pathologist, but he still had questions he wanted answered. ‘And what about the mutilation… How does that compare to the other victims?’
There was a gap on the line, ‘Yes, I thought you’d ask that.’
‘I am asking that,’ said Brennan.
Pettigrew cleared his throat, spoke, ‘The Gow and Sloan cases had striking similarities, the genital mutilation and the eyes, obviously, but there was also the fact that they had clearly been recently killed before any of the mutilation took place… Mickle, I’m not so sure. The strangulation was the cause of death but that could have happened some time before the desecration. And I have to say, the mutilation was frenzied and rough — not clean like the others — and you realise there were no undergarments found on this victim, whereas they’d been inserted into the mouth cavity with the genitalia…’
Brennan felt his shoulders tense as he listened to the doctor’s assessment. He knew he’d been proven right. ‘You’re saying then, that it’s your opinion we have two separate killers?’
‘One for Gow and Sloan, and I would have to conclude another for Mickle.’
‘So Mickle’s a copy-cat case.’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
Brennan massaged his jaw, bowed his head. As he raised his hand to his brow he felt a layer of moisture had settled there. He experienced no level of vindication to have been proven right by the pathologist’s report; another young woman had died, it didn’t matter to the DI that he believed he had her killer in custody already because there was nothing he could do about her death now. The law could take its course, justice could be served, but Angela Mickle would play no part in it; she would play no part in anything ever again.
Brennan spoke, ‘Thank you, Doctor. I’ll let you go.’
‘My pleasure.’
He hung up.
Brennan eased himself back on the desk, the rim cut into his thighs as he leaned forward. He felt at once assailed by a mixture of hurt and anger. He saw the swaggering Henderson in his mind’s eye and the image cut into him like a saw blade. He had met his type before, boys from the schemes, wide as gates. They all felt the world owed them a living, felt justified in expressing their loathing for their bitter existences. Brennan didn’t want to think too much about Henderson, or his type; when he did that he always found himself delving into other people’s concerns. He didn’t want to find excuses for why someone like Henderson would turn into a vicious killer. He didn’t want to think about the social reasons, the economic exclusion, the deprivation, the way Edinburgh, or even Scotland, had developed. That was not his job, that was not for him to consider. He dealt in facts: provable, reasonable facts; the ifs and the buts were an intellectual exercise for middle managers and senior civil servants to debate between courses at New Town dinner parties. To Brennan it was black and white — he wanted the scum behind bars.
The DI raised himself from the desk, walked to the edge of the room and opened the venetian blinds. He faced the murder squad through the window as they went about their work in Incident Room One. He knew they had reached a fork in the road now; the case had split in two. He had three murders to think about and two killers to put away. He couldn’t see any obvious link between the recent killing and the earlier two. He could guess at Henderson’s reasons for copying the MO of the other killer but it was just that: guess work. He knew there was a wider set of possibilities at play; he only hoped they would come into focus soon. The media had been hovering since the disastrous press conference, they could only be kept at bay for so long, and there was the fact — as Wullie had pointed out — that there was a killer out there who was likely to strike again at any moment. Brennan felt the pressure of time gripping him as he turned the handle on his office door.
‘Right, Collins, get over here,’ he called out.
Collins made his way towards the DI, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did the SOCOs get out of Mickle’s flat?’
The sergeant tucked a yellow pencil behind his ear, put his hands in his pockets, ‘Nothing, so far as I know.’
Brennan bit, ‘What do you mean nothing? They must have got fucking something!’
Collins removed his hands from his pockets, shrugged, ‘Nothing in the way of evidence; there was blood in the kitchen but it wasn’t the victim’s.’
‘Well whose was it?’
‘His… Henderson’s. Says he cut himself when he was drunk; there’s a gash on his chest as well. Nasty. Had to get it looked at.’
Brennan shook his head, ‘Cut himself when he was drunk, my arse.’
‘Aye, more like cut himself trying to choke the life out of a brass with a knife in her mitt.’
Nods of approval. ‘That’s more like it.’ Brennan raked the room with his gaze. ‘Where’s Gallagher?’
‘Search me. Haven’t seen him since this morning.’
Brennan thinned his eyes, looked further down the room as the door from the landing opened up. DS Stevie McGuire entered, started to remove his coat. He was hanging it on the stand as he spotted Brennan and Collins at the other end of the room watching him. McGuire nodded, reached into his coat pocket and removed a plastic bag with a small mauve-coloured object inside.
‘Got the diary, boss.’
Brennan beckoned McGuire towards him, ‘Right, bring it down here, we’ll take a look at it in my office.’
‘Diary?’ said Collins.
‘Angela Mickle’s… according to Henderson.’
‘And are you going to believe that scrote, sir?’
‘Depends what’s in it… Might suit us to believe him.’
Collins creased up his brows, edged to the side as McGuire swept past him and followed the DI into his office.
‘Where was it?’
‘Believe it or not,’ said McGuire, ‘exactly where he said it was.’
‘And why’s that surprising to you?’
‘Well, it was the truth for a start… I’d say bugger all else we’ve had out of him adds up.’
Brennan held out his hand, took the clear plastic bag from McGuire and opened the closed edge. He looked at the diary for a moment, glanced to the DS, then removed it and retreated to his seat. As he thumbed the first page over, he noticed the name was correct, written in a looping scroll that seemed to resemble his daughter’s handwriting — little circles sat above the i’s and the j’s. As he took in the first few lines, he noticed it seemed to have been written by a much younger girl; he raised his head, addressed McGuire: ‘Well, if he wrote this he’s a good mimic, or knows something about channelling young lassies.’
McGuire looked confused, sat forward in his chair and stared at the page Brennan was reading, ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I mean, Stevie,’ he looked up, ‘this is genuine.’
‘Then it might be of some use after all…’
‘I don’t know about that.’
McGuire rose, walked round to the same side of the desk as the DI, said, ‘Well, there’s only one way we’ll find out.’
Brennan huffed, lifted the diary and flicked through the pages, ‘Suppose we’ll have to read it all.’
‘Maybe we could just skim.’
The DI frowned, turned back to the page. It felt somehow like an intrusion — Angela Mickle was dead — Brennan still remembered how her corpse looked in the field, exposed to the cold and rain of the Scottish morning. He wondered what it was about the artefacts of the dead that somehow made them feel sacred; was it a learned response? This was just a diary, words on a page, how could it be any more sanctified than any other piece of young girls’ writing. But it was; he knew it. As Brennan read through the small pages he felt himself building an image of another side of Angela; she was no longer the murdered prostitute to him. Angela Mickle had some level of intelligence, that was evident, she had some integrity too and the words she put on the page revealed all of this and more.
‘Look at this,’ said Brennan.
McGuire read where the DI pointed, ‘Gymnastics… another one.’
