Murder Mile

Chapter 38

DI Rob Brennan woke to the sound of the traffic’s hum on Leith Walk. His neck ached and there was a solid, persistent pounding in his left temple. Was this the result of the few pints he’d had with Wullie the night before? He didn’t think so. He could still handle a few pints, hadn’t fallen that low, yet. He pushed his stocky frame off the sagging bed; the springs wheezed. As he looked down at the thin, flattened pillow he realised the culprit of his discomfort. He patted a hand on it, attempted to ruffle the contents, but it failed to make any difference to the deflated item. Brennan shook his head, felt another pang of pain in his neck, and rose. The springs sighed this time. He looked down at the bed and tried to remember the reason why he was living this way; how he had come to this sorry pass.

Brennan knew he was lonely, knew the symptoms. At times like this, disparate thoughts came to mind, floated, formed their own surreal mosaic. A laundry ticket, once lost, found tucked in a fold of his wallet. A girl he once knew called… now what was her name? She had played tennis and her parents were well off. His first watch — not a digital one — he’d wanted a digital one but his mother had said, ‘No, Rob, they’re just a fad!’ Then there was the summer holiday, paddling on the shore. A wedding day — his wedding day — and the sense of dread wondering would she show? ‘Why not, Rob?’ his brother and his best man had said. ‘She loves you, doesn’t she?’ Brennan stopped himself, flattened out the spiral of his thoughts. What was love anyway? He loved his wife once; he had a dog he loved once… and a brother.

The older Brennan got the more he found himself questioning. When he was younger he was filled with assumptions; random musings on everything and anything, arrived at from he knew not where. These opinions of his younger self became appropriated, became stamps of his own personality; he had had these thoughts — whether or not he had originated them didn’t matter — they were opinions he wore like laurels. As he watched those laurels wither and die he discarded them, wondered why he had ever become so proud of them in the first place. And if he was being honest, felt an inward shame at the shallow vapidity of his sometime immaturity. He had moved on now, certainly; he was no longer that callow youth, or the preoccupied careerist determined to distinguish himself among other fools. But what was he now? He looked around the grimy bedsit that he couldn’t bring himself to call home. Brennan felt like a failure, not because of the meagreness of his lodgings, nothing so superficial. He felt a failure because he had reached his forties and never felt less sure of himself, of who he was or where he was heading. At least in the past he felt like he was in the right — even when he was assuredly in the wrong — but now, he didn’t know a thing; least of all himself. An old line from a play he had studied in secondary school came to him, ‘This above all: to thine ownself be true.’ Brennan smirked. He felt lost, if he was being truthful to himself.

On the road to Fettes Station, DI Rob Brennan attempted to distract himself from what lay ahead with the antics of a shock jock on the radio. He tried hard to tap into the show, to give himself over to the bear-pit atmosphere that had callers queuing up to rant at the host, but he couldn’t do it. The subject of the show was the country’s swing towards a nationalist government. The rights and wrongs of independence, of Scotland separating from its larger southern neighbour. It was a topical subject, a worthy subject, but the DJ treated it as mere entertainment to rattle the masses. That sort of thing was for other people, thought Brennan, not for him. It was not worthy of any space inside his mind, not alongside the brutal killing and mutilation of young girls that he would soon have to disburse to an expectant media. He was discomfited by the thought of what awaited him; knew that any contact with the press was likely to bring trouble in equal measure to reward. But this was the pass he had arrived at. There was a time when any action was better than inaction and that time had been reached; Wullie had said it himself the night before — this killer will strike again. Brennan didn’t want to have another murder on his books, or his conscience. The memories he carried from the scene of Lindsey Sloan’s murder were never far from the front of his mind; as was the pain of her grieving parents.

In the car park Brennan stilled the engine, turned off the radio and reached onto the passenger’s seat to retrieve his document wallet. Some bubblegum wrappers caught his eye in the footwell — they had been left there by Sophie the last time she had been in the car — the sight of them dug at his heart. For a moment, Brennan had to ease himself back in his seat, draw a deep breath. It was at moments like this he realised how hard it was not to have his daughter in his life any more. He had grown accustomed to their regular daily sparring and its absence felt like a part of him had been excavated. He removed his mobile phone from his jacket, toyed with the idea of calling her but rejected it. She would be bemused by a call from her father at this hour, at any hour. As Joyce had said, he had brought this on himself. He returned the phone to his pocket and opened the car’s door.

Inside the station Charlie looked up from the front desk and tapped a finger off his forehead, ‘Morning, Rob.’

‘Charlie.’ The DI approached the desk and readied himself for the morning’s first bulletin.

‘The hack pack’s in.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Good numbers?’

‘Telly crew and the usual suspects…’ He leaned over the counter, folded his arms, ‘Fucking Benny’s in there already, giving the glad hand.’

‘It’s his job.’

Charlie turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I thought it was yours.’

Brennan knew Charlie well enough to pick up the subtext to his chatter. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

The desk sergeant looked down the hall, nodded. ‘You better get moving, mate; way it’s looking Jim Gallagher’s going to be fronting things.’

Brennan felt a flash of heat in his chest, his shirt collar seemed to tighten suddenly. He knew Charlie was watching him for a reaction, and he knew to hide it. ‘I see.’ He let the words escape slowly and eased himself away to the corridor. ‘Catch you later, Charlie.’

‘Away to kick up are you?’

Brennan smiled, a subtle one. He walked off slowly.

If Benny had put Gallagher in the press conference then the task had just got a lot more difficult than it needed to be. Brennan knew the press were used to seeing only one representative of the force on the podium and if Gallagher was there too that could make for awkward questioning. He felt his grip on the document wallet tightening as he reached the door to the press conference. DS Stevie McGuire stood on the edge of a group near the Chief Superintendent; he caught sight of Brennan and eased himself away. As he crossed the floor he raised open palms. ‘Good morning, boss.’

‘Is it?’ said Brennan. ‘What the fuck is Gallagher doing in here?’

‘Ah, I know… First I knew of it was when I got in ten minutes ago. Apparently you’re sharing the stage.’

Brennan tipped back his head, ‘Jesus fucking Christ… That’s all I need.’

McGuire put his hands in his pockets, stared down towards his shoes. ‘Erm, does it seriously mess things up for you, or are you just pissed at Jim?’

Brennan shook his head, ‘I don’t want Gallagher front of house, full stop.’ He edged around the DS, made a purposeful stride towards the Chief Super. As he reached the small gathering, Benny had already turned to face him. He placed a hand on Brennan’s elbow and led him off to the side.

‘I thought I’d put Jim in with you too…’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea…’

Benny stopped in his tracks, turned to face Brennan. ‘You mistake me, I’m not consulting you on the matter. I’m telling you how it is.’

Brennan tried to speak, ‘I really don’t think…’

Benny cut in, ‘Good. Don’t think, leave that to me. Now get over there and say your piece.’ The Chief Super moved away to the seating area and motioned the reporters and television crew to take their places.

Brennan felt his teeth click as he closed his mouth, walked towards the desk. There was a hum of movement, some chatter and the scraping of chairs on the hard flooring as the reporters moved into place. Two uniforms nodded towards the Chief Super as they were directed to leave the room, presumably, thought Brennan, to retrieve the Sloans. He didn’t want to think about how they might react in front of the press pack, but then, he didn’t want to think about how Gallagher would react either.

As he removed his overcoat, hung it on the back of the chair, Brennan checked the nameplates that had been put out — he was sitting next to Gallagher. He eased himself behind the long desk, and reached for the water carafe; he was half way to filling his glass as the Sloans appeared under the direction of the uniforms. Gallagher was behind them in a bright white shirt — obviously a new one — and a striped tie. He looked as if he was directing the uniforms, it set a cold needle of sweat running down Brennan’s back. He was in charge, not Gallagher; who the bloody hell did he think he was? It was his investigation and he would be the one giving the directions, if there were any to be given.

Brennan watched as the Sloans shuffled behind the desk; he removed his chair and stood up, ‘In here, Mrs Sloan.’ She was apprehensive, the colour of her skin a giveaway that she hadn’t slept. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, this will be over in no time. They don’t have that long a slot on the news for us…’

She returned a delicate smile, sat down. Mr Sloan pushed in the back of her chair, nodded towards Brennan, ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

‘Hello there… I was just saying, this won’t take too long.’

Mr Sloan held up a piece of paper, ‘I’ve got it all written down… What I need to say.’

‘That’s good. You better take a seat now.’

There was a moment of dead air, of silence and then the buzz of the overhead lights became apparent. Brennan felt the eyes of the room on him.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking the time to come out here today. If I make some introductions,’ he indicated the DI to his right, ‘this is Detective Inspector Jim Gallagher, who is assisting in the investigation.’ Brennan looked to his left, ‘And as you are aware we are investigating the death of Lindsey Sloan and these are her parents who will be making a brief statement in a moment or two.’

A reporter in the front row raised a hand; Brennan flagged him down. ‘I’d like you to keep all questions until after the brief statements if you don’t mind.’

The reporter withdrew his arm, slunk back in his seat and opened a spiral-bound notebook.

Brennan was first to speak, ‘Lothian and Borders Police Force is seeking the assistance of the public in the investigation of the death of Miss Lindsey Sloan.’ He felt movement from the Sloans at his side; he continued, ‘Lindsey was a local girl, raised in Edinburgh and schooled in Edinburgh. Her death has come as a shock to the community and all at Lothian and Borders Force. We would like to appeal to anyone who has any information, however slight, about her disappearance and subsequent death. I’d like to stress that no information can be considered insignificant in a murder investigation and I would like to assure everyone that all contact with the force will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Brennan paused for a moment, then turned to Mr Sloan. ‘I’d now like to hand you over to Lindsey’s father who will make a brief statement on behalf of the family.’

Mr Sloan didn’t seem to register Brennan’s introduction, he sat holding the piece of paper before him and staring at the small printed words it contained. He looked cold, chilled to the bone. His hands trembled momentarily and the paper moved in time. Brennan wondered if he was going to bottle out but then a slow trail of words began to escape from his mouth.

‘Lindsey, our daughter, was the centre of our world. We loved her and we cared for her and my wife and I have been lost without her. It’s impossible to begin to describe how it feels to lose a daughter as young as Lindsey, and in the way we did, but we beg of you, please, don’t let another family go through what we have been through…’ He stalled; his wife gripped his hand and he raised his head once more, ‘Please, if you have any information, no matter what it is, let the police know. I beg you as the grieving father of a much missed daughter.’ On the last word Mr Sloan’s frame seemed to deflate in the chair, he shrunk before the reporters and then the couple were led away by the uniforms.

‘OK, any questions?’ said Brennan.

The hack in the front row was first with his hand up, ‘Do you have any suspects for the murder?’

Brennan provided a stock answer, ‘We are pursuing definite lines of inquiry. Next question…’

The same hack raised his hand again; Brennan ignored him, pointed to a young woman in a red blouse. ‘Yes, you have a question?’

‘Will there be a reconstruction of Lindsey’s final movements?’

Brennan rolled his eyes, ‘I think that’s a question for the television people.’

The pushy hack stood up, got his question out before being asked. ‘Can you tell us why there are two Detective Inspectors on this investigation?’

Brennan shot him down, ‘It’s a very complicated investigation; I’m delighted to have someone of Jim Gallagher’s experience on board.’ He allowed himself a glance at the Chief Super as he concluded his answer.

The hack wasn’t finished, ‘And what is Inspector Gallagher’s relevant experience?’

‘Jim is a murder squad detective with many years’ experience…’ Brennan asserted himself, raised his tone. He sensed the Chief Super rising from his chair and making his way to the edge of the table. ‘Look, I really don’t see the relevance, can we keep the questions relevant please?’

The hack wasn’t satisfied. ‘I seem to recall Inspector Gallagher took part in another high-profile murder investigation some years ago

…’ He inserted a hand in the pocket of his jacket, removed a newspaper cutting and held it up. ‘Fiona Gow was the girl’s name.’

The room’s attention became focused on Brennan’s reaction, he felt a flash of heat on the back of his neck. He saw the Chief Super walking towards the steps to the small stage the press conference desk was set upon.

The hack continued, ‘Inspector Brennan, are you actively investigating links between the murder of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan?’

The Chief Super increased his pace, crossed the final few yards to Brennan and clamped a hand on his shoulder and another on the table, ‘That will be all ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for your cooperation.’

A volley of voices erupted in the direction of the stage as Brennan and Gallagher were led from their chairs by the Chief Super.