‘I told you to shut it.’
The driver was getting anxious, kept looking back.
Vee spat at him, ‘You’re not telling me to-’
He snapped, grabbed her head in his hands and screamed in her face, ‘I told you, shut it. I don’t want to hear your fucking voice again.’
The cab screeched to a halt. ‘That’s it!’ shouted the driver.
Tierney watched the cabbie open his door and walk round to his side of the street. He pulled the handle and opened up. ‘You can walk from here.’
Tierney squeezed Vee’s head in his hands, then banged it off the seat. ‘That was your fucking fault. It’s always your fault!’
As he got out he eyeballed the cabbie, who reached behind him and helped Vee to her feet. ‘Hey, she can walk herself…’ Tierney watched the cab driver help Vee and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He let out a fist that connected with the back of the man’s head and he fell to the ground. Where he lay Tierney started to kick him; when he tired of kicking he started to stamp on his head. Soon he was too exhausted to continue, panting and wheezing, his chest aching.
When Vee got out of the car she staggered over the cabbie. He spluttered blood as he tried to speak, raised a hand.
Vee looked at Barry and then she brought her foot down on the cab driver’s face. There was an audible crunch, the breaking of bone, and she laughed out.
Barry watched her for a moment. She was lining up another blow, balancing herself by holding the taxi’s roof to give her more purchase. She looked enraged. Barry wondered why.
‘Vee, pack it in.’
She didn’t listen as she tried to drive her heel into the cabbie’s face.
‘Vee… leave it,’ Barry roared, but the words had no effect.
A crowd had started to gather, a few muttering and gesturing to others to intervene.
Barry knew it was time to move on. He grabbed Vee’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Go where?’
‘Away… away from here.’
Chapter 30
The first thing that struck DI Rob Brennan about the inside of Carly Donald’s room was how unremarkable it was. He didn’t know what he had expected to find in there but the familiarity of the place seemed to dig at his heart. On the small single bed there was a pink bedspread that was covered in little mauve flowers; it looked like something Sophie would have once picked out, before she had entered the phase where she wanted everything to be black. Over the window was a draw-blind with butterflies on the edges and a long pull tassel. Everything seemed so normal, so simple, almost like a film set or from a TV show for teenage girls.
Brennan eased himself in. The place smelled of lavender and vanilla. He wondered if it was a trait of every girl to have a room smelling just like the first floor of Jenners. He eased up to her desk. There was a red organiser for pens and pencils; she had tied red elastic bands — like the ones the postman drops — into a little ball. Brennan picked up the ball, rolled it in his palm and started to squeeze it. The item was a connection to Carly and he felt some strange power holding it.
‘Okay, Carly… What am I looking for?’
Brennan opened a drawer. There was some writing paper in there, pink again, and more pens, felt-tips. He removed the cap from one — it had dried out; the entire collection was probably left over from when she was younger. Sixteen was too old for colouring in.
There was nothing else that caught Brennan’s attention on the desk. He closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe. A tall, freestanding pine box that looked like flat-pack but was probably more substantial. He opened up and immediately smelled a stronger waft of perfume. It was a different smell, not rose — apples, maybe. He liked it. The first thing that caught Brennan’s attention in the wardrobe was a school blazer. He took it out. The jacket was well kept; it had been brushed regularly and looked in good shape. The braid on the sleeves was yellow and bright. It struck him that dressing children in uniforms was a strange thing to be doing at this stage of human development. It was almost tribal. In Edinburgh, the rich kids stood out a mile in their uniforms, but then, that was the idea, wasn’t it? When you were paying?25,000 a year for your kid’s education, you wanted it to be as conspicuous as the Bentley Continental you drove to work.
Brennan looked further into the wardrobe. A lot of jeans. Simple tops, spots and prints. There were some boots beneath the clothes, grey suede. Brennan thought they were called pixie boots but he was no good with fashion. There were some trainers too, sports socks rolled into a ball and a hockey stick propped against the back. He closed the door.
The DI returned to the bed, sat. He hadn’t found anything worthwhile, but he had found something of Carly. The room had presence, she had put her stamp on it and Brennan drew on that, took it in. She may not have been there in person but Carly had made an indelible impression on him. He felt an attachment now; he understood more about her. She seemed a middle-of-the-road type; some might say plain. Her dress sense was unimaginative, but then she was only sixteen. Had she had time yet to fully form her personality, develop a style of her own?
On a whim, Brennan looked under the bed. There were some magazines, Heat, OK! Closer, and some books on childbirth. He rubbed the cover of one — the pages were dog-eared. There were items in the book ringed in red marker pen. Baby chairs and prams, clothing. Was this the action of a girl who was going to see her child adopted? Carly had wanted to keep the baby, he sensed it, knew it. Brennan replaced the magazines and books, got off the bed and smoothed down the bedspread.
He stood for a moment, stared at the posters on the walls. One of them was a Pop Idol winner, or was it X Factor? He didn’t know, but he recognised her face — Leona something? There was another larger poster of a boy band. Brennan didn’t know who they were — he thought they looked like tossers, though. All the posing and gesturing made him wonder what was going on in their heads. He bounced the elastic-band ball off the poster, said, ‘Come on, Carly, give me a sign here.’
Nothing came.
He stood for a moment longer, turned, went to place the ball on the desk but something stopped him. He felt some kind of comfort holding it, a connection he didn’t want to lose. Brennan held the ball in his hand for a moment longer, stared at it as if there was a message inside. He’d felt this before, a strange channelling from artefacts of the dead, but he always dismissed it as the mind playing tricks. He smiled, shook his head, then put the little ball back on the desk and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen McGuire and Napier were talking over cups of tea. There was no sign of Peter Sproul. When Brennan came in their chat ceased at once.
‘Hello, boss.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘How far is this Thompson girl’s house?’
Napier put down his cup. ‘Just a minute or two away.’ He twisted his neck, raised a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Round that way.’
Brennan fastened his jacket. ‘Finish your tea. I’ll wait in the car.’
McGuire rose and took his cup to the sink. Napier followed him.
In the car Brennan drummed fingers on the dash, held his thoughts in check. There was a call he had to make. He didn’t want to speak to his wife but Sophie was on his mind now. He needed to know she was okay, that she had come home and her antics had all been another attention-seeking prank. He knew his daughter was too sensible to get mixed up in anything that would bring real worry to her parents — she’d been well briefed on the subject — but Brennan couldn’t help his concern surfacing.
He dialled home.
Ringing.
