McGuire brought a hand up to his face, rubbed. His skin sat in folds below his eyes. He looked tired, strained. ‘Why though? Surely he’s past all that at his stage.’
‘You think? Never heard of going out in a blaze of glory?… Look, I don’t trust Jim’s motives, there’s something not right about his interest in this case so just keep a bloody close eye on him, Stevie.’
McGuire looked unconvinced, agitated. ‘I don’t know, sir, are you sure you’re not just, well I don’t know, being defensive?’
Brennan felt the implication dent his armour, he didn’t want to admit McGuire might be right, he didn’t like Gallagher imposing himself on his territory. But he didn’t want to deny his gut either. ‘I guess we’ll see.’ He rose, straightened himself, leaned back as he attempted to loosen the anxiety in his neck. He returned to the whiteboard, tapped at the picture of Lindsey Sloan.
McGuire had the Fiona Gow file open now, started to stick up her pictures. ‘They’re remarkably similar in terms of…’
Brennan cut it, ‘You mean they’re nothing like your typical murder victims? They never led chaotic lives, they were stable. They didn’t come from poverty, they were workers. They weren’t promiscuous… So where do we start?’
McGuire lit up. ‘If you proceeded on the assumption that most victims know their attackers, then we’re looking at a very bland bunch of possibilities.’
‘Or we’re not looking in the right place at all.’
McGuire closed the file again, turned towards Brennan. ‘Perhaps she did know her killer, only he fits quite plainly into wider society.’
Brennan looked over McGuire’s shoulder, towards the window — a white cloud sat like a smear against the grey sky. He understood perfectly what the DS was saying, he understood that the facts pointed to him being right too, but something stopped him buying into the assumption. ‘You could be right, Stevie… or totally wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if it’s random? What if our killer selected these girls on the basis of some random criteria that could mean any number of girls out there might be plucked off the street.’ He raised a finger, pointed out the window. ‘I mean, who’s to say he didn’t select them because they were about the same height and weight… used the same bus stop… smoked the same brand of ciggies…’
‘That’s nuts.’
‘Exactly!’
McGuire looked confused, his eyebrows lowered, stretched his brow. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘What I’m saying is, Stevie, that’s how we need to think to catch this guy. He is fucking nuts. His thought processes aren’t the same as yours or mine. If we’re going to catch him we’re going to have to stop thinking like this is a normal murder investigation, because it clearly isn’t.’
McGuire pinched his cheeks, exhaled a heavy breath. ‘We need Joe Lorrimer in here as soon as.’
Brennan nodded, widened his eyes. His thoughts had already shifted. ‘I need to make a phone call.’ He walked towards his glassed-off office at the other end of the room; as he went inside he closed the door and drew down the blinds. It wasn’t exactly privacy but it was as close as he was going to get. The call he had to make was gnawing at him; he knew it wouldn’t be well received but there was no way of avoiding it. After all, he was still a father.
Ringing.
‘Hello.’
‘Joyce, it’s Rob.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. He let the fact that he was calling register, settle in his wife’s mind for a moment, but she didn’t bite. ‘We need to talk.’
A tut. ‘I don’t think so.’
Brennan felt himself gasp for air, he was full of mixed emotions. He didn’t want to go through this rigmarole with Joyce, their marriage had ended long ago and they both knew it. They had been inhabiting their house in Corstorphine like ghosts, barely encountering each other, rarely sharing words beyond the bare minimum to make their coexistence tolerable. He simply wanted out now, but that didn’t mean he wanted to face the recriminations, have his affair cast up, or say goodbye to his daughter.
‘There are certain formalities, Joyce.’
She was lighting a cigarette now, he could hear the lighter clicking. ‘I have a lawyer for that.’
Brennan didn’t rise to her gambit. ‘Good. That will make things easier.’
‘All you have to do is stay away.’
He couldn’t let that go. ‘If by that you mean not see my daughter, you’re mistaken.’
‘Do you think she wants to see you?’
Brennan’s gaze veered out of focus, but found nothing to alight upon in the middle distance. He felt slightly sick, what had Joyce said to her? Had she told her about the affair? The mounting tension constricted his vocal cords as he tried to speak again. ‘I swear Joyce if you’ve polluted her mind…’
‘What? Fucking what, Rob?’
‘I’ll fight any order…’
Her tone and pitch increased. There was no escaping the anger she directed at Brennan. ‘You destroyed this family… You’re no longer a part of it. You cannot do us any more harm.’
A number of replies queued on his lips, but he never got a chance to give voice to them; the line died. She’d hung up. Brennan put down the phone. The realisation of what had just happened seemed to make him numb; his impressions sank into his mind but none of them came close to anything so coherent as thought. The predominant truth he faced was that he had hurt Joyce; more than he thought possible. He knew it wasn’t hurt at the thought of losing him — he believed she no longer cared about him, or their marriage — it was the hurt of a wounded ego. Her husband had rejected her, in favour of another woman. She abhorred him for it and feared the ignominy. She felt too old now to start again, to find a new life partner and the thought burned her. Brennan knew he was the focus for the full brunt of her ire. In the days and weeks to come she would burn him in effigy; bottles of wine would be consumed with friends, or alone, and she would give vent to her spleen. He had ruined her life; Joyce’s outward misery now had an inward direction: she could dump the whole lot on him. And he knew she would.
Brennan rose, he tapped his shirt pocket, removed an Embassy Regal and his lighter. As he walked out of his office, McGuire was sitting at his desk; he stood above him, said, ‘I’ll be at the front door, shout me if anything happens.’
‘Unlikely, but OK.’
Brennan started out for the exit, got as far as the coffee machine, turned and pointed to McGuire’s shirt front, ‘Fix your tie, eh. We can at least look like we give a shit.’
He stomped towards the stairs; as he went, an angry energy seemed to seep from the tensed stock of his body. Things were not going well, and when that happened, he knew he became difficult to live with. He knew this, not just because other people had told him, but because he found it difficult to live with himself.
The soles of Brennan’s shoes slapped noisily on the stairs as he descended. By the window on the first landing he caught a chink of sunlight breaking through the clouds — it painted an irregular ribbon on the wall. For a moment he was gripped by its form and then the sound of familiar voices droned up from the lower staircases.
‘Leave him to me, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, Jim.’ It was the Chief Super. ‘There’s plenty to call into question from his file if needs be.’
Gallagher replied, ‘Well, I just want you to know I’m doing my best.’
‘That’s all we can ask.’
‘But, it might not be good enough if he decides to…’ The DI abruptly curtailed his conversation as Brennan stepped in front of him.
‘Ah, Rob, just the man.’ The Chief Super held out a blue folder, handed it to Brennan. ‘This is the profiler’s report on Fiona Gow… Jim and I have just been going over it.’
Brennan knew it was bluster, the pair of them had been caught red handed, they were discussing him. His facial muscles conspired against him and released a thin smile. ‘Have you really… nice lunch was it, Jim?’
Gallagher nodded, the sunlight slanted across his face. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Always nice to have a bite with friends, I say.’
The Chief Super pushed up his glasses. ‘We were discussing the case, Rob,’ he said. ‘And we have come to the conclusion, partly based on this morning’s revelation, that we need to call in a profiler.’
