The scene darkened down Pennywell Road. Ginger kids, barely school age, with the arse hanging out of their trousers shot the V-sign. A few tried to spit in the car’s direction. Brennan had known stones to be thrown; he was unfazed. There were middle-aged women in baffies and housecoats stood on the road, leaning over gardens and jabbering. They’d obviously clocked the police activity; the talk would be of drugs raids, whose man was being taken in, how the force victimised them. Each syllable of the schemie’s chat would be punctuated by puffs on Superkings; the sight of them was as regular as the street furniture. As harrowing as the bust couch or the rusting scooters in the overgrown gardens. Brennan could have painted the scene from memory. He knew there were liberal thinkers — what Wullie called the Guardian — reading classes — who would gasp and deride the deprivation, but not him. This was a breeding ground for crime, a dumping ground for the dispossessed and the dafties. It was a dangerous place; no question.
Brennan shook his head, sighed, ‘Another poor lassie’s met her end. How many’s that?’
The constable shrugged, looked like he was wondering who the DI was speaking to.
Brennan looked ahead through the windscreen, to the point on the road where the Scenes of Crime Officers had set up. The title of an old song played to him, ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’… He thanked Christ his daughter was being raised on the other side of town — no child here had a chance.
‘Pull up in front of the SOCOs,’ said Brennan. ‘Don’t want them accusing us of blocking access to their wee gang hut.’
The driver eased through the gears, slowly, and put the car in at the kerb. A small crowd had formed in the street; some uniforms paced a thin cordon. The crowd looked subdued. At once Brennan knew the word had got out.
‘Look at them,’ he said to the constable.
‘What?’
‘Their faces… They know.’
The younger man stared out of the window. His expression seemed to mirror the sad mix of hurt and shame. Grief swayed through the assembled bodies; Brennan knew this wasn’t a good sign. A community in hurt was a community in trouble, and trouble he could well do without.
The constable put on his cap, followed Brennan out to the pavement. The SOCOs paced from a small laneway, into their white van that looked like a mobile library. Brennan watched their faces for signs, giveaways, but they portrayed nothing. They never did. Two uniforms greeted the DI. One was speaking into the radio clipped onto his Kevlar vest but he stopped when he saw the detective. ‘Morning, sir.’
Brennan nodded. ‘We got the doc on site?’
‘He’s been and gone.’
‘Fucking hell. Already? Has he a holiday booked?’
The constable rubbed his cheek, tried to speak but couldn’t seem to find the right words.
‘Never mind,’ said Brennan. ‘Let’s get going.’
As he paced for the lane he was T-boned by a young woman with a digital recorder in her hand. She had just ducked under the blue-and-white tape and definitely wasn’t messing about. ‘Are you the investigating officer?’ she said.
Brennan looked at her then glanced to the uniforms. They pushed in front of her and grabbed her arms.
‘Get off me!’
‘Sorry about this, sir.’
Brennan watched the scene. The woman was early twenties, fresh-faced. She was also too eager for her own good.
‘Do you have an ID for the victim?’
She already had too much information.
‘Do you have any suspects on the girl’s death?’
Brennan felt a flush of heat in his chest; he clenched his jaw. The woman prised an arm free of the uniforms, pushed out the recorder’s mic. Brennan lifted a hand, covered the small, silver-coloured device. ‘You seem to know more than me, love.’
She tutted, near spat, ‘I’m not your love!’
Brennan smiled at her and walked away. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Got that right.’
A SOCO approached as he walked to the lane. ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Is it?’
The man dropped his brows. ‘Sir?’
Brennan stopped, nodding back to the scene he’d just left. ‘How did the fucking press latch onto this so soon?’
Now he raised his brows. ‘The press?’
‘That’s not a welcoming party from the News.’
The SOCO looked past Brennan. The young reporter was being escorted beyond the taped-off area. ‘Never seen her before.’
‘Get a good look. Sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of her. Trust me, I’m a good judge of character.’
The SOCO had no reply. He handed Brennan a pair of blue covers for his shoes.
‘Got some gloves?’ said the detective.
A shrug, shake of the head.
‘Typical. Come on then, let’s do this.’
Brennan strode past the officer, made for the lane. As he passed, the SOCO spoke out, ‘I should warn you, sir, it’s not a pretty sight.’
Brennan turned. ‘It never is, lad.’
Chapter 4
Devlin McArdle rubbed an open palm over his smooth head. The razor sting ignited with his touch but the satisfaction he felt with the close crop cancelled it out.
‘Nice one, just the job,’ he said.
The barber smiled, leaned in and brushed at McArdle’s shoulders. A few strands of stubble fell to the floor. McArdle turned down the corners of his mouth, pushed away the barber’s hand. ‘That’s enough, that’s enough.’ As he rose from the chair, the black robe was removed in one swift pull. He strode to the till, said, ‘How much?’
A shake of the head. ‘No charge, sir.’ The barber made a small cross over his heart. ‘Not for you, sir.’
McArdle smiled. It was only a small curl of the lip; he didn’t look used to it, and stopped it almost as quickly as it appeared. As he turned for the door he saw a thin man waiting outside for him. He was tugging nervously at the cord on his jogging trousers. There was a tic queuing on his eyelid and he brushed at it with a speed that looked unnatural. Jumpy, the man was jumpy. Even more than usual, if that was possible. His whole demeanour said trouble — he was either in some kind of bother, or about to be.
At the door the man tried to catch McArdle’s attention. He leaned forward and made a gesture with his shaking hand. McArdle ignored him, walking out the door and onto London Road. The street was busy. It was early afternoon; giro day at the post office had attracted a crowd. As McArdle walked he felt his thighs rub together. He had the squat build of a weightlifter, could handle himself: they called him ‘the Deil’. Those that didn’t know him thought it was a contraction of Devlin, a play on the Scots for Devil, but those who did know him knew the name was hard earned. McArdle liked people to know that about him.
The thin man followed him up the road. McArdle caught sight of him shuffling into doorways and under scaffolding as he tried to keep a respectful distance. He had told Barry Tierney never to stop him in the street; he’d warned the loser more than once. He felt his feet stamping harder with every step, wished he hadn’t put on trainers — boots would have been better for bursting this stupid prick’s head. His shoulders tensed as a haar shot up Maryfield on its way to the tourists trekking Arthur’s Seat. He crossed over the road, onto West Norton Place, and took the side street at the old tech college. He turned to see Tierney pegging it up behind him. McArdle ducked into wasteground behind a Shell garage and waited. In a few moments he started to hear the shuffling gait, the heavy breathing. He reached out and pulled Tierney into the back of the disused building.
