‘Morning, Stevie… Sir.’
The pair nodded, McGuire spoke, ‘Is the doc still about?’
‘Aye, Pettigrew, miserable bastard’s been bending my ear for the last half hour.’
‘What’s his problem?’ said Brennan.
Collins made a fist, shook it up and down, ‘The guy’s a wanker… that’s his problem.’
Brennan didn’t acknowledge the remark, exited the car. A chill blast caught him as he stood in the road. He fastened his top two buttons, turned up his collar and called out to Collins; the DS moved round to the other side of the car.
‘Boss?’
‘Got any smokes?’
He looked relieved, ‘Aye, sure.’
Brennan removed an Embassy Regal, cupped his hand around the tip as Collins lit him up. He took two swift pelts on the cigarette then looked around the scene. It was miles from anywhere, and yet still close enough to the sprawl of the city. In an hour or two the bypass would be clogged with commuter traffic.
At the front of the lay-by an old Ford Escort was parked. There had been a car just like it at one of the first crime scenes that Brennan attended as a junior officer. It was a lock-up in Fountainbridge: the car was running behind the door when he arrived. The door wasn’t locked, but something had been stuck in the hasp on the other side. He battered the door with his shoulder to get in, then saw the man in the front seat. He’d blocked up the top of his window, around the hosepipe leading from the exhaust, with a damp towel. Brennan saw the man’s face again, his skin pale, his eyes rolled up inside his head. He remembered the taste of the fumes, how they burned his lungs as he grabbed the door, lunged in, and dragged the man out. It was pointless, though. The man fell limp and lifeless on the concrete floor of the lock-up. Escorts had always seemed like bad luck since then, thought Brennan.
‘Whose car’s that?’
‘The Escort… that’s the bloke that found it.’ He looked in his notebook, ‘No, sorry, his mate was driving… Garry Johnston, that’s who the car’s registered to.’
Brennan flagged him down. ‘Where are they now?’
‘At the station, giving statements. There were two girls with them, they were a bit hysterical, thought they’d be better on a cup of tea.’ He made a motion simulating the act of cup to mouth, ‘Think there might have been a jug or two taken as well, if you know what I mean.’
Brennan inhaled deep on the cigarette, took another couple of quick drags and handed it back to Collins. ‘Stub that in the ashtray, eh.’ He nodded to the Passat.
‘Sure, boss.’
DS Stevie McGuire was getting out the driver’s door, zipping up a windcheater. He followed Brennan as he took off for the SOCOs’ white tent.
‘Didn’t take them long,’ said McGuire.
‘Never does, like the boy fucking scouts that lot.’
At the edge of the lay-by, all the way to the gap in the verge, blue and white crime-scene tape had been put up. A uniform was still unravelling a roll of it as Brennan and McGuire ducked underneath and made their way to the SOCOs. Brennan felt the wind lash at him, there was a spit of rain in the air now — he hoped it wouldn’t get any heavier, he didn’t want important pieces of information to be washed away.
At the tent opening McGuire lifted the flap, motioned Brennan to go ahead first. ‘After you, sir.’
He didn’t think it was something to thank the junior officer for.
Chapter 3
Brennan knew being human was hard, tough. We were animals, but we were no longer allowed to be. We had come down from the trees and learned to walk upright — but, given the right circumstances, how many of us would revert to the primordial swamp? He knew it was in him, the atavistic tripwire had been crossed before: he’d struck people; thrashed some. None that hadn’t deserved it, but how far had he been from the ultimate conclusion of violence? Some way, he thought, some way indeed — but he wasn’t exactly sure how far.
Brennan remembered an old TV interview with the late John Lennon: he’d been asked about a line in a song of his about war and destruction; he’d said count me out, but then added count me in. The songwriter concluded he had to add the line because he knew he was all too human. That was the problem thought Brennan, what was in us was there, whether we denied it or not. He knew you only needed to turn on the news any night of the week to see evidence of the fact that, no matter how much we liked to pretend otherwise, we were animals.
If you removed the authority figures, the men in uniform, the boundaries of acceptable behaviour and consequences, then lawlessness was never far away. Desperation played a part too, like a magnifying glass on tinder, but the definition of desperation was open to interpretation. A hungry dog will fight and kill another dog for a scrap of food; human appetites were more complex, but they could trigger the same bestial reaction. None of us was immune to acting on our instincts, we could no easier be separated from them than the salt from the sea; it was our nature. We constructed an artificial image of ourselves, allowed a social duplicity to emerge when we believed in an evil strain in the blood — but, did we all have dark hearts? Brennan wondered.
We had domesticated ourselves — like we had domesticated the wolf — but the savagery we were capable of made the DI uneasy in his own skin. As he looked into the tent the SOCOs had erected he did not want to be a part, however insignificant, of the human race. It reviled him — the fact that he could draw this conclusion, intellectualise it, was no consolation. Thought and action, it seemed, bore little relation to each other. There was a wider, more sweeping force at play and none of us — man nor beast — was beyond its reach.
Brennan and McGuire were halted inside the white tent by a SOCO; he was fully suited in white overalls and held out two small boxes to the DI and the DS. Brennan removed a pair of blue covers for his shoes; when he had them in place he dipped into the other box and removed some lightweight rubber gloves. McGuire followed him. They both declined an offer of facemasks.
In the far corner of the tent, two men in white overalls stood chatting to Dr Pettigrew; he was a broad man with a small head and a short neck that looked like they’d been pressed into the bulk of his body. The doctor indicated to the ground with a yellow pencil for a moment or two and then returned to writing in a blue folder. He seemed calmer than usual, certainly for the time of day. Brennan nodded to McGuire, the pair approached the doctor.
‘Good morning,’ said Brennan.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Dr Pettigrew.
Brennan declined a rejoinder. As he spoke to the doctor he became vaguely aware of the slight bundle at his feet; it was a corpse but seemed far too insignificant to have been a vessel for life. Brennan stepped away from the doctor, rounded the body and kneeled down beside it. He sensed DS McGuire behind him, he seemed eager to keep his distance.
‘All right, Stevie?’
A nod, shake of the head.
Brennan turned back to the victim; a thin, pale-green plastic covering had been placed over the body, it fluttered every few seconds in the breeze that got under the tent flaps and exposed white, glass-smooth skin.
‘I hope you haven’t had your breakfast,’ said Dr Pettigrew. When Brennan looked up, the doctor was smiling — a row of yellowed teeth on display.
This time Brennan bit, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t splash your brogues.’
As he removed the covering, in one swift sweep, Brennan was shocked by the whiteness of the victim’s body. The only relief from the harsh pallor was occasional patches of pale-blue and black skin. The girl, a young girl, lay contorted to one side. Her legs were splashed with blood and mud and her dress had been pulled up, over her head. Her stomach was exposed, but where the pale skin showed it was in sparse patches as dark blood had dried over the main share of the surface. Deep welts marked where a thick blade had struck her stomach and the tops of her thighs. Her genitals had been crudely hacked out.
Brennan turned back to McGuire; the DS looked drawn as he raised a hand to his cheek; his mouth sat
