Murder Mile (37 page)

The DI had vowed to inform Benny of Gallagher’s return to the station right away – he hadn’t done that, but disobeying direct instructions from the Chief Super seemed like a low-grade offence today. He knew his superior would have to reassess his priorities too: it was not the time to go after slightly wayward DIs when his own best boy had stepped beyond the limits of all known boundaries. Benny’s priority would now be damage limitation – his own arse was on the line, thought Brennan, why would he care about settling old scores? The DI replayed recent decisions he’d been challenged on by Benny: there was the overtime ban; the appointment of a profiler from Strathclyde; and there was the press conference which had descended into complete and utter farce. Brennan felt himself gripping the banister tighter as he ascended the stairs; he knew that, even a few hours ago, he would not have been able to go to the Chief Super to seek support for his next move, but the axis of power had shifted now. The DI knew Benny was a greatly diminished force; he would have to put his faith in solving the case – that would be his redeemer – and there was only one man left capable of delivering that for him since Gallagher had dropped out of the picture.

Brennan grabbed the handle to the Chief Super’s door; he felt ready to flay any opposition to his desired course of action, but he knew that the situation would require some degree of subtlety. It never helped to overplay your hand, he thought, and he knew that what he was about to propose was risky; getting Benny’s support would be the easy part.

The boards beneath the carpet tiles creaked as Brennan entered the Chief Super’s office. Benny stood staring out of the window, in much the same position he was when Brennan had last seen him, only now he seemed preoccupied with a ruckus of seagulls as they caterwauled over fresh deposits in the station’s bins. The DI scratched at his cheekbone as he waited for the Chief Super to turn around; the sky had settled into a dark-purple wash.

‘Ah, Rob, you’re here,’ said Benny.

Brennan lowered his hand, nodded, said, ‘I thought you’d like to know that Detective Inspector Gallagher is …’

He cut in, ‘Yes, I know … I still have some ears and eyes in this station, Rob.’

Brennan let the remark slide, but absorbed its implication. He watched the Chief Super take a seat, motion him towards the chair in front of the desk. As he sat down, the DI felt the atmosphere in the room tighten around him; ‘I spoke to him,’ he said.

Deep lines creased Benny’s brow, two dark declivities sat beneath his eyes as he wet his grey lips, ‘Was there any … justification?’

Brennan felt a corkscrew turn in his gut, he gripped the chair’s arm with his closed hand as he spoke. ‘Murder; you could call that justification … of sorts.’

The Chief Super cleared his throat, made a guttural noise as his facial muscles tightened into the shape of incredulity. ‘
What
?’

As Brennan outlined Gallagher’s confession, and his claims of abuse, Benny groaned audibly; his eyes receded and his gaze looked distant, out of focus, as he slumped further into his chair. It started to darken in the room and the silence between the two men added to the unwholesome air. Brennan felt his earlier thoughts coalesce with an entirely new emotion: pity; he felt sorry for the Chief Super. As he watched him, almost writhing before him, Brennan knew the man felt unable to withstand the latest barrage to his authority. He wondered if Benny too entertained thoughts, doubts about whether he had chosen the right career path. The notion seemed fantastic, he was always so sure of himself, ‘a puffed-up wee prick’ Wullie
had
called him once; but now he appeared all too human and the thought gored Brennan. For a second or two he wondered how many times in the past he had made ill-founded decisions about people and then he checked himself, corrected his thinking. He was a DI, he reminded himself, and he had a triple murder case on his hands. The press were talking about an Edinburgh Ripper.

‘Sir, I need to ask your approval for the next stage of the investigation,’ said Brennan.

The words seemed to fall on Benny like blows, ‘What? … I mean, what do you need, er, want to do?’

Brennan leaned forward in his chair, ‘I believe our suspect may make a move to kill again, sir.’

Benny cut in, ‘Yes, yes … Well, that doesn’t change if Angela Mickle was killed by Henderson.’

Brennan watched the day closing through the window, said, ‘Our suspect doesn’t know about the Mickle killing, but the press pack will soon enough, if not already; we need a blanket ban on reporting on the case for the next twenty-four-hours.’

‘Oh, Christ, Rob …’ The Chief Super shook his head. ‘Have you any idea of the complexity, the hoops I have to jump through to …’

Brennan raised a hand, ‘Sir, in about an hour it’s going to be pitch dark. I think that’s going to be our last chance to catch this bastard … He doesn’t know Mickle is dead, he thinks she’s alive and he thinks she’s holding incriminating evidence …’

‘The diary?’

‘Yes.’ Brennan rose, tapped an index finger heavily on the desk in front of him, ‘I think he’ll try and reclaim it, and I think he’ll try and silence Angela Mickle … if we can convince him she’s alive.’

The Chief Super picked up a fountain pen from his desk, started to roll it between thumb and forefinger. His eyes darted, left to right. ‘You’re talking about a set-up … Something at Angela Mickle’s flat?’

‘I’m talking about that yes, but we’d need to bait the trap.’

‘Oh, Jesus …’ Benny’s face fell like a stone.

‘I think there’s a WPC on the team who would fit the bill, and I’d supervise the operation personally.’

The Chief Super rose from his chair, faced Brennan across the desk. As he spoke, he pointed at the DI with the tip of his fountain pen, ‘You are asking me to sanction putting a member of my force into the clutches of the worst serial killer we’ve seen in a generation …’

Brennan shook his head. ‘I think we can contain the risks, sir … And I don’t think we have any other options. When the press reveal Mickle’s death, and Gallagher’s involvement, we’re not going to see Crawley again … He’s resourceful; if he goes to ground, we miss our chance.’

Benny gnawed on the edge of his lip, his eyes slanted towards the darkening window and then he lunged forward and flicked on the desk lamp. His face became illuminated in a bright white light that seemed too strong for him; he turned towards the window again and started to roll his fountain pen between his palms. His sloped shoulders seemed to deflate as he leaned towards the glass and spoke. ‘OK, Rob, you make this work,’ he turned around, his skin sat in grey-white folds beneath his eyes, ‘because if you don’t, it’s not just your neck on the line.’

Brennan rose from his chair; as he put eyes on the Chief Super he noticed his lips seemed dry, chalky. There was a sensation of relief playing in his chest but he knew the hard work had not even begun. The DI turned for the door and listened as the boards creaked once again. He made a half smile as Dee greeted him; she was putting on her coat, heading for home. Brennan felt the extent of her world wouldn’t fill the four walls around them. She would get in her car, collect some groceries and cook for an ungrateful brood before watching some brain-wash television and then go to bed. He didn’t know whether to feel sympathy or envy for her.

As he entered Incident Room One, Brennan felt he had stepped into a spotlight; the squad stilled all activity and turned towards him. As he looked around the room he wondered what they all
wanted
as they stared at him, and then his thoughts aligned with theirs.

‘If you’re looking for the latest on Jim Gallagher, you’ll have a long wait,’ said Brennan. He walked towards the coat stand and fished in the pockets of his overcoat for cigarettes, but found none.

Collins walked towards Brennan with an outstretched hand; as the DI looked down he saw the packet of cigarettes and a plastic Bic lighter. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘So, what now, boss?’ said Collins.

Brennan removed a cigarette from the packet of B&H, looked at the clock on the wall. He knew what he wanted to be able to say, but it relied on one more person offering him the support he needed. ‘Where’s Elaine?’ he said.

‘Erm,’ Collins seemed unsure of his response. ‘Good question.’

As the room turned, started to hum with possibilities, the WPC and DS Stevie McGuire walked through the door; they were smiling together, but the smiles evaporated as they came into contact with the others’ stares.

‘What’s going on?’ said McGuire.

Brennan lit his cigarette, blew smoke into the room. He set his gaze on Elaine, ‘I need a volunteer, I need a WPC to tease out our suspect.’

McGuire turned from Brennan and walked towards his desk; the DI tipped back his head as he awaited a response. ‘Well, do you think you’re up to it?’

Elaine nodded briskly, ‘Yes, sure … What do I have to do?’

As she responded, Brennan felt his pulse settle, he brought the cigarette towards his mouth and inhaled deeply. ‘That’s great, Elaine. I’ll fill you in on the logistics soon,’ he flicked ash from his cigarette tip onto the carpet tiles, ‘but you’ll be impersonating our recent victim, playing possum at her flat.’

She smiled, ‘Will I need my high heels, sir?’

‘You just might.’

Brennan patted Elaine’s shoulder, returned the cigarettes and lighter to Collins and walked towards McGuire’s desk. The DS
was
poring over a folder, making annotations in the margin with a Biro.

‘Stevie, got time for a word?’ said Brennan.

The DS dropped the pen, slapped the folder closed, and stood up. He made no eye contact with Brennan as he quick-stepped towards his office at the end of Incident Room One. As Brennan watched McGuire, he felt as if he had made a miscalculation somewhere along the line, but he wasn’t sure where. In his office, Brennan closed the door gently, then walked around to the other side of the desk, said, ‘Take a seat, Stevie.’

‘I’d sooner stand … sir.’

Brennan turned down the corners of his mouth, ‘Suit yourself.’ He watched as McGuire turned away from him, folded his arms. It seemed a petulant stance, like one a teenager would adopt. It was tempting to slap sense into the lad thought Brennan, and then he calmed his spirits. ‘Is there something bothering you, Stevie?’

The DS sighed audibly, ‘Oh, let me see … Now what could that be, sir?’

‘She’ll be perfectly safe, she’ll be wired.’

McGuire leaned forward, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty … Is that going to make an ounce of difference?’ He turned his shoulder, raised an arm towards the incident room, ‘Have you seen those pictures up there on the board? … What chance is she going to have against that bastard?’

Brennan placed his elbows on the desk, locked his fingers together. He allowed a few seconds of silence to settle in the room, gave McGuire a moment of reflection. ‘I wouldn’t put her in any danger; come on Stevie, I don’t see Elaine complaining.’

McGuire reeled back, placed his hands on his hips, ‘That’s because she’s too fucking ambitious for her own good … And you’re just taking advantage of that!’

‘No, I’m not. She’s been working the clubs with Collins and she’s proven herself … She’s the best person for the job.’

McGuire stared at Brennan, lifted his hands from his hips and smacked them off his thighs, ‘Fuck the job!’

Brennan rose from his chair; he could see eyes directed at him through the glass. ‘Stevie, now calm down.’

‘I’m serious; look at the state of this case: Gallagher’s made cunts of us all and now all you’re concerned about is getting him back, righting wrongs any old way …’

‘Stevie, that’s not true.’

‘Bullshit! … I thought you would never put your team in danger, thought you looked out for people, but I was wrong.’ He turned for the door, yanked the handle. As he exited, the door swung behind him then clattered into the frame.

Brennan pressed his fingernails into the edge of the desk, lowered himself into his chair. He watched McGuire stride through the office at pace, all heads turning towards him; as he left the main door of Incident Room One the DS had lost none of his fervour.

Chapter 48

DI ROB BRENNAN
travelled in the front of the van with Collins driving; there was a hint of rain in the air outside but the threat of more to come hadn’t materialised by the time they reached the roundabout at the Playhouse Theatre. There was already a number of people queuing in the taxi rank – young girls in short skirts and young 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 façade 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?