Galloway was going to be watching him closely, he knew that. It was all about the long game with her. All about the mental battle, wearing people down, bending them to her will. It was a power struggle, and she wanted to man the controls. That’s what the leave had been about. Brennan knew that the Chief Super wanted to break him — time off wasn’t good for someone like him. Time to yourself wasn’t good, it wore you down, made you morose. Too much time made you introspective, made you question your motives, your past, your future.
Brennan lived for the job. The job kept you busy, stopped the mind’s relentless need to go over old ground. It was impossible to replay alternative scenarios when you were holding down a DI’s job. Galloway knew he’d collapse under the weight of all that free time, thought Brennan. She knew what she was playing at from the start; it was all part of a plan.
He tried to figure out what her next play would be, but stopped himself. That’s what she wanted, surely. To have him checking himself, to have him editing his every move, second-guessing what her response was going to be. There was only one way to play it — to do what he always had done. No changes. No genuflecting to her. He knew everything rested on this case, but it was small feed in comparison with finding justice for the girl in the dumpster. No one had been looking out for her. Brennan could be the last man on earth to care about her passing. The thought leapt in him.
As Brennan pulled into the station he checked the car park for Dr Lorraine Fuller’s black Audi but couldn’t see it. When he switched off the ignition, he took out his mobile phone. There were no messages. He wet his lips, toyed with the idea of calling Lorraine, but couldn’t quite summon the strength. He knew he needed to speak to her. He knew she’d been in to see Galloway and he wanted the inside track on their meeting — what had been said. What her plans were. What she was playing at now. But he knew any delving into those waters would mean diversions into choppier currents. Lorraine wanted to talk, and so did Brennan, but the conversations they wanted to have wouldn’t come to the same conclusions, he was sure of that.
At the stairs, the desk sergeant called out, ‘Rob… got a minute?’
Brennan stepped down, turned towards the front of the building again. ‘What is it, Charlie?’
The older man stroked his moustache, leaned over the counter. ‘I was up the stairs earlier…’
Brennan nodded, saw he was waiting for confirmation. ‘And?’
‘There was a ruckus… Lauder and-’
Brennan tilted eyes to the ceiling, took off. ‘Bollocks to Lauder.’
Charlie ran to the end of the counter, lifted the lid and waylaid Brennan at the foot of the stairs. ‘He was raging and calling you for all you’re worth.’
Brennan stopped, put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Thanks… but I’m not worried.’
‘I know… I know, but…’ Charlie touched his mouth, wiped a wrinkled hand down his cheek. Brennan was close enough to count the liver spots.
‘What is it, mate?’
Charlie lowered his voice, looking up the stairs. ‘Lauder was in with herself raising merry hell.’
‘About me?’
‘Everyone heard it… Couldn’t miss it.’
Brennan turned for the stairs again. ‘Is that so?’ He was used to being the fount of gossip and knew how to release the tension from these little crises. He kept his expression stone, eyes front, as he went up.
On the top floor, he approached the vending machine, dropped in a fifty-pence piece and selected a black coffee. The cup was still being poured when Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway appeared in the door of her office.
‘Rob, in here.’
He looked up from the cup, pointed to the coffee pouring in.
Galloway pinched her lips, slapped the door. ‘Now. Right now.’
Chapter 8
DI Rob Brennan watched his Chief Super staring at him across the room. He could feel the burn of her gaze — she’d slit her eyes for effect and Brennan wasn’t convinced by it. If she was mad, really angry, she’d have no need to embellish it. After a hard slap on the door she started drumming her painted fingernails, seemingly impatiently, but Brennan wasn’t buying that either. He had grown accustomed to her bouts of high drama. It was a show; she loved an audience. What was it Wullie had called her? An actress. One of the lads from the Met that he’d been on a course with — a prat, full of management-speak — had known Galloway in her early days, before she’d got on the turkey runner. He’d said: ‘She likes the visibility, but lacks the credibility.’ Brennan had stored the statement away, but thought it an overly ornate way of describing what Wullie had managed with one word.
Brennan refused to let his emotions play on his face. He knew his shoulders had tensed automatically but there was nothing he could do about that and he knew it wouldn’t be seen through his outdoor coat. Galloway had her audience: a WPC and some civilian administrators halted their actions to better view the goings-on. The one nearest, a matron-type with a twinset and dripping Morningside smarm from every pore, slid her glasses down her nose to better peer at him. It took a strong concentration of the will not to snap fingers in her face and put her back in her place, but Brennan resisted. There was nothing to be gained from letting anyone else know what you were thinking — you did that, you lost your edge. Keep them guessing, keep them wondering. If you gave anyone any information, they only used it to judge you on. In the workplace this was especially true: the forced union of opposites indeed bred contempt and no one was immune to the typecasting that went on at water coolers and in the canteen.
He was a so-and-so… Such-and-such are all the same… He’d heard it all.
The trouble with people, Brennan thought, is that they don’t really like each other. All contact is false, and forced. They wear masks, different ones for different occasions. When the masks come off, or you get a peek behind them, the truth comes out. We are all out for what we can get, we are users and after a certain level, or is it age, all we are capable of is measuring our self-worth against each other. It was pathetic, sickening even. He knew there were exceptions, he knew he wasn’t a misanthrope because he could still be amazed, moved, shocked even, when he was proven wrong. However fleeting and rare the occurrence.
Brennan took his change from the coffee machine. He heard the nozzle fizz, cease pouring, and he watched the bubbles set on the brim of the plastic cup but didn’t pick it up. As he straightened his back, he put his change from the coin slot in his trouser pocket. He kept his hand there as he walked towards Galloway’s office.
The Chief Super watched Brennan approach for a moment then backed inside. The DI had expected her to glance into the wider office to see how much attention she had garnered — this was her usual way. She would carpet someone from her door, then yell to the room, ‘Get back to work.’ It was the curtain-fall on her theatrics that the workforce had come to expect, but she seemed to be playing it cautiously with Brennan. He started to worry about what had passed between Lorraine and the Chief Super earlier in the day. He was sure Lorraine still had his best interests at heart, but he’d tested her mettle lately and she had a temper. She was still holding all the cards. As his force-appointed therapist she could decide when or if he rejoined the ranks permanently; at least, she had the power to influence the decision.
Brennan stepped into the Chief Super’s office; it felt like getting into a bear pit. He removed his hand from his trouser pocket and reached for the door handle. The blinds on the back of the door, and all round the glassed office, had been drawn.
‘Sit down,’ said Galloway. She was curt, brusque even. She stood over her desk with her arms folded. Brennan had heard somewhere that this was a defensive posture. He didn’t think that was her style, though — Galloway was a classic ‘attack is the best form of defence’ type and they both knew it.
Brennan pulled out the swivel chair, sat. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘We’ll come to that… What’s the SP?’
The DI relayed the details of the case: a summary of the crime scene; the position of the corpse; the SOCOs’ findings; his assessment; his instructions so far.
‘I think she’s probably local,’ he said.
‘You do?’
‘It’s Muirhouse and looks sloppy. I don’t think there’s any reason to believe that someone planned this,
