scheme of things, but that was often the way an investigation went. What was opaque often became transparent only after a few shakes of the dice. He knew Henderson was no serial killer, that was for sure; the chaotic nature of his lifestyle didn’t fit with Lorrimer’s profile and, unless he was very much mistaken, he was dealing with a diminutive intelligence; how else could he account for the fact that he was confident he would have him in custody before the day was out.
On the street, some pigeons scratching for scraps on the paving flags scattered when Brennan and Collins appeared. As the pair headed for the Passat, the DI called out, ‘Chuck me the keys over, eh.’
‘You driving, boss?’
‘Oh, I think so…’
Collins removed the keys from his trouser pocket, lobbed them towards the Inspector. ‘So, where’s first on our shady loanshark hit-list?’
Brennan pointed the keyring at the car; the blinkers flashed on then off, ‘Well, I’m all for starting at the top… Where’s Boaby Stevens hole up these days?’
Collins nodded, ‘Shaky… Still the Wheatsheaf, isn’t it?’
‘Well, let’s go and give him a wee rumble, eh.’
Chapter 43
As DI Rob Brennan walked into the interview room, Neil Henderson turned his eyes towards the blank wall and sighed. DS Stevie McGuire entered after Brennan and slapped a blue folder down on the table: as he did so, a gust of dry air swept past Henderson catching his fringe. The sergeant removed a chair, dragged its legs across the floor as he kept a firm gaze on Henderson. When the chair was positioned adjacent to the interviewee, McGuire sat down and crossed his legs. He smiled at Henderson and then turned to Brennan and let out a wry laugh. The DI smiled back, walked to the other side of the desk and placed his hands either side of the folder; he tilted his head up to face Henderson and spoke, ‘Well, well, Neil… Not had much luck have we?’
‘Get fucked!’ said Henderson.
Brennan turned over the folder and looked at the top page, scanned insouciantly. ‘Quite a record you’ve got here.’
‘I want a fag,’ said Henderson.
‘A fag… Tell me, Stevie, isn’t that what they call arse-rape inside these days?’
McGuire sneered, ‘I think so… That’s where he’s going anyway.’
‘For sure and certain…’
Henderson leaned forward, extended his index finger and waved it at the officers, ‘You pair can both fuck off…’
Brennan turned, moved his seat out, sat. He leaned forward on the desk, removed a packet of Embassy Regal and placed it before him. ‘Now, now, Hendy, seems to me like you’ve not had much luck playing the hard man… I recommend you give it up.’
Henderson stared at the packet of cigarettes. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean, it took me under an hour to find you… You’ve no friends left in this town. If you ever had any.’
Henderson tapped his chest, ‘I’ve got friends.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Brennan. ‘And was Angela Mickle one of them?’
‘Listen, you’re not pinning that on me…’
Brennan knew he was engaged in a delicate balancing act. He was sure Henderson was responsible for Angela Mickle’s death, but he didn’t know how or why. The SOCOs’ initial search of the flat had not turned up anything, but it was early enough for that to change. Still, without a definite link or a confession, the case against him was slight at the moment. Brennan knew he could pressure Henderson, make him sweat out a confession, but there was another matter to consider, two matters in fact: the deaths of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. The DI couldn’t explain why Angela Mickle’s death had been made to look like the others but he felt sure the postmortem would confirm his suspicions that he was dealing with a copy-cat killer. If Henderson was simply trying to cover his murdering of Angela Mickle by making it look like the work of someone else, Brennan would gleefully drag that confession straight from his throat, but the thought, the possibility, that Henderson was in some way connected to the other girls’ killer couldn’t be ignored.
‘Someone killed her, Hendy,’ said Brennan.
‘Look, I didn’t do it!’ He slapped his fist off the table, the papers in the blue folder shook. ‘And you’re not going to get me to say that I did.’
‘Who would want to harm Angela, then?’
Henderson huffed. ‘I’m saying nothing.’
Brennan turned to McGuire, then back to Henderson. ‘Why not? You think someone’s going to come to your rescue? No way, you’re the only one we’ve got down for this, Hendy.’
‘Then you’re not doing your job right, are you?’
McGuire got out of his seat, walked around Henderson and picked up the packet of Embassy Regal. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards Henderson as he spoke, ‘Sounds to me like you know something that you’re not letting on about, Hendy.’
He turned, put a stare on McGuire. He tapped his chest as he spoke, ‘I know lots of things. Fucking loads.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Brennan. ‘Well, tell us something.’
Henderson turned away from McGuire; his eyes widened as he took in Brennan, then he dipped his gaze towards the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’
‘Go ahead…’
Henderson took the packet of Embassy Regal, withdrew a cigarette and tucked it in his mouth. McGuire brought the lighter’s flame towards the cigarette and lit him up. ‘Look, I’m not saying I know who did it or that, I’m not a fucking grass… But, what you were asking there, about who’d want to harm, Ange…’ he paused.
‘Go on,’ said Brennan.
Henderson took a deep pull on the cigarette, took the smoke down into his lungs and held it there. As he spoke, the smoke escaped on his words, ‘A little while back, right, I found something…’
‘Found what?’ said Brennan.
Henderson leaned forward, drew on the cigarette again, lowered his voice. ‘It was… a diary.’
‘Whose diary?’
‘Well whose do you think?… Ange’s.’
Brennan creased his brows, ‘And why would I want to know about a brass’s diary?’
Henderson shook his head, laughed. ‘You fucking pigs, you just don’t get it do you?’
‘I don’t think we do, Hendy,’ said McGuire.
‘No, maybe you should explain it to us,’ said Brennan.
Henderson leaned back in the chair, he crossed his leg, raised his ankle and sat it on his knee. His white sports socks showed beneath his trouser leg. ‘That diary, right, was all about a certain… individual.’
‘And?’
‘And… Well, that individual is the one that you should be asking the questions to.’
Brennan put his elbows on the desk, exhaled into his balled hands. ‘Who are we talking about, Hendy?’
‘I’m saying nothing more…’ he flicked ash from his cigarette, ‘nothing more, you’ll have to read the diary. Surprised you haven’t already, it’s in the flat, under the bed isn’t it.’
Brennan closed the folder in front of him and looked towards McGuire; the DS stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. As he rose, Brennan kept his tone low and serious, ‘OK, Hendy, we’ll check out this diary. But if this is stalling, you’re not going to be doing yourself any favours.’
He shook his head, laughed. ‘Fuck off the pair of you.’
Brennan and McGuire left the interview room. In the corridor, Brennan turned to the DS, said, ‘What do you make of that?’
‘He’s very sure of himself.’
