That’s what they say, isn’t it, Stevie?’
‘It is indeed.’
McArdle looked at the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’
Brennan pushed over the packet, watched him light up. McArdle’s hands shook as he drew on the cigarette. The DI spoke: ‘Tell me about Tierney… Did he know Sproul?’
‘Who?’ McArdle took another pelt on the cigarette.
‘Peter Sproul — Paisley buddy and hardcore paedo. Did time in Peterhead… Place you might be paying a visit to soon if you don’t loosen up that tongue of yours.’
‘I–I’ve never heard of him, I don’t know. I only knew Tierney a-and Durrant.’
‘What’s their story? From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out because I’ll know if you have and I’m keeping count.’
McArdle tapped the cigarette on the ashtray. He moved the spilled ash with his fingertip, tipping it into the tray. His temper seemed to have subsided but the muscles in his neck had tensed. ‘Erm, what do you want to know?’
Brennan moved back round to his side of the desk. His chair was already sitting out; he pulled it in as he sat down again. ‘How did they kill Carly Donald?’
McArdle looked up. His lower lip was trembling; he sucked it into his mouth, over his teeth. As he tried to speak it was as if the words were stuck inside him. He touched the side of his head; his bandaged fingers trembled. Then he touched his mouth and began to massage the sides of his lips as though he was coaxing himself to speak. ‘It, eh, it was Vee… she killed her.’
‘Vee Durrant… How?’
McArdle’s mouth started to spasm, both lips now sucked into the hollow gape that sat beneath his nose. ‘There was some fight or other. They wanted to take the baby away — they were going to cut her in and…’ He looked up, seemed to register the seriousness of the situation, of his words, then continued, ‘She tried to leave, the girl, in the night when they were asleep but Vee woke up and there was a fight.’
‘Vee struck her? With what?’
‘An iron… It was a steam iron, this is all what Barry told me.’ He looked up, eyes wide, pleading. ‘I wasn’t there… He spilled this the night I…’
Brennan noticed McArdle cut himself off. He knew what he was going to say, but let it go. ‘Whose idea was it to cut her up?’
McArdle raised the cigarette again, brought it to his mouth. ‘I don’t know, Barry’s likely, I don’t know… It was nothing to do with me. I fucking swear if I’d known…’ He cut himself off again. Brennan picked him up this time.
‘If you’d known, you’d never have agreed to sell the child.’
McArdle said nothing. He seemed to be frozen before Brennan’s eyes. The Deil sat staring at the cigarette tip for some time and then he spoke: ‘I want to know that I’ll be looked after if I say any more.’
Brennan turned to McGuire; the DC nodded back. ‘We’ll make recommendations to the Fiscal… if you cooperate.’
McArdle dropped the cigarette; stray sparks flew up, landed on the table and went out. He put his hands over his eyes. ‘I’m not a beast. I’m not a fucking beast. I hate them. I fucking hate them.’
Brennan watched McArdle struggle. He took no enjoyment from it. His mind wasn’t focused on revenge or payback — they affected judgement. Brennan wanted justice, and Beth back; both required a level head. ‘Tell us who you gave the child to.’
McArdle removed his hands, placed them under the table momentarily, then produced them again. His jaw twitched as he spoke, face down, towards the table. ‘His name’s Gunter. I don’t know his second name.’
‘German?’
A nod. ‘From Berlin.’
McGuire started to write down the details. Brennan spoke again: ‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know?’
Brennan slapped the desk. ‘Not good enough!’
‘I don’t… I mean, I think they’re going back.’
‘How… Train? Plane?’
McArdle looked away. His eyes darted left to right as if he was looking for a way out; when he found none he turned back to the officers. His words were slow, faltering: ‘Car. They’re going home through France, he said that to me.’
‘Make of car?’
‘Er, a Citroen… silver, estate.’
McGuire wrote the information down, rose, ran for the door.
Brennan leaned in; his tone had hardened: ‘Is that it? I’m looking for a fucking Citroen in France — am I supposed to use that? Is that supposed to make me happy, McArdle?’
The prisoner couldn’t face him. He whimpered, ‘I d-don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘No. Neither do I.’
Brennan stood up. He knocked over his chair as he went for the door that McGuire had just left through. As he ran to the incident room he could feel his mind spinning. McGuire was already on the phones; the rest of the team had followed him.
‘Calais. They’ll be crossing to Calais… Get every car checked, every passenger with a child, all of them. I want passenger lists and I want searches and I want the French side locked down. I want all of this done now. Go. Now. Everyone move it!’
Chapter 49
Brennan let the team work, returned to his office. As he got inside the door a uniform poked his head in, said, ‘What do you want me to do with McArdle, sir?’
‘Do you really want me to answer that?… Put him in the cells.’
Brennan threw his jacket over the chair. The contents of his pockets spilled on the floor. He walked round and picked up his cigarettes, and the little black-and-white picture that Lorraine had given him. He tried not to look at it but he couldn’t stop himself. There was a black shaded area at the top of the photograph where you couldn’t see anything, but lower down there was a white patch that looked like a little ball; it was the baby’s head. Brennan ran a finger over the image and stared. He held it before him for long enough to register that it was his child and what that meant. He had a child that would be coming into this world soon. He knew that once the thought had gladdened him, made him smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything now. He didn’t want to welcome another soul here; it wasn’t the place for such a young, innocent life. He put the picture back in his pocket and went to sit down.
At his desk Brennan lit a cigarette; the Marlboro tasted good to him as he drew the deep blue smoke into his lungs. His nasal passages constricted as he blew out the strong burn of the tobacco and then he tasted the hot smoke again as it left his nostrils. He wondered if he needed something stronger, harder, but the prospect of a drink seemed a long time away.
As Brennan looked over his desk, he was surprised to see the blue folder with a yellow Post-it note stuck on the front. It was from Lauder — the details on the Limping Man that he’d asked for. Brennan opened it and peered in. He’d visited the files previously but that was before his psych leave, and during the months in between it had been awkward to get hold of. He scanned the contents. There was very little detail that he hadn’t seen already. The witness statements — a pretentious bastard who’d used the word claudication; the descriptions, estimates of height, weight, build. The calibre of weapons used and the method of dispatch. It was all familiar; depressingly so.
What Brennan wasn’t prepared for was the newspaper cutting with the picture of his brother. It was the same cutting as he’d carried around in his wallet all this time; the only difference was that Lauder’s quotes had been underlined in red pen.
