Brennan took another pelt on the Marlboro — he approved of the strength of it. ‘I’m not thinking that far ahead.’
‘You can bet Ian Lauder is…’
‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you pair were mates.’
McGuire tutted. ‘I just think we’ve all worked far too hard on this case for Lauder to come in with Bryce and all the rest of his boys and start calling the shots.’
Brennan removed his jacket, put it on the back of the office chair. He took a quick pull on the Marlboro, then put it on the edge of the desk, ash out, as he rolled up his sleeves. He sat. ‘Leave Lauder to me, Stevie. I’ve got a funny feeling he’ll not be as popular with the Chief Super in a little while.’
‘Eh? How come?’
Brennan crossed his arms over, leaned on the back of the chair. ‘Do you trust me?’ He retrieved his cigarette.
McGuire perked up. ‘Yes, course I do!’
‘Then when I give you the nod later on, be ready to help me out with a little bit of extracurricular activity.’
‘Like what?’
‘I thought you trusted me.’
McGuire bit: ‘I do. Count me in.’
‘Good, then wait for the nod.’
Brennan held the cigarette in between his thumb and forefinger, took repeated little drags, then stubbed it on the back of the stapler and dropped the dowp in the bin. ‘What stage are the team at with Tierney and Durrant’s known associates?’
McGuire scratched his head. ‘Not getting far…’
‘How come?’
‘They’re, eh, in lockdown. No bastard’s talking.’
Brennan squinted, pointed a finger at McGuire. ‘Right, the next lot they bring in, I want you to do the interviews, rough them up a bit… This lot are scum; Tierney and Durrant were the worst of the lot. They had dealers and they had pimps and they knew a string of ex-cons who don’t want to go back inside — hit them hard, rattle their cages. Put the heavy threat of the force taking a serious interest in their day-to-day activities if they don’t give us what we want and make sure they know we’re not pissing about.’
McGuire smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But go canny, eh… Don’t have her down the way quoting us the tale of the slippery steps.’
‘Sir.’
Brennan tweaked the end of his nose. ‘And where’s our minister?’
‘He’s still at the Travelodge. Knows not to stray too far.’
‘Right… Bring him in this morning, soon as.’
‘Sir.’ McGuire rose, turned his back to Brennan and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
In the empty office, Brennan felt a twinge of shame creep up on him. He was close to losing the case to Lauder and he knew that wouldn’t look good among his colleagues. Wullie had said there was no way back for you in the force once people started to see you as someone who can’t come up with the goods any more. He had told him about an old hand who had started to lose respect when his wife developed mental illness. Simpson was a respected DI, had worked the big cases like Bible John, had brought in some big faces in his day, but when his wife started walking about the town in her nightie and slippers he was never the same man.
‘You know what Simy’s problem was, Rob?’ he’d said.
‘What was that?’
‘He lost respect for himself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He got to the stage where he was so worried about what folk were saying about him, that he questioned his own abilities. The mind’s a funny thing, Robbie lad, it’s all about tricking it into believing that you’re the bee’s knees. If you can convince yourself, who else is going to doubt you?’
Brennan knew Wullie was right. He needed to keep his fears to himself. If he started to show weakness the entire force would be on him like a pack of wolves that had scented blood. There was just no place for self-doubt on the job — it was lethal. He had to be smarter than that, he had to search out other’s weaknesses, Lauder’s, and hold them up to public ridicule.
He raised the phone, dialled an internal number.
Ringing.
It was answered: ‘DS Bryce.’
‘Hello, Brycey.’
‘Rob, how’s it?’
‘Not bad. I hear congratulations are in order.’
Bryce’s voice quavered: ‘Yeah, we cracked the bastard late last night, full confession.’
‘Always good to hear another one’s off the street. Well done, lad.’ Bryce wasn’t a bad bloke, thought Brennan, just a little dim — like a forty-watt bulb to Lauder’s sixty-watt.
‘Look, Rob, you’ll have heard about the handover. Got to tell you, it wasn’t my idea, mate.’
‘Brycey, don’t worry about it. It’s just that cow playing divide and rule.’
Bryce’s tone rose: ‘Setting man against man, that’s it.’
‘Look, I thought we should have a chat anyway, about the handover, so if you want to grab your boss and head up…’
‘Can go one better than that: why don’t you join us for a beer tonight? Having a few after work to celebrate.’
Brennan smiled into the phone. ‘Might just do that. The Bull as usual?’
‘Yeah, say about six, seven…’
‘See you there, Brycey.’
He hung up.
As he put down the phone the door to the office was flung open. DC Stevie McGuire stuck his head in. ‘Minister’s on his way, sir. Be here in a half-hour.’
Chapter 39
Brennan ordered McGuire to go and prepare the interview room; he had a phone call to make. He knew it would have been better to meet face to face with Lynne Thompson, ask her the question he wanted to know about her friend Carly that she had been so reluctant to answer, and it would be clumsy with her mother there on the line, but he had no choice. Time had almost defeated him on the case, and he knew if he didn’t get a result before Lauder took over he was as good as finished.
Brennan dialled the number.
The phone started to ring.
He knew there was no advantage to be gained from showing the Reverend John Donald that he had unearthed a secret, something he and his wife had tried so hard to keep from everyone, the police included, but it would give him something to prod the minister with. And he needed that. Brennan needed to have the minister onside for his next move. Without him, he felt pretty sure that the case was going nowhere; certainly not before Lauder pushed him out.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Mrs Thompson, it’s Detective Inspector Rob Brennan.’
A pause. ‘Oh, hello there.’
‘And how are you keeping?’ Brennan loathed the formality of these situations, the small chat; life would be so much more straight forward if everyone just said what they meant.
‘I’m well, thanks… And you?’
