‘You sure?’ The DC looked pensive now.
Brennan nodded. ‘As shooting.’
They continued back to the station. Brennan turned things over in his mind. First there was the situation with Peter Sproul. The plan had been to pull him, rattle some details about his living situation with the Donalds in Pitlochry. But finding him in a pool of his own blood had put paid to that. He couldn’t see the minister revealing anything about him — he had been too wary of letting details of his life slip. Brennan wondered if the Donalds knew more about Sproul than was good for them. If they believed the sex offender to be the father of their grandchild then perhaps that was why they had been so cagey. It was a delicate situation, thought Brennan, but the time for treading gently was over. Time had run out.
Brennan gripped the wheel tighter the closer they got to Fettes. He had thought he wanted back to the city when he was in Pitlochry but now he’d got home he realised how wrong he was — the sensation was like picking up a cold beer on a warm day, and finding the bottle empty. He rolled up the window. The air outside was heavy with fumes; he could almost taste the diesel. As he stared out the buildings looked dirtier than he remembered. Everywhere he looked the stone was grey or blackened. The streets were awash with litter, the bins overflowed and spilled into the gutters — cans, fag dowps, crisp bags, all blowing like bunting in the foetid wind. He worked though the gears as he hit a quiet stretch of Orchard Brae. ‘We have to call in the minister, find out what the hell was going on there.’
McGuire stretched round in his seat to face Brennan. ‘For a father to take in a repeat sex offender, with a young daughter at home, defies logic.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’ Brennan knew the minister was blinded by some sense of religious duty — that had been obvious from the start — but why had he kept Sproul’s presence a secret from the police?
McGuire said, ‘Unless he wanted to rehabilitate Sproul. Y’know, if he was taken in by a sob story, perhaps some claim about him being a changed man.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Or having found the Lord in Peterhead.’ The DI had answers of his own, but he knew he would be making a mistake applying his logic to the minister’s situation. Carly was dead, though. A man’s daughter had been killed and he’d shielded a potential suspect from the investigating officers. Why? Worse, Beth was still missing. The minister’s granddaughter, his innocent flesh and blood, was who knows where and still he hadn’t revealed Sproul.
Brennan knew the case was in chaos. Nothing was fitting together. He knew there was a bigger picture, something that linked up the missing pieces of the assassinations at the Water of Leith, but he couldn’t pull it into focus. They were drawing near to the station. He lowered his speed as he went into the car park, pulled up. He turned off the engine and moved to face McGuire.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, sir?’
Brennan’s voice rose: ‘Why have two minor-league scrotes professionally hit?’
‘Someone wanted them knocked off quickly.’
‘Obviously. But who? And why?’
McGuire looked straight ahead. ‘Well, for a start, someone with the money to pay for it.’
It didn’t make sense; their necks weren’t worth the price or the trouble. ‘If someone higher up the food chain was going to put up money to have that pair wiped out then they must be scared shitless.’
McGuire returned his gaze to Brennan, tapped the top of the gearstick. ‘You know, they’ve most likely seen the News piece and thought we were getting close… Shat themselves.’
‘Are we getting close?’ said Brennan.
McGuire turned up his palms. ‘Maybe we’re closer than we realise.’
Brennan hoped he was right. He turned to face the windshield, looked at the station. He felt his stomach tighten, sighed, ‘Galloway’s waiting in there to kick our arses all over the place.’
‘You’re right there, sir.’
‘Get your phone, call Lou… See what he’s got on the door-to-door.’
McGuire reached into his coat pocket, removed the phone and dialled. Brennan watched his movements and facial gestures. The DC spoke to Lou for a few minutes then hung up.
‘So?’ said Brennan.
‘You’ll like this. Flat above says they heard a baby screaming all hours for the last few days.’
Brennan’s head snapped to the side. ‘Really?’
‘More yet — folk next door said they saw a young girl with the woman… No positive ID as Carly but a definite maybe. They haven’t seen the girl again; she just disappeared.’
Brennan slapped the dash. ‘That bastard’s had his, Stevie… We might just be getting closer.’ He opened the car door, leaned out. ‘Come on then, let’s go face the dragon!’
As he opened the station doors, strode in, the desk sergeant got up and called Brennan over: ‘Rob, hear about Lauder?’
‘Not now, Charlie.’ He waved him away, made for the stairs.
The sergeant sat back down as Brennan and McGuire took the staircase.
Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway was waiting for Brennan and McGuire as they reached their floor. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and a cream-coloured silk blouse that had elaborate collars pulled out across the shoulders. As ever, she wore heels that added an extra three inches to her height. Brennan composed himself for a confrontation, tried to make a straight eye contact but Galloway turned her head and pointed a palm to her office. Brennan and McGuire led the way with the Chief Super following, her heels clacking on the hard flooring like a tribal drumbeat.
As they entered, the door was closed quietly behind them and Galloway directed them to seats. The atmosphere in the office was heady; added intensity came from an expensive perfume that the Chief Super had applied liberally. She was always groomed, thought Brennan, but today she looked like something from an eighties soap opera. Dynasty or Dallas — one where the shoulder pads came from the AFL.
‘Quite a body count you’ve amassed over the last two days, is it not?’ said Galloway.
Brennan crossed his legs, undid the button fastening his jacket. He turned to McGuire. ‘Stevie, perhaps you could fill the Chief Super in on Peter Sproul.’
‘I know about Sproul, I’ve seen the file,’ she bit back. ‘What I don’t know is how he ended up dead in Carly Donald’s bedroom.’
McGuire cut in: ‘It was a suicide: the lab have confirmed the wounds were self-inflicted and we have a note of sorts which he added to a social networking site.’
Galloway’s face held firm; her lipstick seemed to have been baked on. ‘So, let’s have a stab at tomorrow’s headline in the News… “Repeat Paedo Tops Himself in Murder Victim’s Bedroom and Leaves Message on Facebook.”’
Brennan turned to McGuire. Neither was smiling. ‘It’s our belief Sproul had good reason to want a fast route out of the picture.’
‘Oh, you think?’ Galloway put a finger to her chin and pulled a ditsy expression. ‘Why? Maybe he didn’t want to go back to Peterhead… I’ve read that report too, the one about the sharpened chicken bone he got in the lung.’
‘I think, in time, we’ll establish Sproul’s involvement. It’s my assumption he might be the father of Carly’s child.’
Galloway slapped the desk. ‘I’m not fucking interested in assumptions, Rob. Yours or anyone else’s. I’m interested in facts and what we can prove to the Fiscal, and more than that I’m interested in having a murderer under lock and key and a missing child back with her family. I’m interested in proper police work and not having my force traduced all over the papers.’
Brennan rose, closing up his jacket. ‘Then I’ll get back to work.’
Galloway got up too, faced him. ‘You’ll do what I tell you, Rob.’ She turned to McGuire. ‘Go and gather the team in Incident Room One, Stevie.’
McGuire eased himself from the chair. He looked at Brennan, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
The Chief Super watched McGuire as he went. Her eyes were wide, piercing. ‘Tell them I’ll be in there in a minute. I want as many of the team as you can find.’
McGuire closed the door.
