because that’s how the people that inhabited this world acted. The stress levels rose, the tension rose, and you had to find a way of releasing the valve that held them inside.
What continued to surprise Brennan, the longer he was on the force, was the sympathy, the heartfelt sorrow that officers showed those in grief; it affected those on the force every bit as much as the family. Even old hands, those who had learned to compartmentalise the job, showed their hurt, their disgust, from time to time. Grief could seep out over a pint or after revealing the death to the victim’s family, but the abreact came and, when it did, it drew a squad closer together. The family’s pain touched you, became your pain.
Brennan knew that another family’s hurt was about to become his own. It was a perverse form of vicarious sadism, to know that he was about to share the burden of strangers’ misery, worse was to know he had done it before and continued to do it. How could he remain human, how could he continue to function? At times like this, the job was a test of sanity. He could halt his reaction, lock it away and forget about it. But he knew he was kidding himself, it would still be there, and would surface at some moment when he was unawares. It didn’t matter how it was triggered, over a crossword puzzle, a familiar patch of carpet that reminded him of the victim’s home, it didn’t matter, it would be waiting, and that was that.
‘Over here,’ Brennan pointed to a small end-terrace house on the road McGuire had just turned into. The garden was neatly tended and the property looked to have been well cared for, one of the few in the street. ‘One with the silver Corolla outside.’
‘I see it,’ said McGuire. He pulled up behind the car.
Brennan nodded, released his seatbelt. ‘Well, we can be glad the press haven’t got here before us.’
McGuire tutted, ‘We’re ahead of the posse for now you mean.’
In the street two teenage boys kicked an empty can of Cally Special between themselves, they laughed loudly as they went; the noise from the can and their laughter rattled up and down the street. Brennan looked at them in their skinny jeans, arse cheeks on show beneath exposed underwear and then he looked at the Sloans’ house. He approached the pair, adopted a gruff tone, said, ‘Pack that clatter in.’
The boys stopped still, turned to each other and passed a long stare between them; one of them kicked the can again. Brennan produced his warrant card, closed in on the teenager. ‘Pull your head in, son, or I might be tempted to run you in.’
The boy flicked his long fringe, sparked up, ‘What for?’
Brennan jutted his head forward, ‘Insulting a police officer, jaywalking, having ginger hair or cheek and bloody impudence… the choices are endless. Tempt me.’
The boy swept back his fringe, pushed his friend roughly to the side; they stropped off towards the other end of the street. Brennan watched them go — waited for the inevitable single-digit salute — then walked towards the house. McGuire was already at the gate, holding it open with an outstretched arm. He tipped his head towards the DI, said, ‘Ready for this, sir?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
The doorbell chimed, a dog barked behind the frosted glass. It was a small dog, the white blur of its outline was seen at their feet as the door was opened by a man in his fifties. His hair was grey and wiry, sitting flat on his crown but sticking out from behind his ears. His skin looked mottled, he seemed tired, like he hadn’t slept for days.
He coughed, then, ‘Yes.’
Brennan showed his card again, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is my colleague, DS McGuire… may we come in and talk to you?’
At once the man shrunk before them, his knees seemed to have buckled. ‘Oh, Jesus. God, no.’
Brennan reached out, steadied him with a hand on his elbow. ‘It would be best if we came inside.’
The man turned slowly, there was a call from further in the house, a woman’s voice. ‘Davie, who is it?’
He didn’t answer, merely led the officers through the narrow corridor to the living room. Brennan took in the surrounds, it was a small house, nothing flash, but had been well taken care of. The carpets were new and the furnishings didn’t look to be that old; in some of these council properties the decor was like stepping back in time. It said a lot about the family, he thought. They cared about appearances, and those that cared how they looked often cared what was said about them in such neighbourhoods; of course it could just be that they thought they were a cut above the rest. One wage, never mind two, was a rarity in these homes.
‘What’s this?’ A woman was standing in the middle of the floor, she drew her cardigan tight. On the couch behind her sat a man in a tracksuit and trainers. The man who had answered the door went to her side, placed an arm around her.
‘It’s the police, love.’
She shook her head, said, ‘No. It’s not my Lindsey… Have you found her?’
‘It would be better if you sat down, Mrs Sloan,’ said Brennan.
The man in the tracksuit stood up. He was a thin, angular man with outsized hands that sliced the air like rotor blades as he showed he was holding some papers, said, ‘I should probably be on my way now, Mrs Sloan.’ He fumbled with the papers, looked unsure of what to do with them, then bunched them together and placed them on the couch behind him. He seemed at a loss now his large hands were empty, stood rubbing them together in front of Brennan and McGuire.
Mr Sloan spoke, ‘That’s fine, Mr Crawley.’ He turned to the officers standing in his living room. ‘This is, I’m sorry I don’t know your first name…’
‘Colin…’
Mr Sloan took his lead, ‘Colin is from Lindsey’s old school… The kids were putting out posters, with her picture and, well…’ He lost all enthusiasm for his explanation, exhaled slowly, turned to his wife. Mrs Sloan’s lower lip trembled, her husband guided her to a chair, eased her into it. He watched her for a moment, ran a palm over her back and then went to the window ledge and removed a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
Brennan shook his head.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ said Mr Crawley. He continued rubbing his hands, seemed suddenly conscious of the action, then stopped abruptly and placed them in the pockets of his tracksuit. ‘She was never one of my pupils but the school is a small community and when we heard, well, the kids wanted to do something.’ He turned to the couch, leaned over and picked up one of the small posters the pupils had been sticking up in the neighbourhood. ‘They designed them themselves.’ He held it out.
Brennan looked at the man for a moment then reached out a hand to take the poster. He was from Edinburgh High; Brennan knew the school well — his daughter went there — the thought brought the Sloans’ grief even closer to home. ‘Thank you.’
Mr Crawley smiled and nodded, made his way to the door, said, ‘I’ll see myself out, Mrs Sloan. God bless.’
Brennan watched him leave the room, thought about questioning him but knew this wasn’t the time or place; he waited for the sound of the front door closing, the room seemed to bristle with energy. The Sloans focused on the DI as he spoke, ‘I’m afraid I have some very distressing news for you.’
The woman cried out, ‘Oh, no.’
The man watched her lower her head into her hands and sob. ‘Is it
… Lindsey?’
Brennan nodded, ‘We found the body of a young woman that we believe to be your daughter this morning.’
The woman started to rock gently on her chair, the man approached her, placed a hand on her head. She buried her face in his side and gripped him round the waist. He continued to pat the back of her head. ‘What happened?’
Brennan caught McGuire’s gaze shifting to meet his, he turned back to the man. ‘We’re still trying to ascertain that; there will be a postmortem later today, or tomorrow.’
The word seemed to pass a bolt through the woman, she sobbed uncontrollably.
The man raised his cigarette to his lips, his face was firm, stoic. ‘I don’t understand. Why?’ He shook his head, ‘I mean, who would want to…’ He looked down towards his sobbing wife, started to rub her back again. His eyes grew red and moist.
Brennan knew they needed time to take in the information. ‘Is there anything we can do… Someone we can call maybe?’
