Murder Mile (3 page)

DS Stevie McGuire was getting out the driver’s door, zipping up a windcheater. He followed Brennan as he took off for the SOCOs’ white tent.

‘Didn’t take them long,’ said McGuire.

‘Never does, like the boy fucking scouts that lot.’

At the edge of the lay-by, all the way to the gap in the verge, blue and white crime-scene tape had been put up. A uniform was still unravelling a roll of it as Brennan and McGuire ducked underneath and made their way to the SOCOs. Brennan felt the wind lash at him, there was a spit of rain in the air now – he hoped it wouldn’t get any heavier, he didn’t want important pieces of information to be washed away.

At the tent opening McGuire lifted the flap, motioned Brennan to go ahead first. ‘After you, sir.’

He didn’t think it was something to thank the junior officer for.

Chapter 3

BRENNAN KNEW BEING
human was hard, tough. We were animals, but we were no longer allowed to be. We had come down from the trees and learned to walk upright – but, given the right circumstances, how many of us would revert to the primordial swamp? He knew it was in him, the atavistic tripwire had been crossed before: he’d struck people; thrashed some. None that hadn’t deserved it, but how far had he been from the ultimate conclusion of violence? Some way, he thought, some way indeed – but he wasn’t exactly sure how far.

Brennan remembered an old TV interview with the late John Lennon: he’d been asked about a line in a song of his about war and destruction; he’d said count me out, but then added count me
in
. The songwriter concluded he had to add the line because he knew he was all too human. That was the problem thought Brennan, what was
in
us was there, whether we denied it or not. He knew you only needed to turn on the news any night of the week to see evidence of the fact that, no matter how much we liked to pretend otherwise, we were animals.

If you removed the authority figures, the men in uniform, the boundaries of acceptable behaviour and consequences, then lawlessness was never far away. Desperation played a part too, like a magnifying glass on tinder, but the definition of desperation was
open
to interpretation. A hungry dog will fight and kill another dog for a scrap of food; human appetites were more complex, but they could trigger the same bestial reaction. None of us was immune to acting on our instincts, we could no easier be separated from them than the salt from the sea; it was our nature. We constructed an artificial image of ourselves, allowed a social duplicity to emerge when we believed in an evil strain in the blood – but, did we all have dark hearts? Brennan wondered.

We had domesticated ourselves – like we had domesticated the wolf – but the savagery we were capable of made the DI uneasy in his own skin. As he looked into the tent the SOCOs had erected he did not want to be a part, however insignificant, of the human race. It reviled him – the fact that he could draw this conclusion, intellectualise it, was no consolation. Thought and action, it seemed, bore little relation to each other. There was a wider, more sweeping force at play and none of us – man nor beast – was beyond its reach.

Brennan and McGuire were halted inside the white tent by a SOCO; he was fully suited in white overalls and held out two small boxes to the DI and the DS. Brennan removed a pair of blue covers for his shoes; when he had them in place he dipped into the other box and removed some lightweight rubber gloves. McGuire followed him. They both declined an offer of facemasks.

In the far corner of the tent, two men in white overalls stood chatting to Dr Pettigrew; he was a broad man with a small head and a short neck that looked like they’d been pressed into the bulk of his body. The doctor indicated to the ground with a yellow pencil for a moment or two and then returned to writing in a blue folder. He seemed calmer than usual, certainly for the time of day. Brennan nodded to McGuire, the pair approached the doctor.

‘Good morning,’ said Brennan.

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Dr Pettigrew.

Brennan declined a rejoinder. As he spoke to the doctor he became vaguely aware of the slight bundle at his feet; it was a
corpse
but seemed far too insignificant to have been a vessel for life. Brennan stepped away from the doctor, rounded the body and kneeled down beside it. He sensed DS McGuire behind him, he seemed eager to keep his distance.

‘All right, Stevie?’

A nod, shake of the head.

Brennan turned back to the victim; a thin, pale-green plastic covering had been placed over the body, it fluttered every few seconds in the breeze that got under the tent flaps and exposed white, glass-smooth skin.

‘I hope you haven’t had your breakfast,’ said Dr Pettigrew. When Brennan looked up, the doctor was smiling – a row of yellowed teeth on display.

This time Brennan bit, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t splash your brogues.’

As he removed the covering, in one swift sweep, Brennan was shocked by the whiteness of the victim’s body. The only relief from the harsh pallor was occasional patches of pale-blue and black skin. The girl, a young girl, lay contorted to one side. Her legs were splashed with blood and mud and her dress had been pulled up, over her head. Her stomach was exposed, but where the pale skin showed it was in sparse patches as dark blood had dried over the main share of the surface. Deep welts marked where a thick blade had struck her stomach and the tops of her thighs. Her genitals had been crudely hacked out.

Brennan turned back to McGuire; the DS looked drawn as he raised a hand to his cheek; his mouth sat slantwise and uncertain in his face. ‘Stevie, go and keep an eye on Collins, eh.’

He nodded. Retreated, at a jog, to the tent opening.

Dr Pettigrew watched the DS go, eyes flitting about, eager for information. ‘The skin colour is due to …’

Brennan interrupted, ‘Loss of blood, yes, I know.’

‘Then I don’t know why the hell you need me here. It’s not like I couldn’t do with the extra time in bed.’

Brennan rose, he felt a flash of heat in his chest, for some reason he hoped the victim hadn’t heard him and then he remembered she
was
dead. He fronted the doctor. ‘You’re here for the same reason I am – a young girl has been murdered.’

‘Yes, I-I’m aware of that.’ All the power had been sapped from his voice but the sound of it seemed to rally him. He pointed to the corpse, ‘I didn’t need to go to medical school to tell you that!’

Brennan felt the heat in his chest rise to his head, he gripped his jaw tight. The muscles in his neck firmed. Was he the only one left on the squad who cared about these people? ‘Then perhaps you can put some of that medical training to good use and give me a time of death.’

The doctor eased himself back on his heels, scratched under his chin, ‘Well, rigor mortis has set in … clearly. I’d say it’s starting to subside now …’ He hoisted up his belt as he continued, ‘I’d say she’s been dead a good sixteen hours anyway.’

Brennan stored the timing away, he was searching for a particle of optimism, but found none. He returned to the corpse, pointed to the doctor. ‘Give me that.’

Dr Pettigrew removed a pencil from his top pocket and handed it to Brennan. He leaned forward and slipped the tip of the pencil under the hem of the girl’s dress that was covering her face. The doctor was watching him as he withdrew the dress; it was stiff with dried blood.

‘Jesus,’ said Brennan.

‘Quite a sight, isn’t it.’

The DI scanned what was left of the victim’s features. Her face was no more than a mass of black ruptures and contusions. She had been beaten soundly, pummelled. The girl lay at an unnatural angle, ligatures at her neck seemed to have turned it too far from her shoulders. Her mouth, parallel to the ground, was slightly open – a clump of what looked like red cloth was stuck between her teeth. At first Brennan thought the skin of her face had been flayed, there was so much blood, but then he became aware of why: her eyes had been gouged out. The swelling had hidden the sockets, but he was sure the eyeballs had been removed.

‘Her eyes … are they?’ he said.

‘Removed,’ said Dr Pettigrew, ‘plucked out.’

Brennan shook his head, he didn’t want to stare at what was left of the girl’s face any longer. He returned the covering and stood up.

‘Can you hazard a cause of death?’

‘Take your pick, the broken neck or the abdominal punctures.’

Brennan returned to stare at the victim, her thin white arm protruded, seemed to reflect too much light. Only a few hours ago the girl was somewhere else, living her life. What had happened? How did a young girl, a teenager, turn up brutally murdered, hacked to death, in a field on the outskirts of Edinburgh? No matter how many times he had to encounter the bestial side of life and death, Brennan remained confused by it all. Each death, each life cut short, snuffed out, was another scar on his soul.

He turned back to Dr Pettigrew, pointed a finger. ‘I want that girl thoroughly looked at. What is that in her mouth?’

The doctor leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and creased his narrow forehead as he bawled out. ‘We can’t get the red cloth, her jaw’s clamped on it. But, I’ll tell you this for nothing, Inspector … you have a seriously deranged psychopath on the loose.’

Outside the tent Brennan removed his blue shoe coverings and handed them to a passing uniform, stomped towards McGuire. The DS was leaning on the bonnet of the Passat, staring into the night sky. The wind caught Brennan’s coat as he pulled the rubber gloves from his hands, secreted them in his pocket. He stopped still for a moment, felt his shoulders tightening inexplicably, then he shook himself, buttoned his coat and approached McGuire.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

McGuire steadied himself on the bonnet of the car. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He fastened his eyes tight, thin radial lines appeared at their edges. ‘It’s just deranged … utterly callous.’

Brennan moved round beside him, hitched his thigh on the edge of the car’s wing. ‘It looks …
practised
.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘The ligatures, the hacked genitals and the eyes … it’s all specific.’

McGuire turned to face him, ‘You think this is pathological, like some kind of ritual?’

Brennan looked out to the field, there were more SOCOs arriving, directing photographers. ‘No, not ritual, more like a release. What I’m saying is, it’s systematic – and controlled – our killer knew what he wanted out of this.’

‘I hate to admit it, sir, but Pettigrew’s right then – we’ve got a psycho on the loose.’

Brennan eased himself off the bonnet of the car, the springs wheezed beneath him. ‘It’s more than that, Stevie, we’ve got a psycho who’s acted on his urges.’ He crossed the ground towards the car’s door. ‘And it’s down to us to stop him acting on them again.’

Chapter 4

NEIL HENDERSON WATCHED
the prison officer pack up his belongings, tipping the little plastic containers into the brown paper bag. He was sneering, the bastard was sneering at him, he thought.

‘Got something to say to me, pal?’ said Henderson.

The officer shook his head, dropped his chin onto his chest and jangled some coins into the bag. He looked to be enjoying himself too much, continued to sneer.

A spasm twitched on Henderson’s lip as he spoke, ‘No, come on, out with it.’

The officer closed a drawer, turned a key in the lock and then returned to Henderson’s possessions. The bag was full now, he rolled over the top, made it into a neat bundle then passed it through the chute. He was still sneering as he made a little wave through the glass. ‘See you soon, sunshine!’

Henderson double blinked. The muscles in his neck tightened, became firm rods. He wanted to punch the window, smack the screw bastard. They were all the same, screws and filth; just out to rumble you, give you a hard time. They got off on it. He spat out, ‘You’ll be fucking lucky!’

A laugh now, he was laughing at him. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he spoke through the laughter, ‘Want to take a wee bet?’

Another screw came into the picture, a fat bastard with pools of sweat under his armpits, they were both laughing in sync. The one who called him sunshine rubbed his hands together, then pointed at his palm. ‘Could make a few quid at this, Drew.’

‘Yeah, yeah … Only this prick hasn’t got a penny. What’s he gonna bet with?’

The prison officer tugged at his earlobe, tilted his head and pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Have to go out and rob someone … Now there’s an idea, Hendy!’

Henderson inflated his chest, yelled, ‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘I said, fuck off.’

The other screw joined in, he leaned over the counter and widened his eyes, raised his voice. ‘Robbing and beating the shite out of innocent old punters. You followed him home from the bookies, didn’t you. Wonder if that old boy’s family will be waiting for you out there?’

The other one jumped in, ‘His son’s a rugby player, I heard.’

They were winding him up, just sticking the needle in. Henderson grabbed his belongings from the chute; the bag was bulky and the brown paper wrapping rustled loudly as he tugged it free. When he had the package under his arm he raised a single digit on his right hand and said, ‘Get fucked.’

The tone suddenly changed, the screws weren’t having a laugh any more. The big one pointed at him through the glass. ‘I hope you do, mate. I hope you get well and truly fucked, because you know what, you deserve it. You’re a fucking animal.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know fuck all about me.’

The screw nodded, his meaty neck quivered under his chin. ‘I know your type, fucking sure I do. And I know a leopard doesn’t change its spots.’ He leaned closer, got right up against the glass, ‘You’ll be back in here in under a month. How do I know that? Because you’re all the same. You’re scum, Henderson. Fucking trash.’

Henderson’s pulse raced, he dived for the screen, got close enough to face the screw but was yanked back by his shoulder, another prison officer turned him away. ‘Move it!’