edge — but the recent rain had kept the mower away. He looked up and down the height of the building, stalled for a second or two as he watched the curtains for movement, then he steadied himself before the door. As he reached forward, rung the doorbell, the sound of a dog barking began inside; it seemed to echo from the other end of the house, through the building, and then a small white blur scratched at the frosted glass of the door.
Brennan stood square-footed on the path, brushed down the shoulders of his overcoat as he watched a figure appear behind the glass. It swayed a little, seemed to steady itself, and then the DI heard the sound of someone reaching for the lock. The door’s hinges squealed as Mr Sloan pressed his head through the narrow gap between door and jamb. His wiry grey hair sat low on his brow as he reached a thin hand towards the wall and leaned his body-weight there, ‘It’s you
… Hello.’
Brennan felt an uneasy doubt seep into his mind; he had started out on the road to Pilrig with a bolt of anger turning in his gut following the News article. He knew he couldn’t blame the Sloans for that, they had no idea what they were doing, they were hurting and reaching out for something to relieve the pain. As Brennan looked at Mr Sloan — stooped and beaten before him — he felt his pulse still. He didn’t feel welcome there, but how could he? He was the public face of a murder investigation — their daughter’s murder. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr Sloan…’
The man interrupted, widened the door and stepped back. He looked worn, seemed to have lost so much weight that his shoulders poked through his cardigan. ‘No, it’s quite all right…’ Mr Sloan bowed, grabbed the little white dog’s collar, ‘Will you come in?’
As Brennan crossed the step, Mr Sloan released the dog; it ran into the living room in a mood of high excitement that seemed wholly out of place to Brennan. He halted in the hall and waited as Mr Sloan closed the door behind him. The dog returned with a fat tongue lolling from the side of its jaws.
Mr Sloan’s voice came softly as he walked, ‘Has there been any… developments?’ He seemed to drag out the last word, as if it pained him to say it.
Brennan stifled an urge to walk back to the door he had just come through; there had indeed been developments, only not the type he had been hoping for. He wanted to be able to tell the Sloans he had found their daughter’s murderer, that he had the killer in custody and ready to face the full force of the courts. He knew this wasn’t the case, however. As he looked at Mr Sloan’s dark-ringed eyes he understood he was holding out a forlorn hope. Brennan motioned a hand towards the open living-room door, ‘Can we sit down, please?’
Mr Sloan stood silently in the hallway. His face lay still as he eyed the DI quizzically for a moment, then his whole body sprang to life. ‘Of course, yes.’ He pointed with his open palm, ‘Make your way through.’
In the living room Mrs Sloan sat straight backed on the edge of the sofa, her knees were held tight together, her hands fidgeting in her lap. She nodded to Brennan, then tucked a handkerchief in the cuff of her cardigan. Her hair was mussed, she pressed the sides of it with her hand as she spoke, ‘Would you like some tea… coffee maybe?’
Brennan stood before her, smiled and shook his head.
Mr Sloan walked into the room, paced the carpet towards the sofa and sat himself down beside his wife, ‘Please take a seat, Inspector.’
Mrs Sloan watched as Brennan turned his head, she seemed to predict his next movement and rose quickly; she removed a copy of the News from the chair next to the window and placed it on a low-slung side table.
Brennan fanned the tails of his overcoat behind him as he lowered himself onto the chair, his hand brushed the newspaper as he and Mrs Sloan sat down. ‘Actually, my visit’s not unrelated to this.’
The couple looked blankly at him; Mr Sloan was first to speak, his voice rising with a note of optimism, ‘Oh, really?’ His tone suggested he was unaware that talking to the press would have any impact on the investigation other than a positive one.
Brennan crossed his legs, he felt his movements being scrutinised. His shoe, sitting stiff against his ankle, suddenly reminded him it should have been polished some days ago. He lowered his leg again, said, ‘We had hoped to put the media to use on the case in due course
…’ his words sounded too formal to him, they verged on corporate-speak, but how did you find the right words to address the parents of a recently murdered young girl? There was nothing he could say that was going to make a difference now, there were no words that could mend what had happened to Lindsey Sloan and the aftermath her family was now dealing with. If there were words, any he could say, he would have uttered them. Brennan forced himself to continue, he knew he had to. He couldn’t show the Sloans that he was anything less than a professional — they needed to know that someone was there for them, on their side; someone who would right the wrong. ‘I thought I should warn you that there will likely be a substantial amount of interest in this case now.’
Mrs Sloan looked at her husband, all the light seemed to have faded from her eyes, her voice droned, ‘What’s he saying, Davie?’
Her husband shrugged, his face was immobile as he turned back to the DI, then he drew a solitary breath and his thin lips began to move, ‘Has there been some development you’re not telling us about?’
Brennan felt the rhythm of his heart change as he looked at the couple; he had started out with the idea of persuading the Sloans to appear in a televised appeal for witnesses but that plan seemed to have been waylaid the moment he stepped inside the door. He needed to give them something, they looked at him with pleading in their eyes; these people wanted someone to make sense of what had happened, to bring them back to a life with some humanity in it. Brennan edged forward on his chair, pressed his fingers together in a dome above his thighs. His breathing thinned as he prepared to speak, ‘Look, I really don’t want to alarm you…’ he smoothed the corners of his mouth with his finger and thumb, ‘But we believe Lindsey’s murder may be related to another case which is very similar.’
Mr Sloan’s dark eyes sunk in his head, he parted his thin lips again and stared at Brennan for a moment. His wife spoke his name but he didn’t seem to register it, then he suddenly tilted his gaze towards her. Mr Sloan took his wife’s hand, she settled her head on his shoulder, said, ‘Not another lassie, Davie… Not another one.’
Brennan picked at the crease in his trousers; as he watched the couple absorb the information he felt an urge to give them space. They needed to take it in, to process what he had just told them. He rose, stepped towards the window and looked out to the street and the sky. His knees locked as he girded his pose; an old Nissan spewed smoke as it started in a neighbouring driveway. Brennan knew the information would release a press frenzy if they ever got hold of it. One brutal murder of a young girl was enough for them to go on for now; if they got hold of the fact that the force was pursuing links to Fiona Gow’s murder as well then the headlines didn’t bear thinking about. He knew the Chief Super would have him on a spit, but the Sloans deserved to know the facts. They deserved at least the facts.
When Brennan turned round, the couple were staring at him.
‘Who… I mean, when?’ said Mr Sloan.
‘There was another murder, some years ago…’ The DI’s voice strained on the details, he caught the act before it became a habit and stilled his register. ‘A local girl, called Gow.’
The Sloans looked blankly ahead, the name didn’t mean anything to them. Brennan watched as moisture welled in Mrs Sloan’s eyes. ‘And you think…?’
‘We’re almost certain it’s the same perpetrator.’ Brennan crossed the carpet to the chair he had risen from, lowered himself back to the Sloans’ eye level, said, ‘We have some forensic evidence.’
‘Evidence?’ said Mr Sloan.
‘It’s indisputable… I’d sooner not go into too much detail but you need to understand that this is a very delicate time for the investigation. We need to tread very carefully with the press… If they get hold of this then they will blow the whole case up and we could lose our chance of catching our man.’
‘Alert him, you mean?’
Brennan felt his face tighten, his brow held firm. ‘We’re dealing with an extremely resourceful individual.’ He stopped himself, held his thoughts in check, made sure he wasn’t about to say anything that would cause more damage to them. ‘But we have the best possible people working on this case, I can assure you of that.’
Mr Sloan looked towards his wife, said, ‘We understand, Inspector
…’ he paused, turned to face Brennan, his dark eyes burned, ‘Just tell us you’ll get this bastard.’
The DI nodded; some rain started to patter on the window outside. He looked out towards the sky, the room suddenly felt cramped. Brennan turned back to the couple, they sat very still before him like they had been carved
