turned away, looked down, shook, then zipped up. He regained composure quickly, began whistling again. It was an irritating tune, some chart rubbish, thought Brennan, something that might once have been worthy but had been milked dry by a television talent show.
Lauder brushed past Brennan, left him in no doubt about what his impression of the DI was – as if he was in any doubt after catching his comments from beyond the cubicle door.
Lauder said, ‘If you think I care two shits for you hearing any of that, you’re wrong.’
Brennan turned slowly. He removed his hands from his pockets and folded them behind his back as he faced Lauder in the wall mirror, said, ‘Do you think I do?’ He managed a sneer on the last syllable. He was sure it had the effect he was after.
Lauder pushed the soap spray, put his hands under the taps and got a lather going. He’d abandoned the whistling completely now.
‘This is a new low even for you, is it not?’ said Lauder.
Brennan held schtum.
‘I mean, you know I don’t rate you as a cop, but I never had you down as a cock-watcher.’
Brennan laughed it up, kept his powder dry.
Lauder continued, ‘I know you had that little flip-out there, nice bit of leave, but seriously, are you sure you’re right in the head yet?’ Lauder walked round Brennan. He shook the excess water from his fingers as he went. At the towel rail he pulled the blue cloth tight and smirked.
The scene had played just how Brennan had predicted it so far. There had been a time, in his younger days, when he might have given the lank streak of piss a slap, cracked a few ribs maybe. But not now. He’d passed that stage. Learned to control himself. The rough stuff, the physical blows, were rewarding but short-lived. He wanted to leave Lauder wondering, keep him guessing, and it was best to file his comeuppance away until a later date. There was always the satisfaction to be drawn from the knowledge that Lauder didn’t have the intelligence for it, and he could be mentally tortured for a long stretch of time.
Brennan tapped his hands where he held them behind his back. He returned the sly smile to Lauder, spoke: ‘Game on.’
‘What?’ said Lauder. He turned from the towel rail. ‘What are you saying to me?’ He took two steps closer, expanded his chest and dropped his head in a combative stance.
Brennan widened his smile, keeping his posture firm. He felt secure enough in his capabilities if the confrontation became physical, but he was in control and kept up the mental assault. ‘Funny what you pick up if you keep your ears open, isn’t it, Lauder? I mean, I thought that reporter had been tipped off, but you can never be sure, can you?’
Lauder twisted his expression, brought up a finger, pointed it. ‘Look, if you’ve got a mole, that’s fuck all to do with me!’
Now Brennan stepped up. He brought his hands round and slowly rubbed them together. ‘If I’ve got a mole, Lauder, I’ll find him . . . And when I do, he’ll be lucky to stay on the force as a dog catcher.’
There was a moment of silence between the two men. The filling of the cisterns could be heard, the drip of ageing pipes. ‘Ah, fuck this,’ said Lauder. He sidestepped Brennan and stomped away. As he grabbed the handle the door clattered off the wall; the swish of it pushed a breeze towards Brennan. He watched Lauder leave and turned to the mirror.
For a moment his eyes failed to register the man staring back at him in reflection. When they did he moved closer, placed his hands either side of the wash bowl and sighed. As he emptied his lungs Brennan knew that things had just got more difficult for him. He knew his first priority was to find a killer. There was a dead girl. A young girl, not much older than his own daughter, had been desecrated. There would be a family, people who needed answers. Hurt, confused, desperate people in a state of helplessness. He knew how they felt – there was no misery in the world like it. And, as ever, there would be a murderer hiding somewhere, wondering if the police were coming; honing survival instincts. It was Brennan’s job to catch that murderer, to find justice for the girl and her family. He took his job seriously. It galled him to know there were people on the force like Lauder who just didn’t get it.
Not like he did. They didn’t come close.
In the corridor Brennan straightened himself, headed for the incident room. As he opened the door there was a cackle of voices, some movement, activity – everything stilled for a second or two as he walked to the front of the room and stood before the whiteboard. Some pictures had come back from the photographer and had been stuck up. Brennan looked them over. There were more on the desk in front of the board; he picked those up. The girl looked even paler than he remembered. Her light-coloured hair, stuck fast to her brow, seemed to have darkened in contrast. The images were stark. He placed them back on the desk. The team started to assemble themselves around him, awaiting a formal address. He gathered his thoughts, looked up, eyes front.
‘Right, you don’t need me to tell you this is a particularly brutal assault on a young life . . . Even by Muirhouse standards.’
There was no reply; they listened.
‘We have an approximate time of death and all the likely causes of death stand out. We have theories, but no leads . . .’ Brennan turned to McGuire. He had avoided eye contact with the DC since entering the room and now he put him on notice that he was expected to perform: ‘Stevie, what did you get from the prints?’
McGuire held a blue folder at chest level, then lowered it as he spoke. ‘Erm, as you know, the arms were removed from the victim and recovered approximately . . .’ He turned to the folder, toyed with the idea of opening it but thought better of it. He continued, ‘Well, close to the scene the arms were recovered. We’ve no prints on file.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Okay. So, that’s an unidentified victim . . . Listings, Stevie . . . What did you get on the missing persons?’
‘Right, well, I have a list.’ McGuire went to his desk, produced a bundle of pages. ‘There are upwards of maybe three hundred girls missing in the country right now.’
‘How many matching our victim’s description?’
McGuire turned to a WPC, presented a palm. She answered, ‘I’ve been through most of the list, and got about a dozen possible . . . but—’
Brennan cut her off. ‘Get that list to Stevie right away.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Something in the corner of the room seemed to have attracted a small clique’s attention. ‘What is it?’ said Brennan.
‘The TV news, sir,’ said a PC. ‘They’re running an item on the case.’
The team gathered round the small screen. ‘Turn it up,’ said Brennan. There was a hush in the room as the item played. Brennan caught sight of the footage of himself turning up in the squad car. There were a few giggles around the room.
‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Hardly fucking Hollywood.’
The incident room watched the broadcast. Occasionally the scratching of a pencil tip was heard, a comment made, but mostly the mood was attentive until the girls who found the corpse appeared.
‘Oh Christ Almighty,’ said Brennan. ‘How the fuck did they get to them?’
Heads dipped, bowed.
‘Thought as much . . . Bloody hell, Stevie, tell me we’ve got statements.’
McGuire squirmed. ‘Erm . . . yes, from the scene.’
‘I know we had statements at the scene – I thought you were bringing the girls in!’
‘Erm, I thought you were dealing with that, Lucy . . .’ McGuire turned to another WPC.
Brennan immediately spotted the blame-shift. ‘Don’t fucking leave it to Lucy . . . Get them in!’
McGuire, subdued, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
When the news item was over Brennan picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television. The screen fizzed, went blank. His mood was serious. His tone sent electricity round the room. ‘Right, the media’s out the traps on this already, so we’re going to have to move it,’ he said. ‘Stevie, get a statement out through the press office.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nothing fancy, just the basics . . . Appealing for witnesses, that sort of guff.’
McGuire offered an opinion: ‘It could actually play to our advantage.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I mean, we might get some leads from the telly slot.’
As Brennan watched McGuire write down his instructions, he knew he would have to have a word with him. More than a word, perhaps.
‘Or it might send our murderer running for the hills,’ said Brennan. Media interest was only useful up to a point. Mostly it meant added pressure, thought Brennan, and that he could well do without on this case. He hoped McGuire, naïve though he was, might be right, but he knew the top brass got fidgety when the news crews took an interest.
McGuire nodded, spoke up: ‘Yes, sir.’
Carpeting the DS was a risky strategy after the run-ins with Galloway and Lauder. Brennan didn’t want McGuire to go marching back to Galloway and give her more ammunition, but then he might do that anyway.
He watched the top of McGuire’s head. There was a strange parting there – hair sort of half spiked and half fringed. Brennan knew he didn’t understand this generation, couldn’t work them out – they seemed to be wired up differently. If that was the case, he’d have to rewire DC Stevie McGuire soon. The job at hand was too important not to.
Chapter 13
DI ROB BRENNAN KNEW MOST people were miserable. The first time he had encountered Thoreau’s dictum: ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, was like an epiphany. Life is drudge; it affords the majority of people just enough comfort to stave off the nagging rage at the injustice of their existence. A bellyful of cheap booze; escape through vicarious sporting victory. It is a pathetic life for them, he thought. He passed judgement not in a critical, arrogant way – he meant it in the true meaning of the word, worthy of pity. It was what got him through the day. Dealing with the ignorant and ill-mannered was workable if you didn’t lower yourself to their base emotional states. He had always frowned on those who reacted to rude waiters or receptionists or bank tellers – what was the point? With people so low on the life-rewards scale, you can’t reason. Every action and reaction is aimed at redressing their low rating, clawing back some modicum of self-worth, levelling the world they despise. You can try to remonstrate, take them on on your terms, but it always ends the same way: with the rolling up of sleeves. It is easy to be brought down to their level – impossible to raise them to yours.
Brennan knew he had a difficulty with DC Stevie McGuire. The lad, and he was a lad, had never impressed him. He didn’t take the job seriously, and this was a job you could not take any other way. He had McGuire’s number, as they say, and it didn’t amount to a fraction of what it should. The boy was typical old-school Edinburgh: the type whose first question – once they’ve passed a favourable judgement on your accent – is what school did you go to? They never ask out of idle curiosity, or to make conversation like other people; in Edinburgh, they ask to see if you are part of their club. Brennan was a part of no club; he did not join in.
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