Brennan cut him off. He spoke in hushed tones, ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’
Collins turned round, Brennan watched over the DS’s shoulder as the Chief Super and DI Jim Gallagher walked down through the incident room.
Gallagher nodded, ‘Rob, how’s it going?’
‘Fine, Jim… is this a social call?’
The Chief Super hitched his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as he looked at the board. ‘Everything ticking along all right, Rob?’
Brennan nodded, ‘Yes. Just fine.’ He watched the Chief Super peer over the details that had been written up in marker pen then quickly remove his gaze as he caught sight of the bloody photographs.
‘Right, well, got a moment, Rob? Something Jim and I would like to talk to you about?’
Brennan felt his spirit shrivel inside him; he looked over at Gallagher, he was smiling. Not a real smile, a false, painted-on one. They were up to something and Brennan knew it. He pointed towards his glassed-off section at the other end of the room.
‘This way, then,’ he said.
The Chief Super headed for the office, Gallagher laid up behind Brennan and let him go first, motioning him to go ahead with the palm of his hand. Brennan paced out, but he didn’t like the thought of Gallagher descending into obvious politesse — it made him feel wary.
The Chief Super took Brennan’s chair, sat. The two DIs stood there like schoolboys before the headmaster.
‘Is somebody going to tell me what this is about?’ said Brennan.
Gallagher laid a blue folder down on the desk, ‘You better take a look at this.’
Brennan reached forward, picked it up; it contained details of an unsolved murder case. There were pictures of the victim, bound and tied, her name was Fiona Gow. As Brennan scanned the files he immediately saw the similarities to the murder of Lindsey Sloan.
He said, ‘These deaths are five years apart… you think they’re connected?’
Gallagher readied himself to reply; the Chief Super stepped over him. ‘We don’t know, Rob.’
Brennan bristled, ‘Then why are you showing them to me?’
‘We believe,’ said Gallagher, ‘there may be a connection.’ He leaned forward, plucked a photograph from the file. ‘Look at the ligatures, the genital mutilation… and the eyes.’
‘It’s almost identical,’ said the Chief Super.
Brennan had to agree, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He could see where this was going; he now knew why Gallagher had been snooping around in his earlier briefing. ‘I’ll need this confirmed by the lab.’
‘Of course. But I can tell you now, this was my case, Rob, and the killings are identical,’ said Gallagher.
The Chief Super edged an opinion in, ‘I would have thought you’d welcome Jim’s input in this situation, Rob.’
Brennan leaned forward, closed the file. He was staring at Gallagher, but talking to the Chief Super when he replied, ‘You never solved this case, did you, Jim?’
Gallagher faltered, his mouth opened but no words came out. He seemed to recover quickly though. ‘We came close.’
‘Not close enough, Jim. If you had we might not have Lindsey Sloan’s name chalked up out there.’
Gallagher’s face flushed, he seemed to inflate. The Chief Super rose, stepped between the two men. ‘Right, well, I was going to suggest some co-operation on this case between you both, given the undeniable similarities…’
‘That’s not what we discussed…’ burst Gallagher.
The Chief Super flagged him down, ‘Rob, I’d like you to take Jim onto your team, he’ll report to you…’ He looked at Gallagher, ‘For the time being.’
Brennan’s head buzzed, he felt like an angry wasp had got in there. He looked at Gallagher and then back to the Chief Super. He didn’t know which one to despise the most. He knew Gallagher had cooked this up, it was trophy hunting, he was after the case because it was the biggest one going. Benny, though, he was just playing the only game he knew: divide and rule.
Brennan held himself in check, kept his tone low and flat. ‘And if I object, sir?’
‘Object all you like, Rob,’ said the Chief Super as he reached for the door handle, ‘it won’t make a blind bit of difference.’
Chapter 10
Neil Henderson awoke with a blowtorch burning behind his eyes. His head throbbed, soundly and persistently. His mouth felt like there was something in there, something alien, a sponge perhaps or blotting paper — something that absorbed all the moisture. He had forgotten how hard it was to return to old habits. Even alcohol; your resistance was never the same after a short spell away. It took time and repeated bouts of abuse to build up tolerance; he wondered how long it would take him.
Henderson rose on the mattress, Ange was still sleeping at his side; she had passed out long before him. He remembered her hysterics, the fit of near panic, and the terror on her face as she shrieked out. What the hell was wrong with her? He had seen all kinds of bad trips, he’d seen withdrawals where punters thought their demons had taken them over — it was all inside their heads. Henderson knew Ange was losing it; Christ, she had just about lost it before he went away, so where did that put her now? He turned, eyed her bare back where she lay on the mattress, her shoulders shivering.
‘You’ve got some problems girl.’
He lifted the covers, exposed her naked frame. ‘Still got a fine arse on you, though.’
Of course she had, he thought, the girl was only twenty. It would take a fair few years yet — even at her rate of intake — to totally wreck herself. He ran his hand over her backside, down the edge of her thigh. ‘Few bawbees to be made off that yet!’
Henderson pulled back the cover, started to shake Angela by the shoulder. She turned over and fumbled her way to his side of the bed; as she grabbed his groin, lowered her head, the move seemed altogether mechanical, too practised.
‘Hey, hey… What the fuck you up to?’ said Henderson.
Angela carried on, seemed barely aware of his presence.
‘I’m talking to you.’ Henderson grabbed her hair, twisted a handful of it; it took some tightening of the knot to alert Angela, wake her from her daze.
‘Ahh…’
‘Sort yourself out, eh,’ said Henderson. ‘Sit up, I want to talk to you.’
Angela reached hands to her head, her eyes widened. Immediately she seemed to have wakened, fell into a coughing fit.
Henderson flared his nostrils. ‘Look at the fucking kip of you, who’s going to pay for a skank, eh?’
Angela rubbed her head, ‘What was that for?’
‘To wake you up… Seen the time?’
Angela looked towards the window; it was dark outside. Time she should be out on the Links, scoring punters. Henderson tweaked the tip of her nose, ‘You hearing me?’
‘Aye, I hear you.’ She pushed his hand away, withdrew to the far side of the mattress. ‘You got any fags?’
‘Fags is it?’ Henderson put one foot out of the bed, tried to hook a toe under his jeans, dragged them over. He took a packet of Club Kingsize out of his pocket, sparked up, then chucked the packet at Angela. ‘This better not be the start of you scrounging off me, you know I can’t be doing with that kind of patter… There’s no free rides in this world, Ange.’
She took out a cigarette, put it between her lips and lit it. ‘I’ll get out there in a minute, Hendy… Just have a quick fag, eh.’
Henderson got off the mattress, pulled his jeans on; the belt buckle rattled as he fastened the buttons. When
