McGuire put the Passat into fifth gear, planted his foot. ‘You don’t rate many at the station, do you, sir?’
Brennan knew where this conversation was going. ‘Like Lauder, you mean?’
‘Well…’
‘Don’t concern yourself, son. Me and Lauder have a score to settle, that’s all.’
McGuire coughed on the back of his hand. ‘Is that your br-’
‘Stevie, change the subject, eh.’
‘Sir.’
They drove in silence for a few miles. Brennan noticed how the fields and trees altered his mood. It was a release to be getting out of the city. He wound up the window, stubbed out his cigarette. There was a twinge of regret building in him for the way he had treated McGuire. The DC was trying hard to make an impression. He was just a boy after all; Brennan could remember being his age, once.
‘I always wanted to be a police officer, even when I was very young. My brother wanted to be an artist then, but we were both told early on that we’d be going into the family business. My old man was a small-time builder — we were both to get trades. I was having none of it. I joined up as soon as they’d have me and that was that.’
McGuire smiled. ‘You rebel.’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘What about your brother — did he become an artist?’
Brennan looked out over the fields again. The sun painted a yellow glow on the grass. ‘No… Andy went into the family firm.’
McGuire seemed to have sensed it was difficult territory for Brennan — talking about his brother; he changed the subject now. ‘So, Pitlochry… Never been. Has it got its fleshpots?’
Brennan laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, it’s like any other small Scottish town.’
‘A shit-hole, then?’
At McGuire’s age, Brennan had thought every small town in Scotland was a shit-hole; it was funny how your opinions changed with maturity. ‘I suppose it depends what you’re looking for. We’re not going to paint the town red, Stevie, we’re investigating a murder.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan was happy that the tone had returned to a familiar formality. He withdrew his notebook, scanned the names he’d jotted down back at the station. ‘What sort of impression did the local woodentops make on you, Stevie?’
McGuire breathed out slowly, slapped his hand off the steering wheel. ‘Well, they were a bit shocked to get my call at the start, to be honest…’
‘More used to dealing with calls about some young farmer up to his nuts in a ewe!’
McGuire laughed, slapped the wheel again. ‘Nice one!’
Brennan clawed him back in: ‘Anyway, once they got over the shock of having a murder squad on the way up…’
‘Erm, quite cordial, I suppose.’
Cordial — where did he get these words? Brennan never used words like cordial, certainly never at McGuire’s age. The benefits of a private education no doubt, he thought. ‘Well, we’ll be putting their hospitality to the test, so we’ll find out. I hope they’ve got a phone line.’
‘I brought a whistle, just in case.’
Brennan put his notebook back in his pocket. ‘I want to start with Carly’s best friend. Lynne Thompson.’
‘Right, I’ll get her brought into the station.’
‘No, don’t do that. We’ll go to the home… Want her to be comfortable enough to speak, not frighten her off.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you spoken to the Thompson girl’s parents?’
McGuire creased his brows. ‘No, Lou did… They were very helpful, apparently.’
‘That’s country folk for you.’
‘Yeah, apparently the poor girl’s devastated. Off school, not eating.’
‘Did she give anything away?’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Sorry, boss… She’s bemused, by all accounts. They were best friends and the pair of them didn’t really mix with the rest of the youngsters in the town, so she’s a bit lost without her.’
Brennan lowered his voice. ‘She must have known about the pregnancy, then… Maybe she’ll know the father.’
McGuire nodded. ‘Yes, maybe. What you thinking? Local boy?’
‘One thing’s for sure: if she was seeing someone, a friend like Lynne would have heard about it. Teenage girls don’t keep that kind of thing from each other.’
McGuire dropped a gear, put the blinkers on again, pulled out to overtake a slow-moving caravan. ‘Why do they let those fuckers on the road?’
Brennan agreed; but steered the conversation back on course. ‘What about the head?’
‘Staggered. Seriously strung out. Carly hadn’t been at school for the last few months. She’d been kept off with — get this — depression. The school had no idea she’d given birth.’
‘ Depression?’
‘Certified… I spoke to the doctor: he said she was depressed after the birth and it was quite normal.’
‘What about before? If he was signing her off school with depression before the baby was born then he must have had his reasons.’
McGuire eased the car back into lane. ‘He’s a family doctor, sir. Said there were a lot of issues surrounding the birth. He didn’t want to stress the mother out in her pregnancy with worry about small-town gossip and thought it was better for all if she was kept off school. Seemed genuine, and fair enough to me.’
Brennan drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He dipped his head, pushed in the cigarette lighter once more. ‘Okay, the girl first, then… Let’s hope Lynne’s got something that we can use to find out who killed her best friend.’
They spent the rest of the journey in silence, punctuated only by the pinging of the cigarette lighter and McGuire’s overrevving of the engine.
When they reached Pitlochry it was just as Brennan remembered it. He’d been there on a family holiday — when they still took family holidays — to the Highlands a few years back. He’d taken the road off the A9 to check the place out and remembered Sophie complaining because she wanted to get to the hotel to watch Friends. The town was small but not without its appeal, he thought. It had once been a popular tourist spot with the Victorians, who took to the scenic setting and the proliferation of spires and sturdy Scots baronial architecture. The town centre said solidity, a Presbyterian longing for respectability. Knowing what he did, it seemed like hypocrisy to Brennan.
‘Nightmare to get parked here,’ said McGuire.
Brennan soaked up the feel of the place — it screamed to him of a vanished country. The days of men in tweed and brogues were gone, he thought — that was all just dress-up for the hunting, shooting and fishing mob — but there was something about Pitlochry that said the look was still de rigueur. ‘Check out the Barbour jackets.’
McGuire sighed. ‘Christ, thought I’d seen the last of them at uni.’
Brennan shook his head. ‘The last time I came up here I thought it was quite, what’s the word… quaint?’
‘I’d bet if you stopped and talked to one of the Barbour mob they’d be Home Counties… Or Notting Hill. This part of the country’s just a playground for the seriously well-heeled.’
Brennan agreed. ‘Makes me a bit queasy now.’
‘What’s changed you?’
He shifted eyes. ‘Maybe I suddenly developed awareness.’
McGuire dragged the gears. ‘Traffic’s seizing up.’
Brennan nodded to the road. ‘Over there — it’s our home from home.’
McGuire turned towards the small building with the police sign, blue with white lettering. ‘By the Christ… It’s like something out of Dixon of Dock Green.’
