For a moment Brennan stood before her. She was a thin brunette in a tight-fitting skirt and jacket. He wondered, in other circumstances, could he fancy her? Doubted it — she wasn’t his type. There was a harshness there, a meanness of spirit that outweighed any other physical attractiveness. She was a ball-breaker, and Brennan liked his balls the way they were.
‘You called me in, ma’am.’
‘Don’t call me that, Brennan… and stop playing the prick.’ She put a stare on him; what should have been an attractive pair of hazel eyes managed to burrow like hungry rats. He looked away. Whatever he thought of her, she was the boss and you didn’t challenge the boss… not unless you wanted your head in your hands to play with.
The Chief Super took a file from the top of the neatly stacked pile on her desk. For a moment, she seemed engrossed; she completely ignored Brennan as she turned over the pages with her long fingernails. After some time she sat up, straightened her back and made an apse of her fingers. Brennan felt uneasy as she stared over him, spoke: ‘I’ve been looking over your file.’
‘File?’ He knew exactly what she meant, but played dumb. It was the psych file compiled by Dr Fuller.
‘The recommendation is for you to return to…’ she stalled, held in her words, then, ‘the real world.’
Brennan felt his pulse quicken. She was riling him. ‘That so?’
‘How do you feel about that?’ She wheeled back her chair, crossed her legs. Her heel slipped from her stiletto, the shoe dangling delicately on her big toe.
‘I’ve told you before: sooner I’m given a proper case the better.’
Galloway stared. For a moment Brennan thought she was about to cave, then she reached out for the file, started turning pages. Every few seconds she stopped, stalled on a word or a phrase and let out a long sigh. Once or twice she wet her lips with her tongue and clicked her teeth together. She had done this to Wullie when he’d been up for early retirement and he’d said he felt the urge to give her teeth a ‘proper fucking clatter’. Brennan knew how he felt.
‘If this is about the murder out in Muirhouse,’ said Brennan, ‘I know you’ve got Lauder and Bryce out on the pub shooting, and there’s hardly enough bods to fill the rota as it is so-’
Galloway raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what, I should just bring you back into the fold because we’re a wee bit short-staffed, eh?’
‘No, I, eh…’
Her tone became shrill. ‘I should fucking think not. Never heard of force cooperation? I can draft in a full murder squad if I need it, Brennan.’
He knew she was bluffing now — there was no way she wanted anyone else’s staff on her patch. She didn’t want anyone reporting back to the competition about her. Chief constable jobs were as rare as hobby-horse shite and she knew it; like she’d mess with her prospects when the promotion board were looking at her.
‘Look, I know you have some… factors to consider.’
She laughed, near spat, ‘Factors! Hah… that what we’re calling it these days?’ She slammed the folder shut, got up and turned to face the window. Brennan found himself unconsciously checking out her arse. ‘These factors, Brennan… should they concern me?’
He rolled on the balls of his feet. ‘They don’t concern me.’
‘The Hibs back row’s your top concern, Brennan. I didn’t ask what concerned you. Should they concern me, sunshine?’
The DI’s palms started to sweat; he rubbed them together. There was a strong urge in him to put his hands around her neck, shake some manners into the bitch, but he resisted. ‘I’m fighting fit… Raring to go, boss.’ She liked that, being called boss — made her feel like one of the lads. She turned back to face him, slumped in the seat. Her body language, her posture, all screamed one thing: she had nowhere to turn.
Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway drew another file from a drawer, scribbled in it momentarily then turned it over. She drummed her fingers on the top of the blue cardboard cover. ‘Stevie McGuire has been desking the information as it comes in-’
Brennan sparked up, ‘Stevie fucking McGuire… Is it that bad?’
Galloway frowned. ‘Look, he’s a DC now, Rob — give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘He’s a DC with no experience.’ Brennan’s pulse fired. ‘Don’t tell me you’re giving him this murder… Don’t tell me.’
Galloway paused, touched the corner of her mouth, then picked up the file and handed it over. Her voice came softly, slowly: ‘Get down there, shake up the SOCOs… Don’t be afraid to put that big foot of yours in a few arses.’
For a second Brennan wondered if he’d heard her right. He double-blinked, took a few breaths; that seemed to put his mind back into gear. He reached forward, grabbed the folder. There was a part of him that felt like he had been released from bondage, prison maybe. But there was no part of him that wanted to rejoice. He was never pleased to hear that a life had been taken, especially such a young one. It was a wrong that was always deeply felt in him. He turned for the door, got three, maybe four steps, then:
‘Brennan…’ Galloway was back on her feet now, pointing. Something about her posture, the harsh angle of her face to her neck, said she might lunge for him at any moment with those pointy fingernails. ‘You fuck this up, or even hint at fucking it up, and I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your days on traffic and I’ll make sure every time those lights go out at the top of Easter Road, you’ll be down there with a pair of white gloves, standing in the middle of that box junction.’
Brennan strode for the door, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Chapter 2
Was this the way it was going to be? As Brennan took the case file from the Chief Super’s office, and walked for the front desk, he could feel eyes burning into him. He let it pass for a few moments, then stopped flat — spun on his heels. There was a momentary interlude where everyone seemed to wonder what he would do next, then rank — the old leveller — kicked in. Phones were picked up, drawers opened, conversations commenced once more. Brennan felt a surge of pride; it was a victory all right. He was back on the force — the proper force, not sitting at some desk counting paperclips and listening to wet-behind-the-ears DCs dicking on about stuff they knew nothing about.
‘You… What’s your name?’ said Brennan.
‘Sutcliffe, sir.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Got to have balls to join up with a name like that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
A brown-noser; Brennan hated those. ‘I want the main incident room cleared.’
‘But DI Lauder-’
‘Fuck Lauder!.. Shift the shooting caseload to IR Three.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The uniform stayed put. Everyone else in the room seemed to have frozen too.
Brennan barked, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The assembly sprang to life. Brennan was chancing his arm, but he knew he had to make his mark right away. The whole station would be looking for weakness, waiting for the first balls-up, the first ‘i’ undotted, ‘t’ uncrossed. It couldn’t happen. Self-belief was an inward direction, but an outward expression. A badly timed sigh, a tremor in the voice, a challenge to his authority or any one of a hundred poker tells would have them prattling in the canteen. It was start as you mean to go on, or face the consequences. He’d learned that tackling drunks when he was in uniform: you need to shout them down, set the boundaries fast, or they arked up, got lippy. After all that had happened lately, there was too much at stake to play anything other than the firm hand. His career had been on life support for the last few months; it was time to give it the kiss of life.
In the lift he allowed his head to rest on the wall for a moment; just a moment, then his neck snapped forward and he opened the file. Straight away Stevie McGuire’s bullet-point listings riled him. McGuire couldn’t spell, or use grammar — if this was DC material then the public had a right to feel short-changed.
‘Parents should sue the public school.’ Brennan shook his head. He dreaded to think what state the scene was in if McGuire had been first on hand. Times were tough, budgets tight, but if the job was worth doing it was
