hair, the jawline was still firm — but it was the expression he didn’t recognise. This man looked miserable, worn down by life. What was his problem? He had his health, a settled home, daughter, wife, and the career he’d craved all his life was still there, despite everything that had happened. He even had Lorraine, the ultimate midlife crisis accoutrement; though she was far from a guilt-free vice.
As Brennan stared into the mirror, assessing his lot, he realised none of it added up to who he wanted to be. There was a void he couldn’t fill. He turned from the mirror, looked towards the row of cubicles and selected the one nearest the door. As he entered, Brennan put down the toilet seat, sat. He leaned forward and slid the bolt into the catch. As he eased back he sighed. For a moment he let his head rest on the cold wall tiles, then he removed his wallet and the newspaper cutting he still carried inside.
He read the date; it never changed: Thursday, 11 June. The paper hadn’t had time to yellow yet. He unfurled the cutting at its crease. It seemed pathetically small for such an important piece of news. Important to Rob Brennan. The edges of the paper were starting to deteriorate, little nicks and tears making it look flimsy; it would soon be too fragile to touch.
He read the headline first: POLICE PROBE LOCAL MAN’S SHOOTING. That always made him shake his head; they were still probing the case. There was a subheading on the article which read: FORCE BAFFLED BY DAYLIGHT KILLING AT FARMHOUSE. He had almost memorised the rest:
The shocking midday shooting of a much-loved and respected Glasgow builder was being investigated by Strathclyde Police today.
Andrew Brennan, 37, was shot three times at point-blank range in what police have confirmed bears all the hallmarks of a ‘gangland hit’.
Mr Brennan, a father of two, was undertaking refurbishment work at the farmhouse on the outskirts of the city when the incident occurred at around 2 p.m. yesterday. His wife and children were said to be in shock after the news and being comforted by friends and family. Floral tributes appeared outside the family’s Bearsden home soon after the news broke and well-wishers continued to gather on the doorstep until late in the evening.
Those who knew Mr Brennan described him as a popular and much-loved local figure.
Councillor Tom Fulton, who worked alongside Mr Brennan in the construction industry, said it was ‘heartbreaking news’.
Cllr Fulton commented: ‘I knew Andy since he was a boy. He came up with his dad, Gregor, and took to the business with great enthusiasm. He was a lovely, decent, solid bloke and this news is just heartbreaking. My thoughts and feelings are with his family and Jane and the boys right now.’
Police confirmed they were not investigating any links Mr Brennan may have had to underworld activities. They said no positive identifications had yet been made but several witnesses had reported seeing a ‘limping man’ in the area and they appealed for anyone with any information to come forward.
Detective Inspector Ian Lauder confirmed: ‘We are exploring all avenues but proceeding on the assumption that this tragic incident was a case of mistaken identity.
‘There is no indication of any wrongdoing on Mr Brennan’s part whatsoever and likewise we have been unable to establish any connections to organised crime.’
He added: ‘Several people did attest to there being a man with a pronounced limp in the area and we are keen to locate him in order to eliminate him from our inquiries.’
No funeral arrangements had been released at the time of going to press.
Brennan smoothed down the edges of the newspaper cutting, stared at it without taking in the printed words. It was becoming an artefact, a holy relic of the brother he once knew. Brennan berated himself for being so weak, for allowing himself to torment his emotions, self-flagellate. Why did he carry the story around with him? He knew every word of the short piece by rote. Reading it again and again didn’t make him feel any better, but he knew what it did do: it kept his anger aflame. He needed these little reminders to himself that no one had solved his brother’s murder, and the longer it went on, the less likely it was that his killer would be found.
The door to the gents banged open; loud chattering bounced off the walls. For a moment Brennan was thrown. He was still deep in his reverie, but then the tones took on a familiar sound. He knew the voices, and they were two people he’d have paid to eavesdrop on. Slowly, he slid the newspaper cutting back into his wallet, and his wallet into his jacket. He raised his shoes from the floor and tucked them on the rim of the toilet pan; it was an uncomfortable seating arrangement but necessary. The door latch was loose and slid from its catch easily; it would show green for vacant on the other side if anyone looked.
The voices cackled. The most prominent was Lauder’s.
‘I’m sure Galloway fancies me, you know that?’
‘Oh, really.’ It was McGuire, playing the straw-man role.
‘Every time I’m in her office she’s leaning over me, flashing the flesh an’ that.’
McGuire laughed, played up: ‘So, you think it’s her orifice she wants you in?’
Loud guffaws. Brennan sneered inwardly.
‘You could say that, Stevie, you could say that… You see, the thing with me is, I get a lot of women coming on to me like that.’
‘I see…’
‘They want me for a shag, think I’ll be good for a bit of the old wham-bam-thank-you-man…’
‘No strings attached, eh?’
‘Exactly, I just give off that kind of vibe, y’know, and I’m discreet — ask your missus, she’ll tell you.’ Lauder burst into laughter. He sounded like a teenager to Brennan.
When the laughter subsided, the topic of conversation touched on something that was more interesting to the DI in the toilet cubicle.
‘What about Brennan, then? Must have put the shits up him to see Aylish from the News there,’ said Lauder.
‘I hear he wasn’t chuffed… Apparently she near lamped him with a voice recorder. Jesus, what a picture that would have been. Galloway would have had his balls for earrings…!’ McGuire’s voice halted.
‘What is it?’ said Lauder.
‘Nothing.’
‘No, come on… What’s up?’
McGuire exhaled loudly, his words coming out like a puncture. ‘I’m getting kicked about on this case already.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I just…’ He held schtum. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’
‘No, say…’
McGuire sounded livelier: ‘They say Brennan’s a top operator, don’t they?’
Lauder bit: ‘Do they?’
‘I mean, that’s the word about the station, that he’s a good cop and has landed some good collars in his day.’
Lauder arked up, ‘You fucking fancy him now?’ The DI raised his voice: ‘I’ll tell you this, I don’t rate him and I’ve been in this game long enough to know who the top operators are, son.’
McGuire didn’t respond. The atmosphere in the toilet block seemed to have cooled. Brennan felt his legs start to ache. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold them up for much longer.
The sound of a tap turning, the splash of water, took over from the silence. A hand dryer blew out a violent blast.
‘I’ll catch you later, Ian,’ said McGuire.
Lauder didn’t answer.
Brennan waited for the creak of the door. He let the hinges sigh and the wood kiss the jamb before he stood up. Lauder had started to whistle; as Brennan opened the cubicle door he saw the DI pitching up on his toes as he relieved himself into the urinal. He had his head facing the tiled wall, but cocked it sharply to the side as his colleague appeared.
‘This’ll be where the pricks hang out then,’ said Brennan.
