doesn’t pay his debts… And so, here you are.’ He laughed now; the springs in the driver’s seat started to judder. He was going to show them — he wasn’t paying the full amount but he’d get it. He’d have the debt cleared, and be back on his feet. It was all working out.
‘Nice work, Hendy… Fucking nice work,’ he mouthed to himself as he drove.
At the box junction, he flicked on the blinkers, turned left and then left again on his way to the Wheatsheaf. The sky had darkened more now; it looked like rain as he pulled up on the double yellows outside the pub and killed the engine. A white van passed by; its headlights washed a pale glow over the road surface as Henderson stepped onto the windy street and trailed the paving flags to the pub’s entrance.
Chapter 31
DI Rob Brennan made his way down the corridor towards Incident Room One. He got as far as the coffee machine before his legs started to feel heavy, his feet dragging on the industrial carpet tiles, and then his knees locked. The DI stalled where he stood, drew a deep breath and checked his watch face. There was still time to call a press conference and get the Sloans on board, he hoped, but what were the chances the Sloans would be keen to front-up a plea on television for help to find their daughter’s killer? It was one thing to talk to the press in your own front room, it was something altogether different to sit in a television studio under the spotlights and face a pack of hungry hacks. Brennan also knew from experience that very few relatives of victims were ever keen to repeat the experience once they’d spoken to the press. What had seemed like a good idea, like a closure, seemed only to open the wound wider once it was over.
The DI pinned back his shoulders, forced himself to take the first step towards the incident room. His feet still dragged, but his heart was by far the heaviest load he carried. Brennan knew he had taken an almighty chance on the Chief Super accepting his word and failing to check the veracity of his press conference claim. If he had, Brennan knew he could well be looking at another enforced leave. The thought spun around inside his mind as he walked, each dizzying revolution reminding him how much he had gambled. Is that what it had come to now, thought Brennan, gambling with his career? There had been a time when the job was all, everything; now it had been reduced to a spin of a roulette wheel. He didn’t know quite when, or how, he had reached this new low but he didn’t like it. He was changing inside, his every perception was being challenged. Everything he thought he had once held fast to — his job, his marriage, his sense of himself — was in flux. He wondered how long he could go on balancing so many misconceptions. He felt lost to himself, confused. The only constant he clung to was his sense of justice; Brennan needed to find justice for those girls that had been murdered. They were young girls, not even old enough to have reached their prime; they were barely more than children. And they had been slain, brutally; their corpses dropped in a field. Not even buried or hidden, just dumped. It was as if the killer was taunting the force; taunting him.
Inside Incident Room One, DS Stevie McGuire rose from his desk in the middle of the room, nodded to Brennan and moved out to meet him. As he edged aside, his foot caught the cable of a telephone on his desk, making it jump. McGuire stalled, turned and disentangled himself; he was free of the cable as Brennan drew beside him.
‘Boss…’ said McGuire.
‘What is it, Stevie?’
The DS put his hands on his hips, made a poor attempt at a smile. ‘I was just going to ask you that.’
‘Later, Stevie.’ Brennan took a step to the side, started to walk down the centre of the two rows of desks that divided the room. His stride was lengthened as he approached DI Jim Gallagher — he was hunched over a blue folder, making jottings in a notebook. ‘Jim, where did you get with the gymnastics lead?’ said Brennan.
The DI looked up, his eyebrows made a dart in the middle of his forehead. His hair had been scraped back tight on his head, accentuating his male pattern baldness. ‘Lead?… I don’t know if I’d be using so strong a term as that, sir.’
Brennan felt the blood surge in him, let rip. ‘Don’t fuck me about, Jim… I want to know how far you’ve got, not dance around the houses with you.’
Gallagher lowered his head, creased the rolls of flesh into his neck. He put down his pen, slowly locked his fingers together. His gaze seemed to intensify as he spoke, ‘I’ve looked into it; there were four identifiable names that could have had contact with Lindsey Sloan
… Three of them were already interviewed by Collins, and those all came up blank.’
‘And the fourth?’ Brennan snapped.
‘On holiday… As of today, it’s end of term.’ Gallagher presented the fact like a justification.
Brennan turned his head, looked down the room; the place had fallen into silence. His face creased like he was staring at the sun as he called out, ‘Seems to be a distinct lack of activity around here!’
A rustle of papers, bustle of bodies on the move. The photocopier started to noisily draw paper from the tray. A filing cabinet drawer opened. Brennan turned back to Gallagher, ‘What about cross-referencing with the Fiona Gow case?’
‘They were different schools,’ he said, looking down to his desk and turning a page inside the blue folder, ‘the Sloan girl was… Edinburgh High and Fiona Gow was Portobello Academy.’
Brennan watched the DI’s movements, let him settle again behind his desk and then he withdrew a hand from his pocket, held it out to Gallagher with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘Your point being?’
Gallagher shifted in his seat, let the page he was holding fall back to the folder. His words came delicately balanced on the back of a sigh, ‘I don’t see the two schools coming into contact… Five years apart as well. It’s not like the boys and their footy teams, it’s gymnastics.’
‘So there was no inter-school competition?’ said Brennan, ‘No regional or district contest?’
Gallagher wiped his mouth, ‘I’d have to look into it, it’s a lot to check though, sir… five years of it.’
‘Check it. If those lassies shared a changing room, I want to know about it. If they had an away day to the Commie Pool, I want to know about it. If they had sprained ankles and wore the same make of fucking bandages, I want to know about it. Am I making myself clear enough, Jim? Am I setting it out for you in the right language or would you like me to relay it through a bullhorn or a fucking loud speaker for you?’
Brennan’s voice had risen above the clatter of the office once again; he felt vaguely aware of eyes burning into the back of his head; DS Stevie McGuire drew up to his side. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’
Gallagher sat impassively. A fresh line of sweat had formed above his top lip, his eyes still burned into Brennan.
‘What is it, Stevie?’ He could tell the DS was trying to distract him, calm him down and persuade him to leave off Gallagher. There was little chance of that; Brennan had decided DI Jim Gallagher was going to be made to regret disrupting his investigation. He had compounded the pressure on the team and Brennan was going to make sure he returned the compliment with redoubled force.
‘It might be better if we…’ McGuire pointed to the glassed-off area at the end of Incident Room One. He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially.
Brennan tutted, turned away from him and marched down the room towards his office. He wrenched the handle and pushed the door open; it swung back in a wide arc as McGuire followed in behind him; he side-stepped the door, grabbed the handle and then closed it gently.
‘Make it snappy, Stevie,’ said Brennan. ‘I’ve got a stack of things we need to be getting on with and this case isn’t going to solve itself.’
McGuire took two steps forward, hooked a thumb in his trouser pocket. His voice sounded flat, ‘I just took a call there from a Martin Gow… Fiona Gow’s father.’
Brennan felt a twitch kick in above his eyebrow. ‘And?’
McGuire unhooked his thumb, ran the fingers of his hand through his hair. ‘There’s some article in the News and…’
Brennan cut in, ‘I know, Stevie, I know all about the fucking News article.’
McGuire’s tone pitched up a notch, he spoke faster. ‘Well, you’ll be aware then that it mentions certain aspects of the case that, generally speaking, we’d have liked to have kept quiet about.’
‘No shit.’ Brennan removed a packet of Embassy Regal from his jacket, withdrew a cigarette and placed it
