traffic, but Brennan was hoping she might do neither and opt not to attract any attention to herself before the interview. If she landed the job, chances were her mood might improve — she’d be demob happy — and leave him alone. If she didn’t get her promotion — that didn’t bear thinking about.
Brennan pushed his way through the cordon of uniforms, approached the SOCOs in their white tent. He noticed the tent was larger than the standard size he’d been used to — he stared for a moment, not quite sure what to make of the makeshift structure.
‘Sir.’ It was McGuire. As he emerged from the tent he pinned a yellow rubber-tipped pencil behind his ear, pulled off a disposable glove and put it in his pocket.
‘What have you got for me?’
McGuire removed his other glove, repeated the process of putting it in his pocket, then opened a black notebook. ‘It’s our boy from the bus station footage…’
‘You sure?’
Nods, a gesture towards the tent. ‘There’s a wallet and cards in the tray, got his name stamped all over them: Barry Tierney.’
Brennan sighed. ‘Bastard’s not going to be much good to us now, is he?’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Lou ran his name through the system last night after the calls came in off the television news slot. He’s got a colourful record.’
‘Fucking Technicolor, I bet, and his bit of stuff.’ Brennan took the notebook from the DC, ran a finger down the spine. ‘This the other one?’
McGuire peered into the page. ‘Durrant… Yeah, she copped a bullet too.’
‘Fucking hell. You kept this from the Chief Super, I hope.’
McGuire curled his nose up, nodded, then turned to the side and spoke: ‘She’ll be in sooner or later, boss. I can’t keep blanking her for ever.’
‘As long as we’ve got something to fend her off with, we’ll be in with a shout.’
McGuire retrieved his notebook, stared into Brennan’s eyes. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’
‘That’s nothing for you to worry about.’
McGuire dropped his voice to a whisper: ‘I don’t want to see you taken off the case now; you’ve come too fucking far for that.’
Brennan wondered if the remark was genuine or arse-kissing; decided on the former. He tapped McGuire’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about me, son. I know the ropes so well my palms are red.’ He took off, headed for the tent, called out on his way, ‘Get Lou and Brian going door to door with the victims’ neighbours.’
‘Already on it, sir.’
Brennan stalled, turned and shouted, ‘Don’t tell me you’re learning now.’
McGuire raised his middle finger in a salute. Brennan laughed. ‘Known associates… Pull them, then. I want to talk to everyone who knew Tierney and Durrant. Even their fucking window cleaner.’
In the tent the SOCOs in their white overalls busied themselves trying to erect a trestle. Brennan eyed their movements for a moment or two, then turned to the pale corpses on the ground. It had been a cold night and the flesh had quickly lost colour — as he kneeled closer he saw the lips of the man, Barry Tierney, had turned blue. There was a dark black hole in the top of his left temple where a bullet had entered and ended his life instantly. The sight of the bullet hole set Brennan’s nerves jangling, and his memory lit. When he had gone to identify his brother’s corpse there had been a bullet hole in the left temple. It was higher up, closer to the hairline, but it had looked similar and the sight of another one jolted Brennan. He recalled looming over Andy’s face; the life force had departed — there was no sign of his brother. He had touched his cold flesh and had tried to hold back his tears for Andy. He had tried to warn him about taking that job at the big house. He’d told him about Grady, about his Ulster connections, about the ongoing investigations…
Brennan took a deep breath. What was the point of going over old ground?
He got up and looked to the other body. They were about four yards apart; the reason for the bigger tent seemed obvious now. Brennan called out, ‘When are you moving these?’
A shrug. ‘When we’re ready.’
Brennan walked towards the white-suited SOCOs. ‘What you got there?’
One of them held up a little clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of metal. As Brennan took the bag, moved it towards the light that was streaming in through the front of the tent, he turned the item over. It was a bullet casing.
‘You know what that is?’ said a tall SOCO.
‘Oh, yes… Do you?’
The SOCO smarmed: ‘Are you serious?’
Brennan pointed to the bullet. ‘And this?’
‘Some kind of residue.’
‘These bullets are gold-washed… I’ve seen this before.’
The SOCO took the bag back, peered deeply. ‘I think you could be right.’
Brennan smarmed back: ‘I fucking know I’m right. These bullets are serious — this was a pro hit.’ He left the SOCO staring at him as he walked out of the tent and found McGuire. The DC was on his mobile; he hung up when Brennan approached.
‘Well?’ he said.
Brennan halted in his stride, motioned up the hill to his car. ‘Back to the office.’
McGuire followed on his heels. ‘I’m waiting…’
‘It’s a professional hit, no question. High-calibre rifle. Gold-washed ammunition. Close range.’
‘What’s that about the ammo?’
‘Makes it all the more lethal; rare as hobby-horse shite. Only serious craftsmen insist on it. Someone had this pair of dafties knocked off, and paid a high price for it. I want to know why.’
McGuire jogged ahead of his boss, raised the blue-and-white tape. ‘Any ideas who?’
Brennan looked at him. ‘I’d say someone who’s fucking shitting themselves.’
As he spoke, the reporter from the News approached. She came running from the edge of the road with a digital recorder in her hand. ‘Detective, are these killings related to any other ongoing investigation?’
Brennan halted, stared at her. ‘Who’s pulling your strings, love?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t come the innocent.’
She lowered her hand; the digital recorder dropped out of range. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head to one side. He loomed over the reporter. ‘So am I. My job’s about catching murderers and scum, keeping the streets safe. What’s yours for?’
She looked perplexed, narrowed her eyes. ‘ What?’
Brennan eyed her up and down. He’d had just about enough of seeing her at his crime scenes. ‘If you don’t know the answer to that question, maybe you’re in the wrong job.’
As he walked away and got into the car, Brennan caught sight of the reporter again. She hadn’t moved from where he had left her. When he started the engine she jutted a hip and slapped a palm off it. He knew he’d given her something to think about: it was never a good idea for reporters to get on the wrong side of the police.
‘She’s not pleased with you,’ said McGuire as they pulled out.
‘Good. She’ll get hers.’
‘You still think she’s being fed a line from inside the station?’
Brennan took second, pulled from the side street. ‘I’d bet a pound to a pail of shite she’s going flat out, probably on her back, to work her contact.’
McGuire laughed. As he did so, his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out his pocket. ‘Shit. It’s Galloway. Do you want me to answer it?’
Chapter 37
Brennan looked at McGuire, who held out his mobile. ‘Dump her,’ he said.
