Murder Mile (13 page)

‘Ange,’ he said.

There was no answer.

He leaned a hand on the wall to steady himself, tried again, ‘Ange, doll … you awake?’

He could tell she was out of it, she had shot up, but he wanted to be sure she wasn’t unconscious. He slid his hand off the wall, kneeled down beside the mattress. As he did so he realised he had put his knee in a pile of sick. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

He pitched himself on his toes, leaned over to pat Angela on the back. ‘Ange, you all right there?’

Her back felt warm, wet with sweat. He rested his hand there for a moment longer; he could feel her lungs expanding as she took breath.

‘Fucking out for the count you are.’

He raised himself, went over to the window and stared out. It wasn’t dark yet but it would be in a couple of hours or so. He took a packet of Kensitas Club up from the window ledge; there was a blue plastic lighter inside next to the cigarettes. He sparked up, blew smoke into the room.

As he looked around, Henderson shook his head. ‘This what I came out for?’ He felt a desire to spit, ‘Not much better than the fucking pound this place.’

He closed his eyes tight as he remembered his latest stint in prison. It took him a great effort to knock the thoughts of the place out, but when he did he reopened his eyes and brought the cigarette up to his mouth, inhaled.

Henderson sat down in the wicker chair by the window; the chair had split and as he lowered himself down a stray wicker prong poked into his leg. ‘Jesus fuck!’ He snatched at the spike, snapped it in his hand. He was ready to kick out but held back; his head was spinning a little now with all the alcohol and he wanted to gather his thoughts for when Angela came around.

He knew what he wanted to say to her, he had it all planned out. At least, after catching the number 26 bus from Princes Street it had all seemed clear. When he missed his stop, after dozing off, and had to walk half the way down London Road and onto Easter Road his plan had faded a bit.

‘Could do with a fucking can.’

Henderson looked over the grimy flat, the paper peeling from the walls, the plaster blotched and stained, the curtains ripped and worn. He had been in worse, but not much worse. And anyway, that wasn’t the point. There was money to be made out there. People were always making money in Edinburgh, the town was awash with it. Flash bastards in big Range Rovers, the ones with the tinted windows that came down the Links. He had made good money off the Links, off his girls. But all he had now was Angela, and a two-grand debt to Boaby Stevens.

‘Fat fucking lot of use you’re going to be to me.’

There was a groan from the mattress.

Henderson raised his voice a notch, ‘I said fat fucking use you are!’

Angela’s head moved a little, the dirty blonde hair on the pillow was stretched out as she looked up. Henderson saw she was still spaced, had no clue what day of the week it was never mind anything else. How could he put her out to work in a couple of hours like that. Who’d pay for it?

He rose from the wicker chair; it seemed to stick to him as he got up and he turned on his heels and kicked out, the chair went flying across the room. ‘Right, come on, get yourself up,’ he yelled.

‘What?’

‘You fucking heard, you’re not lying in that pit any longer, get your fucking self up or
I’ll
get you up.’

Angela’s head dropped to the pillow. It was like incitement to Henderson. He reached over her and grabbed a handful of her dirty blonde hair. She screamed out as he yanked her to her knees in one firm jerk.

‘You not fucking hear me, or what?’

‘Hendy … Stop.’

‘Are you ignoring me, eh? That it?’

She raised her hands to his, screamed out again. ‘Stop it, that hurts!’

Henderson bunched a fist, ‘I’ll give you fucking hurts in a minute, if you’re not on those feet and walking the fucking Links.’

Angela dragged herself up; Henderson released his grip. For a moment she stood, naked, in front of him and then she crossed her hands over her breasts.

‘Oh come on for fuck’s sake, I’ve seen it before, along with half of fucking Leith.’

Angela looked away, turned for the door. She was unsteady on her feet, balancing herself on the walls with the palms of her hands as she went.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘I need the toilet.’

‘You better not have any gear in there … I want you out on the streets tonight.’

She slammed the bathroom door behind her and Henderson slumped on the mattress. As he landed he felt something pressing in his back pocket; he clasped his cigarette in his mouth and reached round to remove the little mauve-coloured diary. He was still reading it as Angela returned. She had put on a short black dress; she didn’t speak when she saw him reading.

‘I understand, you know,’ said Henderson.

‘What?’

He kept turning the pages as he spoke, ‘About what happened with this teacher guy.’

Angela looked out the window. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘Oh, but we have to.’ He removed the cigarette, pointed the tip of it at Angela, ‘We very definitely have to talk about him, Ange.’

Her shoulders rose and fell, then she looked at the nails on her hands for a moment before bunching fists. ‘I can’t … that’s why I gave you the diary. I just can’t talk about it.’

Henderson pitched himself on one elbow; he knew he was going to have to draw what he needed out of her. He had to be cautious; if he scared her, she might bolt and she had something that was valuable to him now. ‘I never told anybody this before, Ange …’ He paused, looked at the tip of his cigarette.

‘Told anybody what?’

He looked up, met her eyes. He knew his voice had started to quiver. ‘What you got me to read here … It happened to me too.’

She shook her head, ‘It couldn’t have.’

‘I mean, not the way you describe it, but …’ Henderson got off his elbow, sat upright on the mattress, leaned his back on the wall. He started to tell her about his own experience, the one he had locked away. When he had finished, Angela was staring at him with doleful eyes.

‘What happened to him?’ she said.

Henderson got up, went to the other side of the room and took out another cigarette from the packet of Club; he offered one to Angela. ‘He died.’ The words came out flat, cold.

‘How?’

Henderson shrugged, ‘Does it matter? He’s dead. And my mam’s dead as well so who’s left to fucking tell.’

Angela lit her cigarette. She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs and then released it quickly. ‘I’m sorry about that, but what’s it got to do with me?’

Henderson moved in front of her, placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I never got the chance to pay the bastard back … But yours you can.’

‘How?’

He pointed to his chest, ‘With me … I can sort the fucker out.’

Angela turned her gaze to the floor, ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with him. He’s as good as dead to me too …’

A huff, loud tut.

‘Ange, it’s not about you … Or me even. Remember what we saw on the telly the other night, this bastard could still be at it. You want that on your conscience, eh?’

She got up, walked over to the window and started to press the cigarette to her lips. He could see he hadn’t got through to her, she wasn’t interested. Henderson felt the desperation of his situation attach to him like a stranglehold.

‘Ange …’

‘
What
?’ she snapped.

‘You hearing me?’

‘Aye …’

‘Well, what do you say?’

She turned to face him. ‘What the fuck do you want me to say, Hendy?’

He crossed the floor, placed a hand on her shoulder. There was only one thing she had to say; if she didn’t he’d have to rethink his plans. ‘Just tell me where to get hold of the bastard. That’s all. I’ll take care of the rest.’

Chapter 18

DI ROB BRENNAN
knew his problem: he wouldn’t play the game. He would never be one of those who faded into the background, became part of the office furniture. It was easy for them – the type that had no conscience or guilt attached to playing the game. Kissing the boss’s arse or denying their true thoughts and emotions were their primary responses. To Brennan, each time he succumbed was like a death in him. A part of what made him, gave him strength, simply collapsed; imploded with the defeat. He knew he had always fought back, but he wondered: with enough attacks on him – in quick succession – could he be felled? Just fold; never come back. Life was all about the blows, about the myriad knocks and how you took them. He knew it would be easier to be a wimp – a drone – but it wasn’t in him. Brennan couldn’t deny who he was and so the fear, the worry of the time-bomb going off inside him, remained. He carried it everywhere and lived in the constant presence of its slow tick, tick, tick.

Gallagher wasn’t the first to try and put one over on him; Brennan had been on the force long enough to have outmanoeuvred more than one like him. They didn’t know what they were taking on – it was no game to him. When the job is burned so deeply into a soul, it becomes more than the sum of its parts. It was more than an occupation, a vocation even, to Brennan. It was his life.
He
had sacrificed so much to the job that he no longer knew where the job began or ended. It was all the job. The job was everything.

He tried to put himself in Gallagher’s mindset, imagine what being on this murder squad meant to the DI. He hadn’t once heard him voice a sympathetic word for the victim, her family. Brennan knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything – there were others on the force, younger than Gallagher, who had learned to bury their emotions deep. But somehow, he had never found himself questioning anyone else’s compassion; it was assumed. With Gallagher there was a lack, a want. It wasn’t a clinical disengagement either, like he had seen the morgue workers adopt; it was as if the emotion was absent. The thought sat like a marker in Brennan’s mind; to him the job was inseparable from his emotions, instincts, feelings – he relied on them to make his way through every case. People were fickle, could spark up or alight on a completely new course at any moment – there was no predicting where they would lead you in an investigation and Brennan relied on his wits. It challenged his logic to watch Gallagher.

The DI had manoeuvred himself into the Chief Super’s ambit; that wasn’t such a big deal, thought Brennan. Benny was a typical careerist, he watched out for himself. He nurtured lackeys and brown-nosers, but only so long as they were not a threat. If they evinced any attempts to climb the greasy pole to his level, he quickly quashed such incursions. Gallagher was no such threat – he was nearing the end of his days in the job, he was in handover mode. So what was in it for Benny? It wasn’t the clean up, because Gallagher had little or no chance of attaining that on his own, his previous failings on the Fiona Gow case had proven that. And Benny was too proud, too pompous to be swayed by any old-school experience that Gallagher might pass on in an avuncular, back-slapping manner; Benny was an egotist, he’d be far more likely to see himself as teaching the old dog new tricks. There was only one possibility that Brennan could countenance: the Chief Super saw
Gallagher
as a way of keeping one errant DI in check. Benny was using Gallagher to teach Brennan a lesson. And the lesson was, Benny was the boss.

Brennan knew his next meeting with the Chief Super was likely to be an uncomfortable one. There would be some wrist slapping, dressed up as a retreat from the proper arse-caning that he should have delivered; then there would be a detailed account of what was expected of DIs on Benny’s watch; finally, there would be the ‘I’ve no choice in the circumstances’ speech that ended with the repositioning of Gallagher at the front of the murder squad. It was a subtle mix of management psychology and testosterone that Brennan had encountered more than once before. Wullie had said, ‘They’re all out to hack the billiards off you, Rob … It’s a miracle if you get out the force with a full set.’

Brennan had no intention of putting his knackers in a poke for Benny or Gallagher; he liked them where they were. There was only one way to avert that outcome, however, and that was wrapping up the murder of Lindsey Sloan sooner rather than later. He wondered if he’d get the chance.

At the foot of the stairs the desk sergeant stood with an arm resting on the banister; he eyed Brennan and ran a dry tongue over his lower lip as he indicated upwards with a nod. ‘He gone?’

‘Benny? … Aye, thanks for the bail out, mate.’

‘What’s got his goat?’

Brennan felt his chest expand as he took breath. ‘Does he need an excuse?’

Charlie lowered his arm from the banister, stepped closer. ‘Watch that bastard Gallagher, he’s sleekit.’

Brennan was glad that somebody shared his opinion, but Charlie was too much of a fount of gossip to confide in, much as he liked the man. He played possum, ‘Come on, Jim Gallagher … He’s old school.’

Charlie huffed. ‘Who told you that?’

‘You telling me different?’

‘The pair of us joined up around the same time; now, I’m not
saying
you can read too much into this but do you think he got to be a DI by being a better cop?’

Brennan lowered a consoling hand onto Charlie’s shoulder, joked, ‘Maybe he just had the marbles, mate.’

Charlie bit back. ‘If it was about marbles,
mate
, I’d be sitting in Benny’s chair now.’ He turned for the front desk, reeled. ‘Ask Wullie Stuart what he thinks of Gallagher, he’s not a fucking fan either.’

Brennan felt a smirk pass up the side of his face; he was glad to have Charlie confirm his suspicions, but people like Charlie were rare on the force, and getting rarer. It would take an army of supporters like him to ward off the Chief Super and Gallagher, and Brennan knew, in reality, he was on his own.

He set out for the interview room, trying to refocus his thoughts onto the more pressing matter of what he was going to say to the Sloans about the brutal murder of their daughter. Brennan felt a band begin to tighten around his chest as he walked; he knew it was stress – the job got you like that, took a grip of you when you least expected it and tried to warn you that something wasn’t right. Brennan didn’t need any reminders.