‘Prick.’
Was that the sum of his achievement? Getting a quote in the newspaper? He was surprised the byline wasn’t Aylish Dunn’s.
Brennan turned over the blue folder. Took another pull on his cigarette. His brother had died, been murdered, and the police investigation had failed him. The sum total of the information on the Limping Man amounted to a few scraps of paper, a few witness statements that went nowhere. He had killed, clinically, and then disappeared. What kind of a society allowed paid assassins to operate on their streets? His brother had been innocent, he’d gotten in the way of an underworld killing and paid for it with a bullet in his head. Were the streets so out of control that this kind of thing went on unchecked?
Brennan tapped the folder, got up. He stubbed out his cigarette and lifted the phone on his desk, dialled 0.
‘Cells, please.’
The line was connected. ‘Hello.’
‘Bert, it’s Rob. Have you got McArdle settled?’
‘As quiet as a lamb.’
‘Right, I’m coming down. I want a word with him in private.’
‘You sure about that, Rob?’
‘Sure as shooting.’
Brennan knew there was little to connect the Limping Man to his case. He had no proof that he was the same assassin that killed his brother but his gut told him otherwise. Did he need proof? The killer was walking free as it was; if he could get him for Tierney and Durrant, wasn’t that good enough? Brennan knew he should probably be thanking him for taking that pair off the streets but he didn’t think he’d be shaking his hand. There was no hope of connecting the Limping Man to Andy’s murder, he knew that — did it matter? It mattered in one respect: if it affected the ongoing investigation into Carly Donald’s death. He knew he couldn’t risk that, but he had his brother to think about.
As he walked down to the cells, Brennan toyed with the idea of doing this by the book, calling McArdle into an interview room and posing the question in front of Stevie or Lou. But what were the chances of getting the result he was after? McArdle was a hardened criminal. Getting him to lynch himself was one thing; getting him to hang someone else was an altogether different proposition.
Brennan stood before the cell doors, knowing he had only one chance to find his brother’s killer. If he came out of there without a name, Andy’s murderer was never likely to be found. He nodded to the jailer, listened to the rattle of the keys and the heavy iron hinges singing out. He stepped into the cell.
McArdle was sitting on the edge of his bed. Most cons, by his stage, have learned to chill out inside a jail cell, but McArdle was tense.
‘What now?’ he said.
Brennan nodded for the door to be closed. McArdle watched carefully, started to raise himself. He rubbed at the front of his jeans, then turned his hands behind his back. His mouth drooped.
‘Sit down.’ Brennan put a hand on his head, pushed him back. He paced the small cell and soaked in McArdle’s fear. ‘You know, I’ve seen just about every kind of scum and piece of shit that the world has to offer in my time, McArdle, but you take the fucking prize.’
McArdle looked at the floor. ‘Should you be in here?’
‘Shut your hole.’ Brennan walked over to the bed, placed a foot on the rim. ‘Paedos are one thing, but selling on kids, that’s something else. You’re like a trader, a beast trader.’
‘I’m not a beast.’
‘Tell it to the judge, McArdle.’
‘I will. I will.’
Brennan leaned over. ‘And do you think he’ll listen?’ He laughed, watched McArdle turn away and then he grabbed his face in his hand and twisted it round. ‘Have you looked at your record recently? And now you’ve got murder to add to it, and fuck knows what else by the end of the day.’
‘I gave you all I had… You said you’d help.’
Brennan released his grip, took his foot off the bed and walked to the other side of the cell. ‘A French car, in fucking France, McArdle… that’s what you gave me.’
‘It’s all I have. Look, what do you want from me?’ He tried to eyeball Brennan but couldn’t hold his stare. He kept dropping his gaze, his head bobbing on his meaty neck as if he couldn’t support the weight of it any more.
‘You’re taking the piss, is what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not,’ he pleaded, turning his bandaged palm upward.
Brennan moved in, pointed. ‘You know what you’ve done and how it’s going to play out.’
McArdle looked down again. ‘Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.’
Brennan laughed, ‘Leave you alone? Think you’re going to get much privacy in Peterhead, on the beast wing?’
‘I’m not a beast.’ He stood up, inflated his chest.
Brennan walked towards him, fronted up. ‘Then you better start playing ball with me or that’s what the court and everyone else in this country is going to think. Devlin McArdle — child trafficker. Wife murderer. Beast!’
A light went out in McArdle. His frame shrank as he sat back down. He was broken; there was no fight left in him. ‘What do you want from me?’
Brennan looked towards the door, walked for McArdle, got down on his haunches. ‘I know what it’s like out there, how your kind of people operate. And you know how I operate.’ McArdle looked up. Brennan continued, ‘Now, I know, if I get you up there in that interview room, with a DC as witness, you’re not going to tell me a bloody thing that I can use because there’s a chance it’ll get out to the people who know you.’ Brennan lowered his voice: ‘That’s why I’ve came down here on my own.’ He leaned in further. ‘Give me something I can use, and no one needs to know where it came from.’
McArdle shook his head. ‘I’ve given you everything. What more can I give you?’
Brennan stilled his nerve, said, ‘Give me the Limping Man.’
Chapter 50
Outside the cell DI Rob Brennan leaned his back on the door. He felt a dull ache in the middle of his forehead where his brows pinched; a pulse in his temple kept pace with his ramping heart. He stood for a moment, tried to gather a semblance of reason but the task evaded him. As he eased himself off the door Brennan’s knees felt loose. The walk to the front of the station now seemed longer than usual, each step demanding a greater exertion than the last; it was as if he carried a great load, a burden.
In the foyer Charlie looked up from his Daily Record and spoke but Brennan failed to comprehend his words. A burning in his chest had started to demand the cooling, calming effects of nicotine and nothing could detract from the craving. As he opened the door he was slapped by the brisk air and the line of sweat above his lip slid towards his mouth — the salty taste made him grimace and then wipe it away with the back of his hand. The empty, hollowed-out emotions that accompanied the fear of never finding an answer to long-held preoccupations was suddenly gone. It wasn’t euphoria — never that — but it was an ending, and in the nebulous flux of life that was certainly something to hold to. Wasn’t that what we all longed for, every day? Some shape to the monotonous trawl through the misery of existence; the daily questioning of life’s lack of order, the absence of structure. There was no law. There was no meaning. There was no justice. The universe didn’t care about loss of life, about the shooting of innocent bystanders; the dismembering of young girls, or the perverted trading of innocent infants. Any chance to halt the rut, to find a moment in time, however brief a pause in proceedings, was a reminder that he was alive and the fight went on.
As Brennan removed a cigarette from the pack he noticed how white his hands were; the dark hair on his knuckles accentuated the fingers’ cadaverous appearance. For a moment he stared at them, spread them out in front of him; they started to tremble.
‘Everything okay, Rob?’
