He heard movement. She sipped, then, ‘Well, there was the call to attend Her Majesty… the Queen Bitch.’
She was referring to Aileen Galloway. Brennan needed to know what had been said. Life around the office was already difficult enough — getting the inside track when it was available was a necessary advantage. ‘I’ll try to get round-’
A tut. ‘On your way home.’ She let the sarcasm settle into her last word; her voice seemed to tremble.
Brennan knew it was pointless to take her on when she was like this. A row had been brewing for weeks, since he had failed to leave his wife and daughter on her first request some months ago. Subsequent requests had always resulted in bitter acrimony. Lorraine was prepared to sacrifice her career for him, to leave her job right away and avoid the ethical dilemma, not to mention the boys from Complaints. ‘How much have you had to drink?’ As soon as he’d asked the question he knew it was a mistake; he was getting tired, careless.
‘It’s not so much the quantity that’s the trouble, Rob, it’s the drinking on your own that’s the real danger.’
She always made her points in roundabout ways. She was a classic smart-arse, thought Brennan. She had been hard to work out at first, and that was interesting. And she was an unquestionably attractive woman — the mixture of mystique and beauty had been a lure worth testing at first, but Brennan now had his doubts. He knew many married men who had — what was the euphemism? — strayed; on the force it was almost an epidemic. But there was a difference between what Wullie used to call ‘being busy’ with someone, and making emotional attachments. That was an altogether different form of betrayal — that was adultery to Brennan. The other stuff, the physical side, that felt more like something you could easily detach yourself from. You could almost pretend it was nothing, beyond your control. He knew it wasn’t, he knew he’d made a conscious decision to pursue Lorraine, even though she was the force psychiatrist. He knew the consequences, but he never thought he would have to face them. People got together at the station all the time, it was just the way it was. Officially it was frowned upon but blind eyes were turned. You couldn’t expect people not to form attachments in such circumstances. Bonds form in the face of tragedy, isn’t that what they said during the war when people were getting it together in underground stations?
‘I’ll be there, as soon as I can. That’s all I can say.’
‘When?’
‘I can’t say when, you know that.’
‘Why? Why can’t you?’
‘Because I don’t fucking work for Standard Life.’ At once he knew this was a low blow. Lorraine’s ex had worked in insurance, some hotshot who had left her to set up home with an actuary in Basingstoke.
She hung up.
Brennan looked at the phone. The call had been timed at one minute thirty seconds: the rows were getting briefer, if not fewer. He sighed loudly, placing the phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. He lifted the jacket off the back of the chair by the little loop on the neckline and slotted in his arms. He scooped up the files on his desk and held them under his elbow as he headed for the office door, turning out the light in the small glassed-off room. He was just exiting when one of the team approached.
‘Sir, one of the street sweepers…’ He was breathless.
‘Yes, what?’
‘We have a possible murder weapon… A saw — we have a saw. The lab boys have it.’
This was something. Things were suddenly moving in the right direction. ‘Where was it picked up?’
‘Muirhouse, sir.’
‘Christ Almighty… everything’s been thrown to the winds. We got the arms in the same manner too.’
The young officer looked perplexed. Brennan patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s half-arsed… It’s either a half- arsed attempt at concealment by a fucking moron or it’s a half-arsed attempt at making someone look like a moron.’ He shook his head, walked away from the officer. ‘Get me on the mobile if we get an ID off that saw.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Or anything else. Right away.’
‘Yes, right away… Don’t you want to see it? It’s at the lab.’
Brennan shook his head. ‘No, I’m going to the morgue. The preliminary report’s in.’
As the DI walked through the incident room he looked about. There was a lot of leaning on elbows, chewing on pens. Tomorrow would be different. He could already hear Galloway screaming for updates on the hour, the press office passing on requests for interviews. He stopped at the desk of the WPC that McGuire had given the missing persons job to. ‘How’s the list coming along?’
‘We’ve got it narrowed down… There’s been some calls, after the telly, sir.’
‘And?’
‘Two very good possible… erm…’ She shuffled some papers on her desk, picked up a black notebook with an elastic fastener. ‘This one’s been missing for six months. She’s from Leith.’
Brennan leaned in. ‘Go on.’
‘Elaine Auld… She’s sixteen and been seen about Muirhouse before. She’s not been seen for six months, though, like I said.’
The Muirhouse connection was promising. Brennan had it in his gut that the girl was local. Leith was close enough to Muirhouse for her to have known associates there, but it bothered him that she had been missing for six months. That was a long time — common sense told him people didn’t disappear for that length of time in their own town without some kind of sighting.
‘What’s the other one?’
The WPC put down the notebook. ‘Hang on, I was just printing that up now.’ She rose from her chair and walked over to the small printer that sat on the desk next to hers. As she walked back she read the page: ‘This is from Northern Constabulary, sir…’
‘What?’
‘She’s from Pitlochry…’
Brennan curled down the edges of his mouth. ‘Why do you think she’s a possible?’
She turned over the page. There was a badly pixelated picture of a young girl. It seemed to have been taken from the internet, a social-networking site perhaps. The image had been printed in black and white and it was difficult to make out any more than the fact that she was female, and blonde. ‘She’s the right weight and height… age too.’
The detective took the page, scanned the print. ‘There’s no city connection… She might never have been here.’
‘But if she’s a runaway, sir.’
She had a point, but it didn’t do to concede points to juniors in the ranks. ‘I’m not buying it.’ He handed her back the page. ‘Keep looking. I want an update on my desk before you go home. All possible, with the favourites on top. Okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She looked crestfallen.
‘Good work, though. Keep it up.’ Brennan spoke loud enough for the room to hear as he left. He caught sight of McGuire in the corner of his eye. The DC was frowning.
Chapter 15
DI Rob Brennan took the car McGuire had been driving that morning but he had since claimed. He had already put the seat back to accommodate his heavier frame, had adjusted the steering wheel slightly, but it still didn’t feel like a vehicle he should be driving. The VW Passat started on the first turn of the key. The noise beneath the bonnet betrayed the fact that it was a diesel engine. Edinburgh had too many diesel engines, thought Brennan — taxis, buses, they were all rank, stinking up the city worse than any brewery. The place didn’t need any help on the grime front; it had been doing well enough for centuries. He engaged the clutch and pulled out.
A smattering of rain hit the windscreen as Brennan turned onto Comely Bank. He put on the wipers. By Raeburn Place the rain was coming down in torrents. He slowed his speed through the Circus. He liked the New
