had just got more difficult for him. He knew his first priority was to find a killer. There was a dead girl. A young girl, not much older than his own daughter, had been desecrated. There would be a family, people who needed answers. Hurt, confused, desperate people in a state of helplessness. He knew how they felt — there was no misery in the world like it. And, as ever, there would be a murderer hiding somewhere, wondering if the police were coming; honing survival instincts. It was Brennan’s job to catch that murderer, to find justice for the girl and her family. He took his job seriously. It galled him to know there were people on the force like Lauder who just didn’t get it.
Not like he did. They didn’t come close.
In the corridor Brennan straightened himself, headed for the incident room. As he opened the door there was a cackle of voices, some movement, activity — everything stilled for a second or two as he walked to the front of the room and stood before the whiteboard. Some pictures had come back from the photographer and had been stuck up. Brennan looked them over. There were more on the desk in front of the board; he picked those up. The girl looked even paler than he remembered. Her light-coloured hair, stuck fast to her brow, seemed to have darkened in contrast. The images were stark. He placed them back on the desk. The team started to assemble themselves around him, awaiting a formal address. He gathered his thoughts, looked up, eyes front.
‘Right, you don’t need me to tell you this is a particularly brutal assault on a young life… Even by Muirhouse standards.’
There was no reply; they listened.
‘We have an approximate time of death and all the likely causes of death stand out. We have theories, but no leads…’ Brennan turned to McGuire. He had avoided eye contact with the DC since entering the room and now he put him on notice that he was expected to perform: ‘Stevie, what did you get from the prints?’
McGuire held a blue folder at chest level, then lowered it as he spoke. ‘Erm, as you know, the arms were removed from the victim and recovered approximately…’ He turned to the folder, toyed with the idea of opening it but thought better of it. He continued, ‘Well, close to the scene the arms were recovered. We’ve no prints on file.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Okay. So, that’s an unidentified victim… Listings, Stevie… What did you get on the missing persons?’
‘Right, well, I have a list.’ McGuire went to his desk, produced a bundle of pages. ‘There are upwards of maybe three hundred girls missing in the country right now.’
‘How many matching our victim’s description?’
McGuire turned to a WPC, presented a palm. She answered, ‘I’ve been through most of the list, and got about a dozen possible… but-’
Brennan cut her off. ‘Get that list to Stevie right away.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Something in the corner of the room seemed to have attracted a small clique’s attention. ‘What is it?’ said Brennan.
‘The TV news, sir,’ said a PC. ‘They’re running an item on the case.’
The team gathered round the small screen. ‘Turn it up,’ said Brennan. There was a hush in the room as the item played. Brennan caught sight of the footage of himself turning up in the squad car. There were a few giggles around the room.
‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Hardly fucking Hollywood.’
The incident room watched the broadcast. Occasionally the scratching of a pencil tip was heard, a comment made, but mostly the mood was attentive until the girls who found the corpse appeared.
‘Oh Christ Almighty,’ said Brennan. ‘How the fuck did they get to them?’
Heads dipped, bowed.
‘Thought as much… Bloody hell, Stevie, tell me we’ve got statements.’
McGuire squirmed. ‘Erm… yes, from the scene.’
‘I know we had statements at the scene — I thought you were bringing the girls in!’
‘Erm, I thought you were dealing with that, Lucy…’ McGuire turned to another WPC.
Brennan immediately spotted the blame-shift. ‘Don’t fucking leave it to Lucy… Get them in!’
McGuire, subdued, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
When the news item was over Brennan picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television. The screen fizzed, went blank. His mood was serious. His tone sent electricity round the room. ‘Right, the media’s out the traps on this already, so we’re going to have to move it,’ he said. ‘Stevie, get a statement out through the press office.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nothing fancy, just the basics… Appealing for witnesses, that sort of guff.’
McGuire offered an opinion: ‘It could actually play to our advantage.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I mean, we might get some leads from the telly slot.’
As Brennan watched McGuire write down his instructions, he knew he would have to have a word with him. More than a word, perhaps.
‘Or it might send our murderer running for the hills,’ said Brennan. Media interest was only useful up to a point. Mostly it meant added pressure, thought Brennan, and that he could well do without on this case. He hoped McGuire, naive though he was, might be right, but he knew the top brass got fidgety when the news crews took an interest.
McGuire nodded, spoke up: ‘Yes, sir.’
Carpeting the DS was a risky strategy after the run-ins with Galloway and Lauder. Brennan didn’t want McGuire to go marching back to Galloway and give her more ammunition, but then he might do that anyway.
He watched the top of McGuire’s head. There was a strange parting there — hair sort of half spiked and half fringed. Brennan knew he didn’t understand this generation, couldn’t work them out — they seemed to be wired up differently. If that was the case, he’d have to rewire DC Stevie McGuire soon. The job at hand was too important not to.
Chapter 13
DI Rob Brennan knew most people were miserable. The first time he had encountered Thoreau’s dictum: ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, was like an epiphany. Life is drudge; it affords the majority of people just enough comfort to stave off the nagging rage at the injustice of their existence. A bellyful of cheap booze; escape through vicarious sporting victory. It is a pathetic life for them, he thought. He passed judgement not in a critical, arrogant way — he meant it in the true meaning of the word, worthy of pity. It was what got him through the day. Dealing with the ignorant and ill-mannered was workable if you didn’t lower yourself to their base emotional states. He had always frowned on those who reacted to rude waiters or receptionists or bank tellers — what was the point? With people so low on the life-rewards scale, you can’t reason. Every action and reaction is aimed at redressing their low rating, clawing back some modicum of self-worth, levelling the world they despise. You can try to remonstrate, take them on on your terms, but it always ends the same way: with the rolling up of sleeves. It is easy to be brought down to their level — impossible to raise them to yours.
Brennan knew he had a difficulty with DC Stevie McGuire. The lad, and he was a lad, had never impressed him. He didn’t take the job seriously, and this was a job you could not take any other way. He had McGuire’s number, as they say, and it didn’t amount to a fraction of what it should. The boy was typical old-school Edinburgh: the type whose first question — once they’ve passed a favourable judgement on your accent — is what school did you go to? They never ask out of idle curiosity, or to make conversation like other people; in Edinburgh, they ask to see if you are part of their club. Brennan was a part of no club; he did not join in.
McGuire’s actions bothered him. It wasn’t his background — that was something he’d learned to deal with, couldn’t alter so didn’t try — but the sense of entitlement he carried soured him. Brennan held on to his rank with a similar sense of entitlement but it was different in one main regard: he had earned it. McGuire felt due rewards he hadn’t grafted for — or, so far as Brennan could see, was ever likely to, or capable of. If the lad had shown promise, or enthusiasm even, he would have gladly pushed him up the ranks, but his attitude as it stood created the opposite
