boys looking them over, digging elbows in each other’s sides as they went. Brennan felt a shudder of despair as he looked out at the familiar landscape of the Edinburgh streets. He was tired of the city, nothing there offered him any surprises now. In another hour or so the shivering teenage girls would be holding their shoes in their hands, staggering and puking into the gutter. The boys would be throwing fists and holding burst noses or pissing against shop doorways. Edinburgh never changed; the city was like a production line throwing off skinny, spotty yobs who blocked the streets and cells and made the DI wonder when or if he would ever be free of it. He knew he was being hard on the place, but it was his job to know the real city behind the Georgian facade of the New Town and the whisky-soaked bonhomie of the Old Town. Brennan recalled the statistic that in London you were never more than six feet from a rat; in Edinburgh, he knew, the same distance could be applied to junkies, pimps and pushers with some degree of accuracy.
‘The state of that,’ said Collins, nodding towards a drunk negotiating a zigzagging path towards the traffic lights.
‘He’ll not last the night,’ said Brennan.
‘He’ll be lucky to last to the end of the street before some wee ned has him pummelled…’ Collins turned briefly to face the DI, ‘rite of passage these days, isn’t it.’
Brennan watched the drunk hanging on to the light at the pedestrian crossing, but didn’t answer Collins. He started to roll down his window and took out a cigarette from a new packet of Embassy Regal. The cold wind from the street filled the cab and sent Collins reaching for the heater. Brennan took the hint and rolled the window up a little but left enough of a gap for him to knock the ash from the tip of his cigarette onto the road. As the van rolled onto Leith Walk, he thought about his temporary lodgings on nearby Montgomery Street and wondered what there was to keep him in the city now. He knew, of course, the answer was his daughter. Sophie was still here and she needed him, even if she didn’t know it and would certainly never admit it. As he took stock of his life’s worth, Brennan knew it was a thin tally to account for his time on the planet; he hoped for better for his daughter, didn’t all fathers?
Brennan knew Angela Mickle had deserved better too, as had Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. None of them deserved what their tragically short lives had amounted to. It gored Brennan to think of the way they had suffered, how their families had suffered. None of it was remotely comprehensible to the DI, but then he knew that was the way it should be — it would take a sick mind to understand the likes of Crawley. The teacher had preyed on youngsters in his care and moulded them into objects of his sick fantasies. Brennan knew there would be lawyers and psychiatrists who would try to explain away Crawley’s actions, but the thought of any kind of clemency for him made Brennan’s guts tighten. He felt only revulsion for the man. There were two clear sides: the victims and the perpetrator, and Brennan knew which side of the chalk line he stood on. He felt his jaw locking tight as he thought of Crawley; there had never been a time when he had strayed completely from his duties as a police officer but Brennan knew he would reverse all of that to give Crawley a glimpse of the true terror he had brought to those young lives. The case had worked its way under Brennan’s skin; had he grown too close to the investigation? he wondered. Yes, probably. But he was only human, he had seen the faces of those victims, heard the cries of grieving parents — how could it not affect him? As they turned off Leith Walk, the DI knew for certain that if he failed to catch Crawley the job was over for him; too much damage had been inflicted on him already, another blow would be his last.
Brennan threw his cigarette butt from the window, and pointed Collins towards a gap in the traffic. ‘Pull in there.’
As Collins parked up, Brennan looked out towards the grey tenements sitting under the fast-darkening sky. He tapped a fingernail off the dashboard and turned round towards the back of the van, ‘You guys set?’
The pair monitoring the wire nodded, raised thumbs. ‘Sir.’
Brennan turned to Collins, ‘Right, let’s join them.’
As they moved towards the back of the van, they collected headsets — the DI spoke into his, ‘Stevie, you in position?’
The line crackled, ‘I’m on the back green.’
‘What’s the SP?’ said Brennan.
‘No movement, I have WPC Docherty in plain view…’
Brennan nudged himself up in the back of the van; it was cramped with four grown men in such a confined space but he hoped they wouldn’t be there for too long. The DI had gambled on Crawley taking the risk of tackling Angela Mickle to remove the diary that Henderson had flaunted in front of him. It was, he knew, a long shot; but Crawley’s profile indicated a strong risk-taking streak and he had already approached the victim with threats. Brennan knew there was also the fact that both Lorrimer and Wullie had confirmed his own fear that Crawley was destined to kill again — had an urge to — and he had a ready-made target in Angela Mickle, knew she could offer little resistance.
Brennan spoke into the microphone, ‘Elaine, can you hear me all right?’
A whisper, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. We’ll keep contact to a minimum. If he shows, don’t try to engage him physically… If he speaks, we’ll be listening in, but the second he gets actually threatening you know what to do.’
The WPC’s voice was soft, low. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘ Bluebell… Just say the panic word and we’re in there.’
Brennan looked out towards the tenement through the one-way glass on the side of the van; he could see the WPC standing in the window, staring down at the street. She was in the same style of black dress that he had seen Angela Mickle wearing on the day she was found in the field out at Straiton. Her hair had been styled in the same, unkempt fashion as the murder victim; as she brought a cigarette up to her mouth, Brennan felt the similarity between the two young women strike him; he suddenly felt the unease of another life on his conscience.
‘OK, Elaine, move back from the window and put the light on,’ said Brennan. ‘After that, you can pass the window, but don’t get up too close…‘
There was no reply. The men in the van waited for the light to go on in the flat; as it illuminated the room, Collins spoke, ‘Showtime.’
Brennan pushed the back of his head against the side of the van, sighed. ‘Let’s hope so.’
Collins covered his microphone as he engaged the DI, ‘Do you think he’ll appear?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘There’s a hope.’
‘He’s never been to the flat before, how will he find it?’
‘He found her on the Links… And she was a brass turning tricks at home, how hard can it be?’
Collins removed his hand from the front of the mike, craned his neck towards the street. A man driving a blue Fiesta was pulling into a parking space on the other side of the road. ‘What kind of car does Crawley have?’
‘A silver Corolla,’ said Brennan.
‘Nah, that’s a Fiesta.’
The DI looked at his watch; the iridescent flashes on the hands shone out. He knew it was still early, but already a void of tension had set up in his chest. Outside the van, the full gloom of the night sky settled over the street and the rooftops. The orange haze of street lamps burned against the black road and a thin moon reflected on the scene. Brennan listened to the hiss of static on the wire but heard nothing; he felt an urge to prompt the team but stilled it as he became distracted by noise beyond the van. A woman’s laughter came interspersed with loud clacking heels on paving flags but was quickly drowned out by a booming stereo from a passing car. The fast- moving vehicle shook the van where it sat in the street and prompted Collins to roll his eyes.
‘Some wee boy racer.’
Brennan nodded. The laughing woman came into view, held up by a man in a business suit; his florid tie caught the wind and came to rest on his shoulder. The occupants of the van watched as the pair lolled down the street, stopping every few steps to grab handfuls of flesh and press their mouths together in violent gulping motions.
‘Someone’s on a promise,’ said Brennan.
Collins broke into guffaws, ‘Going to be a knee trembler tonight.’
The officers watched as the man positioned his hands on the woman’s backside, allowed one to stray beneath the line of her skirt. ‘Well, it’s good to know romance isn’t dead,’ said Brennan.
‘Jesus, get a room,’ said Collins, ‘… A close at least.’
The man in the business suit let his second hand join the other one beneath the woman’s skirt; as he did so,
