‘I’m in Pitlochry.’
‘Well, think yourself fucking lucky… You’re page one in Edinburgh.’
Brennan didn’t like the sound of this. McGuire tilted his head, opened his mouth quizzically.
‘What’s this?’
Galloway shuffled the paper. ‘They have the scoop on the case. Missing child, the works.’
Brennan rested his brow in his hand. ‘Shit.’
‘Yes, you may well fucking curse, Rob.’ Galloway rustled the paper some more, slammed it down on a hard surface. He could hear her stomping around her office, high heels clacking, as she blasted, ‘Now, I know it was your bright idea to give the press the victim’s name, but tell me you didn’t release the fact that her baby’s missing.’
Brennan sat back, steadied himself. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘Well, somebody did.’ The paper was rustled again. ‘“Police sources say”… Who the fuck are these sources, Rob?’
McGuire’s face had started to grow firm. His eyes had begun to widen but now had thinned into slits. He looked perplexed, but in no doubt that the news Brennan was receiving was not good. The look of the DC unsettled Brennan. He flagged him away, mouthed a ‘fuck off’.
‘Look, Chief, none of this came from me or anyone authorised by me.’
‘So you have a mole — who is it?’
He steadied his tone: ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, I daresay you’ve pissed off so many people that it’ll be hard to narrow down, but you better start.’ Galloway paused to draw breath for another onslaught. ‘I want you back here as soon as, Rob. Do you hear me?’
‘I’ve got a few leads I’d like to pursue if that’s-’
‘Back now, Rob!’ Her voice rose to its highest pitch. ‘Get this force off the front pages of the papers, do you hear me?’
Brennan knew the chances of that were slim. When the press got hold of a story like this they tended to run with it, build it up and up. The only way to stop that snowball in motion was to solve the case, and he didn’t see any chance of that happening by the time of the News ’s next edition, not without a dramatic breakthrough.
He lied, ‘Consider it done. I’m on my way back now.’
Brennan hung up. He could sense Galloway lining up another barrage of criticisms but he didn’t give her the chance.
As he put down the phone the waitress arrived with his eggs. He looked at them but had lost all appetite.
Chapter 32
Brennan opened and closed his fist. He did this a few times before he noticed the elderly woman at the table next to him watching his actions. He smiled and moved his hands out of view. He sat for a few moments, simmering. His inclination was to batter at the wall with fists, shout. He’d have been happier to batter at someone’s head, shout in their face. The someone was Lauder. He was pretty sure his only other suspect for tipping off the press, McGuire, had been on the level all day yesterday. He’d been busy too; not too busy to contact the press, of course, but absorbed enough in the case to convince Brennan that his intentions were sound. As the call from Galloway was coming in Brennan had noted McGuire’s expression, and the look of real and genuine stupefaction convinced him the DC wasn’t the culprit. Of course, Brennan knew the dangers of jumping to conclusions without hard facts to back them up.
He got up from the table, folded his napkin and placed it over the eggs — they were untouched.
In the hallway Brennan spotted McGuire looking out the open front door. A taxi was dropping off some golfers.
‘Well?’ said McGuire.
Brennan tested, ‘Well what?’
‘Well, something’s up… That was the Chief Super, pissed, I presume.’
Brennan watched McGuire’s pupils for signs of dilation. ‘The press found out about the missing baby.’
McGuire clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth wide as he pointed his chin in the air. He emptied his lungs of air, then straightened himself. Brennan watched his every movement. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Watch your language, eh.’ Brennan motioned to an elderly couple welcoming the golfers by the front door.
The DC traced the line of an eyebrow with his finger, began tapping a foot on the floor. ‘Well, that’s all we need.’
‘Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Yeah, but all the same, makes life difficult for us.’
Brennan shrugged, said, ‘I wasn’t aware it was ever easy.’
‘Easier, maybe… How did they find out?’
A frown. ‘Search me.’
McGuire stopped tapping his foot, looked at his watch. ‘So, we can expect another witch-hunt when we get back, I suppose.’
Brennan glowered; two creases like warpaint appeared at the sides of his mouth. ‘I doubt there’ll be time for that. We’re going to be seriously up against it. The scrutiny will be intense. If we don’t get rolling, get some leads soon, we can forget about getting a result.’ The thought of Carly’s murderer getting away from him burned Brennan. He didn’t want to see the case written up in a trashy true-crime book with Carly’s life and death reduced to no more than titillation. He’d seen too many cases go unsolved. He didn’t want Carly to be another Andy.
‘Right. Get your kit packed up — we’re back down the road,’ said Brennan.
‘We’re going back to Edinburgh?’
‘Chief Super’s orders.’
McGuire visibly slumped: his shoulders drooped, a deep sigh deflated his chest. ‘I can’t believe this.’
‘Believe it.’ Brennan turned for the stairs. ‘Hurry it up. I want to see if the sheep-shaggers have clawed in any info on our man Sproul yet.’
McGuire followed him, rested a hand on the balustrade. ‘You didn’t like the look of him, did you?’
‘He’s a Paisley buddy.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
Brennan laughed. ‘I haven’t met one yet that wasn’t crooked as two left feet.’
On the way to Pitlochry station Brennan rolled down the car window, lit a cigarette. He couldn’t get any flavour from the mild Silk Cut and wondered if he’d wrecked his taste buds with the full-tar alternatives. He seemed to have wrecked a lot lately, he thought; nothing would surprise him. He thought about his marriage and he thought about Lorraine and the baby again — he knew there were no immediate answers coming to him — the case had to come first; it always did. The rest could wait.
Inside the station Napier was pouring himself a cup of tea. An unopened pack of HobNobs sat beside the kettle. Brennan spoke first: ‘Morning, Napier.’
A nod, nervous cough. ‘Ah, hello, good morning, sir.’
‘You’ll be relieved to hear we’re getting out of your hair soon.’
‘Oh… really.’
Brennan smiled. ‘Don’t go all teary-eyed on us, eh.’
The kettle boiled and Napier poured out his tea, offered the others a cup; they declined. ‘Suit yourselves.’
The office was in the same state of disarray as the day before: a dusty old computer terminal, tea-stained tabletop, and piles of case files on the floor. There seemed to be too much dark wood about the place, and too little light; it looked like the land that time forgot. Brennan took a chair, pointed to the fax machine. ‘Anything come in?’
‘Oh, the Peter Sproul stuff… It’s over there.’
