Brennan spent a restless night. The bed sheets were too tight, like a hospital or one of the hotels he had stayed in as a boy, with his parents, and brother Andy. He couldn’t remember having slept in such tight-fitting sheets as an adult; at home he had a duvet and was used to more freedom of movement. Although the temperature dropped in the night-time, Brennan had been forced to get up and tug everything free. The action had given him more room to move about in the bed, but didn’t feel quite right either. Perhaps it was the fact that he was away from home, in unfamiliar surroundings, he thought. When they were young, Andy and himself had never been able to sleep on any of their trips away from home; it had been too exciting, like the time before Christmas or the day before a birthday.
Andy would have liked Pitlochry, thought Brennan. It was like their hometown — at least, how he remembered it before the economic collapse. They had now shuttered up all the shops in the high street, and all that was left was pound stores and bargain-basement outlets. The place used to have more prestige, when they were young.
Brennan could see Andy now — it was a summer holiday memory and made him smile. Andy was playing Swingball in the back garden in a Scotland football strip. His legs were stick-thin but he wore the red socks pulled tight below the knee, the white diamonds at the top turned over with precision. He was always very precise, thought Brennan.
The vision of his brother seemed to fade. The thought saddened Brennan; he wanted to return to the warm glow he felt when he remembered his brother but there was a part of him that said it was wrong to stay in happy moments for too long. Life wasn’t about the happy moments — there was too much sadness in the world. He knew that for every fond memory he had of Andy there was an unhappy one lurking close by; and now one appeared.
It was summertime again.
Brennan had came home from school, his papers signed by his housemaster — he was leaving.
Andy knew at once. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying.’ Brennan could never lie to his brother; he always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth.
He told him what he had done. ‘Do you think Dad will crack up?’
Andy tutted. ‘Bloody hell, what do you think?’
‘I want to go into the police. I’ve got no interest in the business.’
Andy looked away. ‘Do you think I do?’
Brennan pulled him back. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m joining the police.’
‘I heard you… Everyone listens to you, Rob. It’s me nobody pays any attention to.’
Brennan registered the point. ‘Andy, the police is a job, it pays… Who’s going to pay you to paint pictures?’ He smirked, felt cocky, too sure of himself.
Andy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze. Brennan watched him walk off. The collar on his blazer had been turned up and as he went the wind caught it, ruffled the back of his hair. He watched his brother walk to the end of the driveway, then turn right into the street. He could only see the top of his head above the hedgerows for a few moments but the look on his face was something he had never forgotten. The memory stung as Brennan recalled it now; even twenty years ago, Andy was thinking of others before himself.
Brennan knew that he had thought of no one except himself when he had decided he wasn’t going into the family business. He was going to be a police officer and nothing was coming between him and his ambition. As he thought of Andy he wished he could have reversed the decision; even for a little while, to have given Andy some time to follow his own dreams like Brennan had followed his.
Brennan rose from the bed, sat on the edge and ruffled his hair, then surveyed the stubble on his chin. Before he met Lorraine, and started the therapy, when he got into moods like this there was no way out. He could spend hours, days in despair, blackness. Now he had developed what she called coping mechanisms. He had trained himself to think of distractions. Why was he here? What was the purpose of Rob Brennan’s life? The answers to those questions depended on the time of day, he thought. He knew, as he mulled over the answer now, that his purpose was to find the killer of a young girl. It wouldn’t bring back Andy, but it might make him feel like part of the human race again, and that was something to cling to.
Brennan showered and shaved. He dressed in a crisp white shirt from Burton and a sober navy tie. When he looked at himself in the mirror he saw the sleeves of the shirt were a little creased and crumpled. He had ironed the shirt himself. The days of Joyce taking care of such domestic duties had passed a long time ago — ironing shirts for a spouse was an act of love and there was precious little of that left in their relationship. If it wasn’t for Sophie, he knew he would have left her already. That’s what Lorraine wanted; she had pressed for it many times. Brennan didn’t like being pressed but there were other factors to consider now. He removed the picture of the baby scan she had given him, held it up. He permitted himself a smile — he was going to be a father again. The smile left as quickly as it had appeared; as happy as the thought of a new child made him, he knew it was going to bring complications.
Brennan removed his mobile, searched for Lorraine’s number.
He put the phone to his ear. It was ringing.
‘Hello, Rob.’
‘Lorraine, I don’t… I still don’t know what to say.’
‘Maybe there’s nothing to say.’ He hated the way she framed her responses like open-ended questions. It was shrink-speak.
‘There must be plenty. We have to talk about this… About what we’re going to do.’
Lorraine sighed. He could hear her moving on the bed, the sheets rustling, the springs sagging. ‘We’ve done all the talking, Rob. It’s time for action.’
He knew what that meant, but he didn’t know if he was ready for the next step. ‘It’s not so easy.’
‘You always said you couldn’t leave because of Sophie. Well, now you’re going to have another child to think about, Rob… Are you going to put Sophie before our child?’
‘Lorraine, don’t talk like that.’
She stayed quiet for a moment, then, ‘It’s a choice you have to make, Rob.’
‘It’s not as simple as-’
She interrupted, ‘Yes it is! It’s very simple.’
‘Lorraine…’
Her voice dropped: ‘I have to go, I have appointments in an hour.’
There was nothing more to say. The call had played out just as he’d expected it would; like all their talks recently, it left him feeling more lost than when they started. He wished he hadn’t bothered, but knew the effort was necessary, and there’d be more required.
Brennan hung up.
He stared at the phone for a short time, then put it in his pocket and rose. He tried to clear his thoughts, let his mind still, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to put off a decision for much longer. In the job decisions came easy — without thinking, even; it was in the wider world where he found most trouble deciding on the right path.
Brennan walked to the dresser, collected his wallet and some coins, put on his jacket and went down to breakfast. McGuire was already at the table, finishing off a cup of coffee.
‘Morning, sir.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Any word from Napier?’
He lowered the cup. ‘You’re kidding — it’s barely gone eight in the a.m. And there was a match on last night — Inter Milan.’
Brennan sniffed. A waitress came over. He ordered tea and eggs, some toast with butter. She smiled sweetly and left for the kitchen.
‘You sleep okay, sir?’ said McGuire.
‘Now you’re kidding. I was wrapped up like King Tut… Guess the duvet revolution hasn’t reached Pitlochry.’ As he watched McGuire grinning, Brennan’s phone began to ring in his shirt pocket. The caller ID showed it was from the office. He flagged McGuire quiet, answered: ‘Brennan.’
‘Have you seen the News?’ It was Galloway. She sounded irate, her voice shrieking down the line like a harpy.
