‘Is a bit,’ said Brennan. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
McGuire steered the car towards the station, parked outside with two wheels on the kerb. As he got out of the driver’s door he eased his hands onto the base of his spine and leaned back. Brennan exited on the other side of the Passat, rubbing the back of his neck. He was relieved to get the journey out of the way but apprehensive as to what to expect on this visit. He was an outsider in unfamiliar territory. Much as he despised the city, he had grown accustomed to its ways and felt comfortable there. Pitlochry was an unknown quantity and he expected it would take time for both of them to get used to each other.
Brennan headed for the front door of the station. He watched McGuire stretching on the pavement and nodded gravely. ‘Come on, we’re going in.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
Brennan squared his shoulders. ‘Let me do the talking.’
‘That sounds worse.’
A frown, thinned eyes. ‘I hope you’ve got my back.’
McGuire laughed, patted the detective’s back. ‘No worries.’
The station smelled of mould and bleach, the cheap industrial bleach that comes in powder form. Brennan flared his nostrils as they approached the desk. There was a black plastic pen sitting in a pen holder the same colour, that looked as if it would be more at home in a branch of the TSB circa 1975. Some crime- prevention leaflets were piled next to a small Perspex rack. There was a bell, like a front-door bell, screwed into the counter. Brennan pressed the button; a buzzer sounded.
There was no movement. He toyed with the idea of pressing the button again, then a stout man in uniform, three stripes on his arms, approached. He seemed to be ignoring Brennan as he leaned over the counter and showed him the top of his bald head. Brennan turned to McGuire, raised an eyebrow then removed his warrant card and dropped it in front of the uniform.
For a moment the bald head remained in place, then slowly it was raised and a hand with ginger hair sprouting from the knuckles picked up the card. ‘Inspector Brennan… You must be the boys from Edinburgh, eh?’ If there was any hint of a welcome, Brennan missed it.
He played it calm; he was on foreign soil. ‘That’s right.’
The uniform took two steps to the left, released a catch under the counter and raised a section that sat on two hinges. ‘This way.’
Brennan nodded McGuire through first. On the way past the uniform he retrieved his warrant card and said, ‘How long have you been on the desk?’
He leaned forward. ‘Too long.’
‘You got that right.’
Brennan turned. As he walked through the small vestibule his shoes sounded loudly on the pine boards. He thought the place could do with a lick of paint, but concluded that was probably low on the list of things they needed.
McGuire found a door on the other side of the room that led through to a corridor. The uniform called out from behind them. ‘Out there, left then first on the right. Can’t miss it. Fergus is your man.’
Neither of the officers thought to thank him. They headed through the door and walked up the corridor. At the end, on the right, a panel door held a small grey plate that read DS NAPIER. Brennan knocked on the door.
‘Come.’
Once inside, the officers were greeted by a head of curly brown hair that sat over the top of a copy of the Press and Journal newspaper. Napier had his feet on the desk and a pair of argyle socks showed below three to four inches of pasty white leg.
Brennan approached. ‘This is DC McGuire and I’m DI Brennan from Lothian CID…’ He had thought this would be enough to prompt some kind of a reaction, but Napier remained still.
Brennan looked at McGuire — he shrugged.
‘Right then, if you can just show us where our office is-’
‘Office?’ Napier chuckled. ‘You’re bloody well standing in it.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, that makes one of us… When you’re finished checking the day’s form, Detective, I’d like to see what you’ve been doing up here with the information my colleagues have supplied you with surrounding the murder of Carly Donald.’
Napier uncrossed his feet, lowered his legs. As he moved he folded the newspaper and positioned it on the corner of his desk next to two empty coffee mugs.
Brennan eyed him impatiently. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
Napier replied. ‘Oh yes, I hear you… sir.’
Brennan could feel his heart rate increasing. He had come a long way and was prepared to be as amenable to the local customs as he could be, but he wasn’t going to be pissed about, certainly not in front of one of his staff. ‘Good. Nothing wrong with your hearing then; shame I can’t say the same about your fucking manners.’ Brennan removed his hands from his pockets and leaned over the desk. ‘You might as well get your arse out of that chair, fella. If this is where we’re working from, I’ll be having the desk.’
Napier rose. As he walked around the officers, Brennan straightened himself. ‘Hold on.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You’ll need these.’ He picked up the empty coffee mugs. ‘I’ll take mine black but I believe DC McGuire is partial to a drop of milk.’
Napier took the mugs and walked to the door, glancing back at Brennan and McGuire before going through and closing it gently behind him.
‘Bloody hell,’ said McGuire. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be like The Wicker Man!’
Brennan ran a finger over the desk, collected a burr of dust, held it up. ‘Welcome to the country.’
McGuire rolled eyes. ‘I think we can kiss goodbye to any cooperation from the local boys, then.’
Brennan barked, ‘Don’t be fooled. They all like to test the boundaries. I’d say they know where they are now.’ He picked up a blue folder: CARLY DONALD was written on a white label on the front. He opened it — there was one page inside.
‘What is it?’ said McGuire.
Brennan turned it over, held it between finger and thumb.
McGuire peered at it, dropped his head.
The page was blank.
Chapter 27
DI Rob Brennan knew it was true that the older you get the more cantankerous you become, but he drew the line at agreeing with the adage that age also gives you more clarity of thought. Some people, no matter what age they are, just aren’t capable of reasoning beyond tying their own shoelaces. He listened to Napier praising the minister and the town and dismissing any suggestion that anyone with a connection to the family could have been involved in Carly’s murder. He watched Napier’s moustache become flecked with spit as his temper, and face, darkened the deeper he got into his rant. Then, enough was enough.
‘At what stage are you going to move from conjecture to fact, Napier?’
The rotund man halted in his speech. ‘What do you mean?’
Brennan kept his tone monotonous: ‘I asked you for a summary of the case.’
‘And that’s what I’m giving you.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re giving me a bunch of assumptions and prejudices that you’ve came to, Christ knows how, and I couldn’t care less, but none of it is based on empirical research.’
Napier closed his mouth; he looked like a scolded child.
Brennan rose from the chair. The boards beneath the chair legs creaked. ‘Since you’re doing nothing else you can take us to the manse.’
‘Well, I am actually running an investigation of my own-’
Brennan cut him off: ‘The case of the open gate and the sheep on the road can bloody well wait. Get your
