brought in some civility: ‘It’s just the same with dogs, Robbie… See dogs fighting, throw in a bitch; that’ll separate them.’
As Brennan approached the black graffiti-covered door he wondered how Wullie would receive him. It had been a long time; too long, perhaps. But what were you supposed to do? It seemed like an intrusion now that Wullie had left the force. When they had worked together, it had been inconceivable to Brennan that there would come a day when he wouldn’t see Wullie, but now the days had stretched into weeks, months even, and he felt guilty to be calling on him now. He needed his help, though. Brennan knew there were people in his situation who would be too proud to ask for help, but he was too big for that. Wullie was always the man with the answers; if Brennan was missing something, however small, Wullie would spot it.
He pressed the doorbell and retreated from the step. There was no response. He wondered should he give it another minute or try again right away. An old man across the street left a newsagent’s and started to rub at a scratch card with a coin. Within a few seconds his face went from a barely contained optimism to showing a lifetime’s disappointment; he let the card flutter to the ground.
‘Hello?’ It was Wullie.
‘It’s Rob.’
‘ Rob?’ He sounded incredulous — had it really been that long? ‘Come away in, son.’
The buzzer sprang the lock on the door. Brennan entered.
The steps were grey and dank, like all Edinburgh stairwells. A mishmash of bikes cluttered the landing alongside assorted rubbish. There was a lingering smell of urine and only a few bulbs fizzed on the wall lights. How did people live like this? thought Brennan. At what stage did everyone in this part of the country settle for a one-or two-bedroom rat-hole shared with strangers who never spoke to you? This was tenement living — for most, it was all the city offered, so what could you do? Half a million for a three-bedroom house wasn’t an option for them.
As Brennan reached the second floor he saw Wullie’s door sat open, but there was no sign of the man. He knocked. ‘Hello, Wullie.’
‘Come away in.’ His voice sounded frail, tired. As Brennan entered the small flat he was immediately taken by the lack of air. The place seemed almost too stuffy to accommodate life. He walked down the hall, watching the dust dance in a shard of light, then pushed open the living-room door. There was a small kitchen at one end, pots and carry-out tins piled high. On the other side of the room Wullie crouched over on an old armchair. He wore a white vest and grey slacks; a pair of black braces sat over the vest. He seemed to have put on some weight but all of it sat in a small paunch above his waistband. ‘Hello, Robbie.’
Brennan smiled. Though his heart seemed to be galloping, he held himself in check. ‘You look well, sir.’
‘Fuck off with the “sir” shite.’
Brennan nodded. Made for a seat on the other side of the small living room. ‘How are you keeping?’
Wullie started a hacking cough, rubbed at his chest. Brennan noticed how defined his shoulders still looked — the rest of him hadn’t kept up. ‘I’m as rough as aul’ guts,’ he said, ‘but thanks for asking.’
Brennan knew Wullie had lost his wife and had a strained relationship with his two children but he didn’t want to ask about personal matters; even if the old man was doing it hard, on his own, he’d settle for that in front of sympathy from his peers any day. ‘Well, there’s none of us getting any younger’ — he tapped his stomach — ‘or fitter.’
Wullie let out a howl: ‘Ha, you’ve a way to catch me yet, pal!’
Brennan brought out the last of his Marlboro pack, showed it to Wullie. ‘Mind?’
‘Fire away.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘I’d offer you a cup of something but I’ve nothing in.’
‘It’s okay. Spend enough time drinking tea as it is.’
Wullie took a cigarette from the proffered pack, sparked up, said, ‘I heard you’d had a bit of a break from duty.’
Brennan had been starting to settle but the remark jolted him. ‘I, er, had some leave after my brother’s death.’
Wullie took a deep drag on the cigarette. ‘I heard about that — nasty business… I’m sorry.’
‘No need.’
Wullie tapped the filter with his thumb. ‘Have they made any progress?’
Brennan tutted. ‘Ian Lauder on the case? You joking me?’
‘Not improving with age, then?’
Sneers. ‘Like a fine wine, you mean? I don’t think so.’
Wullie smiled. His face creased with myriad lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes and covered almost every inch of his skin. His face seemed to have darkened since the last time Brennan had seen him, but his hair had lightened, become greyer. Even the stubble on his chin poked through in white spikes. The sight of him made Brennan suddenly conscious of the passage of time. He had never been aware of Wullie ageing in the job; even when he picked up the sobriquet Auld Wullie, it had passed him by. But now he was an old man. Brennan wondered if he had done the right thing coming to see him. Would he want to hear about what was going on out there now? Would he care? Was he even up to it? As Brennan toyed with these thoughts his mind was quickly made up for him.
‘So, Rob, what can I do for you?’
Brennan reached out, flicked ash into the tray on the mantel. ‘I’m working a case, tough one.’
‘I saw you on the news the other night.’
Brennan grinned. ‘Fame at last.’
Wullie sat forward. ‘That’s some job you have on your hands. Very dirty business indeed… Makes me glad I’m out of it.’
‘Do you mean that?’
A laugh: ‘Fuck no!’
Brennan creased out a wry smile. ‘I need your help.’
Wullie leaned back, squared his shoulders. ‘Don’t know I can be much good to you…’ He waved hands over his midriff. ‘You seen the kip of me?’
‘There’s very little coming together on this one, Wullie. There’s a lot going on but nothing slotting into place.’
The old man reclined further in his chair. ‘Go on.’
Brennan recounted the main points of the investigation; he left nothing out that he thought could be of any use. As he spoke, Wullie seemed thoughtful. Rubbing at his chin once in a while and allowing his fingertips to wander through the hair on the sides of his head. He didn’t interrupt, but Brennan knew there were going to be questions. When he was finished speaking he stood up and stretched his legs in front of the mantelpiece. Wullie looked down towards the window, out into the street. He seemed about to speak and then he stopped himself, flagged Brennan to sit again.
‘What is it?’
‘This Sproul character…’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t link him to anyone in Edinburgh?’
Brennan curled his toes in his shoes. ‘He was Paisley.’
‘No connections down this way?’
‘None we’ve turned up.’
Wullie’s eyes rolled. ‘It’s probably nothing, then.’
‘What were you thinking?’
Wullie crossed his fingers over his stomach. ‘There’s a child missing; he was a beast.’
Brennan spoke: ‘It was his child, I’m almost certain of it.’
Wullie huffed, ‘Since when did that fucking bother them?’
‘Even if he was connected to Tierney — say they did some time together — that doesn’t help me when the bastard’s dead and nobody else is talking about him.’
‘Maybe his connection wasn’t Tierney, then.’
Brennan touched the crease of his trouser, brought it into a tent point. ‘Or maybe he was… but Tierney was a middle man.’
Wullie pointed at him. ‘That makes more sense.’
