worth giving to decent officers. There were far too many shiny-arsed careerists about the place; too many graduates on the fast-track, and McGuire was a prime example.
The lift doors pinged; Brennan stepped out.
The desk sergeant was poring over the sports page of the News. Brennan greeted him in the usual manner: ‘All right, Charlie.’
‘Rob.’ He put down his paper, thinning his eyes.
‘What cars you got?’
The older man sat upright, folded his arms. ‘All out.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
He shook his head, made a wide arc with his hand. ‘Nope, all out. Crime’s big business in Edinburgh… Haven’t you heard?’
‘So, tell me, Charlie, should I take the bloody bus to a murder scene?’
The sergeant folded his arms again; his grey moustache twitched. ‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger.’
Brennan slapped his folder down on the counter. ‘Gimme that radio.’
‘What?’
‘The radio, Charlie…’
‘What are you going to do with that?’
Brennan tilted his head. ‘See if I can get the bloody Archers on it… What do you think?’
A slow, frail hand went over to the stand-mic. The desk sergeant handed it over. ‘I’ll bet you can’t work it.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Charl… Get me McGuire on this.’
‘He’s at a murder!’
Brennan snapped, ‘Aye. My investigation. Now get him on.’
The radio crackled for a few seconds before the older man called out for DC McGuire. There was no reply.
‘He’ll be at the scene, Rob.’
Brennan tapped the counter with his finger. ‘Again.’
‘ Rob.’
‘Try him again, Charlie.’
The static on the line crackled momentarily, then the call went out once more. The line fizzed, then, ‘DC McGuire.’
Brennan pressed the button. ‘Stevie, it’s Rob Brennan. I want you back at the incident room. Leave your car, I’ll need that later.’
‘Rob… Did you say leave my car?’
‘Nothing wrong with your hearing, then. Leave the car, and get yourself back here with uniform. Hurry it up, though. I need a run back there.’
A lengthy gap played on the line.
McGuire came back, ‘Received that, Rob.’
‘That’s DI Brennan… Stevie.’
Another pause. ‘Yes… sir.’
Brennan handed over the stand-mic. ‘That’ll do.’
The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘You’re going to rattle his cage talking to him like that, Rob.’
‘Bullshit.’
A sigh. ‘You’re the boss.’
Brennan took a deep breath, deciding not to reply. He took a seat by the front door and tapped at the blue file whilst he waited for the squad car to arrive. He didn’t look up but sensed the desk sergeant going back to the sports pages of the News. Fucking Hibs back four, he thought to himself. Galloway had some turns. Like to see how she’d take to him commenting on her copy of Hello! magazine he’d seen in her Mulberry briefcase. Cheeky sow. He knew not to engage, though: the battle of the sexes had been fought and lost.
The folder in his lap called to him, but something else called louder. Brennan rose, went to the front door. He nodded as two eyes ringed with burst capillaries appeared above the paper. ‘Going for a smoke.’
Nods. The paper rustled again.
Outside the sky was grey, threatening rain. Brennan liked this time of year. Not quite summer, but well out of winter. The extremes of the seasons irked him; you never knew what to wear from one day to the next. If he could pick the weather, he’d go for grey skies and a hint of a chill every time. Sunshine was overrated. The smell of cut grass and barbecues was overrated. When he’d been in uniform, he’d hated the warmer months; they brought out drunks and fly-men robbing lead off the roofs. They were nothing but trouble. Crime was crime but the petty stuff always seemed like a social problem to Brennan. A failure of society, politicians… a waste of his time. The evil ones, the murderers, the cold-blooded killers — they were the ones he wanted off the streets, locked up. At the very least, locked up.
Brennan took out his packet of Silk Cut. His heart sank. He wanted a B amp;H, a strong boy, a lung bleeder, but turning forty called for a few concessions. The days when he’d swap ciggies with Wullie — a Capstans smoker, no less — were well and truly over. He hoped he didn’t bump into Wullie while he was hanging off the end of a Silk Cut — the shame of it. Brennan had a sly laugh to himself as he remembered the old boy; it subsided quickly.
A shaft of light broke free of a bundle of grey cloud and painted a yellow oblong on the station car park. A few patches of spilled diesel were lit in the sun’s rays, little rainbow bubbles illuminated in potholes. Brennan turned his head, drew deep on the cigarette and opened the file.
DC McGuire’s bullet points had been hastily keyed in.
White female, (no age) young.
Found in industrial-sized bin. Blood smears on bin.
Access lane, by tower block. Car park to rear.
Four teens (female/local) at scene.
No statements, girls too upset. Coming in. Calls out to parents.
No time of death, Doc called, on way.
Scene secured, uniform on perimeters. Lab setting up.
Brennan turned over the thin sheaf of paper. There was nothing on the other side. The rest of the pages were blank too, except for some standard forms and a contacts sheet with numbers he already had in his phone. There was nothing he couldn’t have received in a two-minute briefing but the modern obsession with detailing every step dictated the written word. He closed the file; it looked pathetically thin, but he knew by the end of the day it would stretch to several volumes.
The sun disappeared behind another grey cloud, the wet patches in the car park darkened once more. Brennan stubbed his cigarette on the side of the building, flicked it onto the road. The last embers in the tip sizzled on the wet tarmac. As he watched the wind take the filter tip a black Audi pulled into the space opposite him. He recognised the number plate at once. It was new; it wasn’t police. The engine stilled. Driver’s door opened.
Dr Lorraine Fuller wore a brown trouser suit that was fitted and hugged her thin waist. She carried a heavy case — not a doctor’s case; it would be full of paperwork. Brennan made a note of her movements as she clawed her long hair from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. She looked harassed. She took a coat and another bag, a purse, from the back seat of the Audi, then she noticed Brennan staring at her. Lorraine looked away instantly. There was no smile, greeting; but definite acknowledgement. She pointed the remote locking at the car, turned for the station. She juggled her handbag between hands before deciding on the one it had been in originally. She tucked her coat over the crook of her elbow and walked briskly, heels clacking on the hard ground.
Brennan watched her for a moment or two, then turned his gaze to the door, leaned in and grabbed the handle as she approached. There was a stalled breath’s distance between them as she spoke. ‘I need to see you.’
Brennan looked down. ‘It’s difficult.’
‘Why?’ Her tone was harsh.
‘I’m back on the squad.’
