‘How do we know they’re not in here, then?’
‘We don’t.’
Brennan lifted the edge of a black plastic refuse sack. The raw butt where her arm once sat seemed to have been ripped and torn by a jagged edge.
‘What you think — saw?’
Collins leaned in. ‘Fucking cheapo one… Not electric — too rough.’
‘Why go to the bother?’
‘Doesn’t want her ID’d, obviously.’
‘If she’s from the scheme we’ll ID her without prints.’
‘Might take longer though. That’s what they’re thinking, I’d say.’
Brennan delicately lowered the black plastic. ‘That’s a lot of thinking for a pack of skag-boys.’
Collins didn’t seem to be giving the DI his full attention. He started chewing on the gum again. ‘Look, maybe it’s a trophy take.’
‘Fuck off, Collins, you can’t draw that from one corpse.’
The DS exhaled loudly, reaching into his pocket for a packet of Embassy. He took one out the pack and wrestled the rubber gloves off. ‘Well, what do you reckon, sir?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Panic, probably. If she’s local, and she’s been offed by another local, and our murderer had a bit of nous, they’d want to make it look different to every other square-go gone wrong.’
Collins moved out to the flap over the entrance. He had a cheap plastic lighter in his hand, shook it as he spoke to Brennan. ‘Maybe. Maybe… But you’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What?’
‘That girl wasn’t killed around here… There’s not enough blood for this to be the crime scene and the time of death doesn’t tally.’ Collins lit his cigarette and stepped out of the tent.
It riled Brennan, but the DS was right. ‘So the girl was hacked up to make her easier to move.’
‘Put a body in a bag, it’s gonna stand out.’
‘But put it in two or three… could be anything.’
Chapter 7
Brennan stood looking at the silent, cold body of the dead girl. She couldn’t have been much older than Sophie. He felt a strange urge to check where his daughter was; it made his heart quicken for a moment and then it passed. It was instinct, a mad spiralling of thought that denied the solipsist in him. He brushed it aside: Sophie was safe and sound. Brennan knew that it wasn’t her lot to end up in a dumpster at the end of a dark lane in a grim public housing scheme. He knew it was the fate of the poor, the indigent. They lived the types of disorganised, chaotic lives that led to heavy drinking, promiscuity, crime, violence and a higher likelihood of murder. The facts couldn’t be denied. It didn’t mean she deserved any of it.
‘Right, get that girl out of there,’ he hollered. ‘I want that bin tipped and every inch of it gone over… Anything that even looks like it might have been a murder weapon — including a ginger bottle — I want it tested.’
The SOCOs stood up, watched Brennan cutting the air with his palms. ‘And if there’s so much as a jaggy steel comb I want it looked at… She’s had her fucking arms sawn off — where are they?’
Brennan slapped the bin. ‘Come on. Move it.’
The group moved to the dumpster, white-suited arms tucked into rubber gloves gesticulating over how best to remove the debris. Brennan watched for a moment, then left them to their work. Outside the tent he followed Collins down the lane.
‘Bri, hold up,’ he said.
The DS removed the filter tip from his lips, spun on his heels. ‘What’s up?’
Brennan resisted the urge to state the obvious, said, ‘I think you’re right.’
‘Sir?’
‘My gut says she’s local.’
Collins looked around him, flagged an arm to the high-rises. ‘Welcome to the Killing Fields.’
‘Until we have an ID we need to go with what we have.’
‘We’ve got fuck all.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, leaned towards Collins. ‘We think she’s local… Most murder victims know their killer very well. If we have to shake up every bastard within a country mile of her, we will.’
Collins scratched his head, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Look, shouldn’t we wait and see what the SOCOs turn up?’
‘We don’t have time on our side, Bri… Get your boys knocking on doors now.’
As Brennan walked away he heard Collins mutter something, but he couldn’t make it out. When he turned round the DS was flicking ash onto the ground and kicking at a pothole. Brennan removed his left hand from his pocket, looked at his watch. ‘Find out when those bins were last emptied,’ he pressed his points home with a finger in the air, ‘quiz all the taxi drivers, any that were out here between the time of death and the discovery, bring them in… If anyone on the scheme still gets milk delivered, I want to know what their milkman had for breakfast… Get searching every verge, hedge, gutter, gully and fucking rabbit hole from here to the black stump. And when you’ve done that, you can turn over the tramps.’
Collins swayed where he stood, staring at the pothole. ‘Anything else, sir?’
Brennan smiled. ‘Not just now… But don’t make any plans for the weekend, eh.’
When he reached the end of the lane the reporter was still there. Uniform were keeping a close eye on her now. She spotted Brennan and started to shout at him. He missed what she said because his attention was distracted by a press photographer leaning over the roof of a squad car to get a shot of him. Brennan upped his pace towards the blue-and-white tape, ducked under and started to make his way towards McGuire’s car. As he unlocked the door he felt relieved to be leaving the scene, but couldn’t resist a final glance towards the lane. The thought of the young girl lying in the dumpster jabbed at his heart but he knew any emotional response had to be locked away. Emotions had their place, but they got in the way of rational thinking. There was a killer out there, and it would take a slow, methodical approach to catch the bastard.
Brennan turned the key in the ignition and engaged the clutch. As he turned at the end of the street he spotted a small child, two, three maybe, peering through the palings of a poorly maintained fence. The child had a colourful ball in her hands. When she saw Brennan staring back at her she dropped the ball and smiled, a wide heart-melting smile. For an instant, Brennan forgot where he was, why he was there. The future seemed full of possibilities for the small girl; life was an adventure that had just begun for her. As he pressed the accelerator pedal and sped past the child, he looked into the mirror. She was staring, waving now. Brennan lost his smile about the same time as his vehicle drew even with the lane’s opening.
‘Where’s the fucking justice?’ he muttered.
On the road back to the station, Brennan lit a Silk Cut. The taste was minimal, but he needed something to stop him grinding his teeth. It felt good to be back on the job, to be off desk duty, but he knew this case was going to test him. It was a feeling, a sense of uncertainty. Wullie had said he knew the tough cases within the first five minutes. It was an exaggeration, but Brennan knew what he meant. This job, this life, was all about following your instincts. Your head was prone to distractions, and your heart wasn’t to be trusted.
Brennan’s gut told him there was more to the young girl’s demise than was first apparent. There were too many factors at odds with each other. He felt as if he’d entered a familiar room, but some of the furniture had been rearranged — and he’d been blindfolded. He hadn’t had a case for over six months, since Andy’s death, but something told him that had nothing to do with how he felt about this case.
Brennan hadn’t wanted the leave; the Chief Super had insisted on it. She’d wanted to put him out because he wasn’t a yes-man. Galloway was a typical careerist: she surrounded herself with the types that were no challenge to her. People like the boy, Stevie McGuire. He was a no-hoper, perfect material for promotion in Galloway’s ranks. More like McGuire beneath her and her ascent was assured, carried high on their shoulders. Providing she could keep the likes of Brennan in check, that is. She still needed to rely on someone providing the clear-up rates if she was to get the Chief Constable’s job.
