dumped her there-’
Galloway cut in, ‘Why?’
‘Exactly… You’d go somewhere less obvious. I think the girl was killed near by and then dumped close to the scene. The removal of the limbs could have been to make the drop less obvious — smaller bags are easier to carry about.’
Galloway leaned over the desk; her heady perfume attacked Brennan’s nostrils. ‘Then why the move to obscure the prints and dental?’
Brennan leaned back, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘I don’t get that at all… Maybe it’s to throw us off the scent. Or a last-minute cover-up. It says hurried, rushed to me. That kind of obscuring of ID would only make sense if the girl was known to us… Of course, maybe she is — we don’t have the arms yet.’
Galloway tutted. ‘Yes we do.’
‘What?’
‘A paper boy’s dog found them in an Aldi carrier bag… Was just a couple of streets away.’
Brennan felt a firework go off in his head. ‘When did this come in?’ He had expressly told DC McGuire to report all findings to him straight away.
‘Don’t have a cow, Rob. It came in about half an hour ago.’ She leaned back again, put her hands on her hips and pushed out her breasts. ‘Or are you more upset that DC McGuire disobeyed you and told me first?’
Brennan riled, ‘I’m the investigating officer.’
She slapped her hands on the desk. ‘And since when does that give you the right to call all the shots?… You’ve some balls, Brennan.’
He stood up, laughing. ‘Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me, ma’am.’
‘Sit!’ She pointed at the empty seat. ‘I am far from finished with you.’
Brennan snapped, ‘Well, you better make it quick because I want to find out what else I’ve missed out on in the last half-hour.’
Galloway removed her chair from under the desk. It was luxuriously padded and covered in black leather. Slowly, she eased herself down. Brennan heard her cross her legs below the desk. Her voice came low and flat: ‘Rob, don’t think about undermining me, I won’t stand for it. You’re old enough and ugly enough to know how this works — I will not think twice about a public crucifixion if you piss me off.’
Brennan looked away. It was on his mind to tut, but he let it pass, drew in his composure, said, ‘I understand. I’ll be a good boy.’
Galloway’s tone changed again, brightened: ‘I hear you’ve dropped another rung on the station’s popularity rankings as well.’
‘Come again?’
She smiled. There was pink lipstick on her front teeth. ‘Lauder was in here pissing on your chips.’
Brennan shook his head. ‘He’s just a whining bitch.’
Galloway seemed to object to the remark. ‘I thought he had a point… Were you trying to get his back up turfing him out like that?’
‘No. Look… Lauder’s had the shooting case on the go for long enough and produced squat all. The next move for that case will be a filing cabinet and you know it.’
The Chief Super looked at the watch on her wrist then spoke up. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with your brother’s shooting, does it?’
Brennan felt his jaw clench, then release. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t play coy, Rob. You know Lauder was on the Strathclyde team then.’
Brennan didn’t like to delve into the past; he had enough trouble with the present. He certainly didn’t like discussing his brother with Aileen Galloway — who the hell was she to bring him up? She wasn’t family, and it wasn’t any of her business. Brennan started to gnaw at the inside of his cheek. He resented the fact that she’d taken the conversation in this direction, but he felt he couldn’t avoid commenting. ‘And what a team they were — hardly the fucking A-Team.’
‘I’ve seen the files: it was a thorough investigation.’
Brennan had seen the files too. He’d pulled strings and indebted himself at the favour bank for years to come, but he couldn’t let on about that. Instead he called her bluff. ‘Really?’
Galloway crossed her legs again. ‘Yes, I asked for the file when you were on sick leave. I thought it responsible in my position to be apprised of all the variables.’
Christ Almighty — Brennan knew she was looking for something to burn him with. It was a typical management witch-hunt — she’d done the same with Wullie. Galloway wanted young blood in the station, easily pliable types, fodder. Bright new pins that were going to shine for her. Dipping into Andy’s murder file was a new low, though. Brennan felt the bile heating in his gut. He rose from the seat, swallowed hard, said, ‘Well, it’s clear you know all there is to know now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to work.’
He strode for the door.
Galloway stood up. ‘Rob, some free advice: you’re running out of friends fast around here. Mind how you go when you get out that door.’
‘Don’t let it hit my arse on the way out, you mean?’
She flicked her hand in the air. ‘Whatever.’
Chapter 9
Brennan closed the Chief Super’s door harder than he should have. The blinds rattled on the windows. A couple of heads bobbed up, but this wasn’t a part of the show anyone wanted to see. The main attraction was over. Any further viewing was likely to come back with an icy blast from Brennan — his stride suggested it.
As the DI walked he was heavy on his feet. He held his hands at his sides as though he expected to swing at someone, or fend off a blow, perhaps. His mind was awash with competing emotions, anger predominant, but he was intelligent enough to know there was no redeeming feature of anger. He had never seen his own father give in to anger; Gregor Brennan wasn’t a quiet man, but he was a calm one. When Brennan was about fifteen he recalled a fight with his brother; as the Scots say, Brennan had lost the rag. ‘Son, if you lose your head, you lose the argument,’ his father had told him. He wasn’t a man given to much wisdom or eloquence, but the few times he’d expressed his inner workings had stayed with Brennan.
At the edge of the corridor, towards the main incident room, he spotted a pile of cardboard boxes, brimming with manila files. A few had spilled out. There was a loud exchange taking place in IR One and Brennan couldn’t face it. He touched his stomach. The other emotion, hurt — hurt at the thought of Andy’s death being bargained with — seemed to rest beneath his palm. He stroked his stomach, up and down, thought there might be a chance of sickness but dismissed it as unfeasible. Brennan couldn’t remember the last time he had actually been sick. Still, he needed to gather himself before facing the squad, and McGuire especially.
Brennan walked towards the gents toilet; he felt lighter on his feet now. Perhaps he felt lighter in the head too. The toilet block was empty. He ran the nearest cold tap, cupped water in his right hand and splashed it on his face. The chill of it was a shock at first. He recoiled, closed his eyes and drew back the edges of his mouth. The second attempt, closely followed by a third, was more successful. Brennan brought both his hands together, filled them with cold water, and seeped his tired face. As he did so, in the darkness, he saw an image that took several seconds to materialise: it was the girl. Brennan stared at the murder victim’s pale flesh again and quickly dropped his hands towards the sink. His heart rate quickened as he shook off the drips, wiped at his brow.
‘Shit. Shit.’
It was not good, seeing things. There was enough talk about him circulating in the station. Brennan put his hand back on his stomach. It hadn’t settled, but the churning was drowned out now by the beating of his heart. He moved his palm towards the fast-moving muscle in his chest. Someone had once said he had a good heart; who was it? He knew it was Joyce, but which one? The one he met and fell in love with, or the one he married and fell into domesticity with?
‘Get a grip, man,’ Brennan scolded himself. He was giving in to the same demons that had given Galloway the upper hand. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked different. The face hadn’t changed much — he’d kept his
