‘Are you listening to me, Rob?’ said the Chief Super.
Brennan drew back his gaze, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you will understand my predicament, will you not?’
‘Predicament, sir?’
Benny exhaled a long breath, ran a thumb over the edge of the desk and removed himself to his seat. ‘DI Brennan you are presiding over an investigation which is descending into farce.’
‘I would dispute that entirely.’
‘Would you now?’
‘Certainly.’
Benny leaned back in his chair, he picked up a yellow pencil with a rubber on the end, twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s your opinion.’
Brennan smiled, a wide one. ‘I’d be happy to have the case, and my management of it, looked at by an independent source if you are so dissatisfied.’
The Chief Super stopped moving the pencil, seemed to stare through Brennan. He knew that Benny had no real grounds to criticise, the investigation was going as well as could realistically be expected in the circumstances; his complaints were pettifogging and if he brought in the officers’ rep he would be a laughing stock. Brennan knew also that the last thing anyone wanted in the force was to be looked at too closely; you never knew what they might turn up.
‘Is that a veiled threat, Rob?’
Brennan slackened his grin, unhooked his fingers and splayed his palms forward. ‘I don’t know what you mean… sir.’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean, but let me tell you this, Inspector… I will not be undermined in my authority, be it overtly or covertly, do I make myself clear?’
Brennan remained still.
Benny continued, ‘I have now pointed out to you three matters of a disciplinary nature that have come to my attention. You have a shaky record on this force and if there is a fourth incident you can be assured of some serious action.’
Brennan lowered his hands, placed them on his knees. ‘Serious action… By that I presume you mean you would put Jim Gallagher in charge of the murder squad.’
Benny smiled now. He leaned back in his chair and patted the trim of the desk with his fingertips. ‘I don’t need any excuse to put Jim in charge immediately.’
‘I don’t understand. This is my investigation.’
The Chief Super folded his arms, pitched himself forward. ‘No Rob, on my force, they are all my investigations.’
Brennan felt his temperature rise, the pressure behind his eyes became a slow, persistent thud that made him grip his back teeth in an effort to still the beat. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I think we need some new blood, Rob… And I think Jim could be just the man to inject that.’
Brennan felt himself drawing fists beneath the line of the desk; he stared at Benny, smirking before him, and felt an urge to rise from his chair and slap him about the head. He knew the game he was playing, his predecessor Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway had played it too — it was called divide and rule. If Benny thought he was going to get away with that though, he was mistaken; Rob had anticipated the move, and set up a road block of his own.
‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’
Benny laughed, ‘Oh really, Rob.’
Brennan rose, started to button up his jacket. ‘You see, I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow. I’ve got the Sloans appearing centre stage — alongside myself, as investigating officer — and we’re going to make a televised plea. Now, I’m no expert on the media, sir, but if you were to shuffle the deck right now I’d say there’d be a few hacks asking why it was Jim and not me fronting that up.’
The Chief Super’s face stilled, for a moment his jowls hung grey and limp, and then he shook himself back to life. ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this?’
Brennan turned for the door, ‘You just were, sir.’
Chapter 28
Neil Henderson stood outside the gates of Edinburgh High and watched as the last of the school’s pupils headed for home. He had watched the succession of family cars, saloons and 4x4s, coming to collect the pupils and felt something like envy creep into him. Everyone, it seemed, had a comfortable place in the world, except him. When he weighed his lot — thought of the grimy flat in Leith that he shared with Angela — he felt left out. The game of life had short-changed him.
How could it have been any different though? he wondered. As a boy, Henderson had followed his mother around the town like a beaten dog; she had no interest in him, he was merely an inconvenience — something that got in the way of drinking bouts and boyfriends. He didn’t like to be reminded of those days, tried never to think of them, but the visit to the school grounds had brought them back. He was spending a lot of time looking into his past now and it did nothing but make his heart pound and head hum.
Henderson lit a cigarette, his first since arriving at the school — the rain had prevented him from smoking for the best part of an hour. He was wet, his hair sitting in dark rat tails above his damp collar. He let his fingers linger over the lighter flame for a moment, then quickly buried it in his pocket. The tobacco tasted good, calmed him. The smoke seemed to swirl around his head, block out his thoughts. He took some more deep inhalations, filled his lungs on every gasp.
Henderson knew there was a risk attached to what he was about to do. He had just left prison; if the filth were to hear of his actions, he’d be looking at another stretch. Would that be so bad though? he wondered. His life hadn’t exactly played out as he’d hoped since he got out. It was early days, of course it was, but his appraisal of the future didn’t look any brighter. Angela was in no shape to be walking the Links, she was an overdose waiting to happen, couldn’t be relied upon. And his debt to Boaby Stevens was being called in. The passing image of Shaky’s pug-faced enforcer felt like a dig in the ribs. The next encounter would be worse, he knew it, and the picture it put in his head played as clearly as a movie now. Henderson felt a quake pass through his body, shook him to the bones. He brought the cigarette close again, snatched three quick draws and exhaled the white trail of smoke through his nostrils.
At the time the debt had seemed manageable to Henderson, and it was — with two girls on the Links every night. But not now, not with Ange in her advanced state of atrophy, with her mind and body shot. It was a miracle she was bringing any money in at all; he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t fucking pay for that,’ he muttered to himself.
Henderson knew he needed to find Shaky’s money, fast. The film spooled in his mind again, showed him lying beaten and broken, bones poking through his skin. He’d had beatings before, for a time when he was a youngster they were a daily occurrence, but he’d moved on from them quickly. As a bullied young boy, Henderson had learned that if he couldn’t beat the bullies, he could join them; and he dispensed a more brutal form of beating than he’d ever been exposed to himself. He smiled as he remembered the torture he’d doled out as a youngster, and later, to the women on the Links.
‘The fucking tarts.’ He wasn’t going to be brought down with Ange, or snuffed out by Shaky. ‘No fucking danger.’
Henderson started pacing the gates; he was growing impatient, wanted to get it over with. He always felt this way before an act of violence, it was as if the impending thrill built up in him and then it could only be released by committing to the damage he had promised to deliver. He scented the blood, he was sure of it.
At the school the cleaning staff started to arrive, old women in tabards with water-bag legs pushing mops and buckets around the place. Henderson sneered at them, they were trash. His mother had cleaned offices in the city, she had worked her fingers to the bone for a pittance; he wasn’t going to follow her. He’d had it good before and he would again; all he needed was a break.
