Murder Mile

Chapter 2

‘Who have you been speaking to?’ said Brennan as he got inside the car, slammed the door.

‘The doc…’

Brennan fished in the glove box for cigarettes, there were none. He eased himself further back in the seat, roved the street with his eyes. ‘Is he on the scene now?’

‘Well he was five minutes ago… I just called him.’

‘I hope you told him to hang around, I don’t want him fucking off to his pit for a few hours’ shut-eye before private practice kicks off.’

McGuire’s stare lingered on the DI for a little longer than looked healthy, he seemed to be sucking in his lips. ‘Would you like me to call him again, tell him to hang on?’

Brennan returned the look, it was the one that said, I shouldn’t have to tell you, Stevie. He slammed the glove box shut. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any fags in this motor?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t be… you’re far too free with your apologies, laddie.’

Brennan couldn’t remember when he had started calling people laddie. He certainly hadn’t done it before he was forty; it would have seemed too unnatural. He wondered if it happened right around the time when people had stopped calling him son. He remembered Wullie calling him laddie when he started in the job; he didn’t mind it from him. There were others who had made intimidation of junior officers into an art form though; they made you feel like you should think yourself lucky to be part of their club. Brennan had laughed them up; he was part of no club.

‘So do I have to wring it out of you?’ said Brennan.

McGuire turned, they were leaving Corstorphine now. ‘Well, it’s only been fifteen minutes since we last spoke but the SOCOs are on site and just about set up…’

‘Spare me the details, Stevie… stick to the stuff it might be useful for me to know before we arrive, eh.’ Brennan felt himself frowning, he was giving the DS a hard time and he knew it, but this was a murder investigation. He could let up when they had the killer in custody.

‘It’s a young girl, in her teens.’

‘White?’

‘As a ghost, by all accounts.’

‘ID?’

‘No ID, sir. It’s dark out there, they’re off the road, we might turn something up when the day breaks.’

Brennan shook his head, there should have been floodlights up there already. Every minute was precious at this point in an investigation — without a lead in the first forty-eight hours it halved your chances of an arrest. McGuire was still talking, the DI held up a hand, ‘Hang on, Stevie, who’s out there for us now, Lou?’

‘It’s Collins, he was on call.’

‘Fucking Collins…’ Brennan picked up his mobile, dialled the DS.

Ringing.

He answered quickly, ‘Collins.’

‘It’s Rob.’

He yawned into the phone. ‘Hello, sir.’

Brennan raised his voice a notch, dropped some steel in his tone. ‘How many uniform you got out there?’

‘Jesus, I haven’t counted… half a dozen maybe.’

‘Double it, and get the klieg lights out there. I want the surrounds searched, and by that I mean thoroughly. If there’s a fucking field mouse taking a dump on our scene I want it photographed and catalogued, got it?’

‘Boss, you did read the Chief Super’s memo about the OT, didn’t you?’

‘Listen, leave Benny to me… get the search done.’

He hung up.

DS Stevie McGuire was shaking his head, he looked solemn, as if he might begin to chant. ‘Playing with fire aren’t you?’

‘This is my investigation and I won’t be running every move I make past the bean counters.’

‘Your call, sir.’

Brennan looked out the window; they had reached Liberton already, ‘Bloody right it is.’ He kept staring out into the empty city, it was bathed in a surreal glow from the street lamps. Brennan liked this hour, it reminded him of the early morning fishing trips he’d taken with his brother Andy, when they were boys; he was thinking about those times more and more now. He was thinking about all too much now, he knew he needed to regain focus, keep his life outside the job.

By the sounds of it, he was dealing with a deranged killer. Murder was never pleasant, but mutilating a young girl and leaving her in a field required a warped mind. If he was to capture this killer, Brennan knew he would have to train himself to think like him. He had done this before, put himself in the mind of a maniac, tried to figure out what drove him, but he had always withdrawn quickly. It was no place to dwell for too long, but it was a fact that you could only make so much progress with generalities — you needed to get personal, understand the criminal — only then could you hope to know them, and through knowing, capture. Brennan had to be the killer — become him in mind — to feel his emotions, his thought patterns. But never to become like him. The task was to take what you could from the insanity and level it against your own mentality. It was never easy, never enjoyable.

McGuire negotiated the Straiton roundabout, said, ‘It’s not far up here by all accounts.’

Brennan had already spotted the police crew up ahead, pointed, ‘There.’

‘Oh, yeah. I see them.’ McGuire put on the blinkers, started to drop down through the gears and pull off the road. As they entered the lay-by Collins spotted them and raised an arm, flagged them into the side. He approached the driver’s door first.

‘Morning, Stevie… Sir.’

The pair nodded, McGuire spoke, ‘Is the doc still about?’

‘Aye, Pettigrew, miserable bastard’s been bending my ear for the last half hour.’

‘What’s his problem?’ said Brennan.

Collins made a fist, shook it up and down, ‘The guy’s a wanker… that’s his problem.’

Brennan didn’t acknowledge the remark, exited the car. A chill blast caught him as he stood in the road. He fastened his top two buttons, turned up his collar and called out to Collins; the DS moved round to the other side of the car.

‘Boss?’

‘Got any smokes?’

He looked relieved, ‘Aye, sure.’

Brennan removed an Embassy Regal, cupped his hand around the tip as Collins lit him up. He took two swift pelts on the cigarette then looked around the scene. It was miles from anywhere, and yet still close enough to the sprawl of the city. In an hour or two the bypass would be clogged with commuter traffic.

At the front of the lay-by an old Ford Escort was parked. There had been a car just like it at one of the first crime scenes that Brennan attended as a junior officer. It was a lock-up in Fountainbridge: the car was running behind the door when he arrived. The door wasn’t locked, but something had been stuck in the hasp on the other side. He battered the door with his shoulder to get in, then saw the man in the front seat. He’d blocked up the top of his window, around the hosepipe leading from the exhaust, with a damp towel. Brennan saw the man’s face again, his skin pale, his eyes rolled up inside his head. He remembered the taste of the fumes, how they burned his lungs as he grabbed the door, lunged in, and dragged the man out. It was pointless, though. The man fell limp and lifeless on the concrete floor of the lock-up. Escorts had always seemed like bad luck since then, thought Brennan.

‘Whose car’s that?’

‘The Escort… that’s the bloke that found it.’ He looked in his notebook, ‘No, sorry, his mate was driving… Garry Johnston, that’s who the car’s registered to.’

Brennan flagged him down. ‘Where are they now?’

‘At the station, giving statements. There were two girls with them, they were a bit hysterical, thought they’d be better on a cup of tea.’ He made a motion simulating the act of cup to mouth, ‘Think there might have been a jug or two taken as well, if you know what I mean.’

Brennan inhaled deep on the cigarette, took another couple of quick drags and handed it back to Collins. ‘Stub that in the ashtray, eh.’ He nodded to the Passat.

‘Sure, boss.’

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.