DI Rob Brennan paused on the way to the interview room, gathered his thoughts. He leaned against the wall and watched the flurry of activity around the station. The momentum of the case had seemed to stall not long after finding the body, then accelerated once they had identified her as Carly Donald. Things had lunged forward rapidly once more, but the mood of the investigation had altered. Nothing was being taken for granted.
He had worked hundreds, thousands of cases in his time on the force but Brennan had never encountered anything like this before. There was, for sure, a reason why Carly’s parents had kept the details of their granddaughter Beth’s birth to themselves, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. A child was a gift from God, in any circumstances — his mother had said that when Sophie was born, and she was not a religious woman, but the sheer significance of the event had prompted a spiritual outburst. How could a so-called man of the cloth carry on like that? It felled Brennan to think of it. Was life so cheap?
He knew, when the case was over, complete, tidied up and all the loose ends put together into one nice neat bow, things would make perfect sense. They always did, then. The reasons for seemingly inexplicable behaviour always became clear; motives presented themselves. Sometimes it was money, sometimes lust. He had seen just about every variation in between, but for Reverend John Donald and his wife to lose not only a child but a grandchild too, and to keep quiet about it before the investigating officers, was perplexing. Brennan thought about the picture Lorraine had handed him earlier. He placed his hand into his pocket and removed the small photograph and stared at the tiny shape, barely recognisable as human. A small smile spread from the corner of his mouth. He touched the picture with his fingertip, then hurriedly returned it to his pocket.
A siren sounded in the car park and Brennan was poked back to the waking world. He watched as a young WPC worked the photocopier. She retrieved her copy then walked off, getting only a few paces before returning to the machine to raise the lid and retrieve the original. She smiled at Brennan on her way back to her seat. They knew; they all knew. This case was turning out to be a thankless task: the kind of crime that had a clear victim, but that was all that was clear. Brennan had decided early on that the girl in the dumpster was local to Muirhouse — it looked that way, everything pointed to that — but now he had to reassess his assumptions. He had to go back to the start, look again. Was he missing something? He knew he must be, but what? All he needed was one break, one pointer, something to set the ball in motion and the rest would gather in its wake. If he was a religious man himself, he thought, prayers might not be a bad idea.
As he paced through Incident Room One he saw Lauder coming from DC Stevie McGuire’s desk. Brennan approached him, stood in his path: ‘What are you doing in here?’
Lauder grinned. ‘Who promoted you to hall monitor?’
Brennan stood his ground. ‘This is my investigation, Lauder, and I’d like it solved.’ The bustle of the room ceased — they had an audience. Brennan sensed himself becoming a gladiator, all eyes upon him for a reaction as Lauder replied.
‘I’d ask how you were getting on, but I think I’ll just catch it on the news later.’
It was a low blow, designed to rattle Brennan. He returned a volley of his own: ‘We’re doing fine here, so you can take yourself elsewhere, Lauder, I don’t want you fucking up our mojo.’
Lauder riled, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Now Brennan smiled. ‘How’s the shooting case going?’
Lauder shook his head. ‘That’s a complex investigation; it would take me too long to explain to you, Rob.’
Brennan walked past him. ‘Broad-daylight shooting, in a public place… Sounds it!’
Lauder looked ready to spit as he turned for the exit. Brennan knew he was storing up trouble for himself if he didn’t ease off on him, but he didn’t care. The man had messed up the investigation of his brother’s murder and the thought rankled, more than a bit.
Outside the interview room Brennan stalled, looked in the peep-hole. The minister sat silently inside, head bowed. Brennan lowered his eye, rested his forehead on the door for a second or two, then jerked his neck back and walked into the room opposite. DC Stevie McGuire was sitting inside. He had a sandwich box open on the desk and a styrofoam cup filled with grey coffee halfway to his mouth. When he saw Brennan he lowered the cup, said, ‘Sir, how’s it going?’
‘It’s me that should be asking you that.’
McGuire took a quick sip of the coffee. ‘Well, I warmed him up for you but didn’t get much.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Brennan sat on the edge of the desk.
‘Not a lot.’ McGuire exhaled slowly. ‘He said he was going to tell us about the baby… in due course.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Oh, really… When, exactly?’
‘That he didn’t say.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing much. I didn’t go in too hard, just wanted to give him a foretaste, make him think, y’know.’
Brennan knew exactly what he meant — he was leaving it to him, didn’t want to mess up. ‘And the wife?’
‘I’m just going in there now. Thought I’d question her whilst you took the husband. We can compare notes.’
Brennan made a conscious effort to keep his expression blank, register nothing. He rose from the edge of the desk, turned for the door he’d walked through a moment earlier. He was about to close it behind him when he retreated a step, said, ‘I saw Lauder through there.’
McGuire’s eyes widened. ‘You did?’
‘Yes. I did.’ Brennan let the statement hang in the air for a little while, then, ‘If there’s any media enquiries come in, say nothing.’
McGuire’s lips parted. He seemed to be unsure of his answer, then: ‘Yes, sir… Of course.’
Brennan closed the door behind him. As he turned for the interview room, he took a moment to think about his strategy: he was going in hard, studs first. There was nothing to be gained from holding back. They had treated the minister with too much civility already. A man that hides the fact that he has a missing granddaughter, in the wake of his daughter’s brutal killing, deserves no leeway.
Brennan reached for the handle, turned it briskly and strode in. He did not acknowledge the minister, merely removed his jacket and flung it over the back of the chair. There was an empty plastic cup on the table. It toppled in the draught the jacket’s landing threw up; a little sliver of brown tea spilled on the table. The minister stared at it, seemed unsure of what to do next. He righted the cup and returned his hand to beneath the table.
Brennan spoke: ‘Who was the father?’
‘ What? I–I’ve no idea.’
‘You never asked?’
‘She wouldn’t say.’ The minister looked away.
‘And you accepted that?’
A nod. ‘It seemed irresponsible to press her, she was very unsettled then.’
‘She must have had a boyfriend, someone you suspected?’
‘No, no one.’
Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it was hardly an immaculate conception, Minister.’
He riled, ‘I have no idea who the father of the child was, Inspector.’
Brennan paused, took a deep breath. He had already been through all the possibilities and their permutations in his mind. ‘We can have that checked.’
The minister nodded. ‘I’m sure you can.’
The line of questioning had stalled. It gave Brennan an opportunity to change tack: ‘I see you’re in line for the big league.’
‘Excuse me?’ His voice sounded tired.
‘You didn’t expect that to escape us, surely…’ Brennan turned his cheek, squinted. ‘I’m talking about the job — Moderator of the Church of Scotland.’
The minister nodded, brought his hands out in front of him and laid them on the table. ‘You present that like it is an important piece of the puzzle, Inspector.’
Brennan smiled. ‘Maybe it is.’
‘And why would that be?’ His tone grew cockier.
