Truth Lies Bleeding

Chapter 2

Was this the way it was going to be? As Brennan took the case file from the Chief Super’s office, and walked for the front desk, he could feel eyes burning into him. He let it pass for a few moments, then stopped flat — spun on his heels. There was a momentary interlude where everyone seemed to wonder what he would do next, then rank — the old leveller — kicked in. Phones were picked up, drawers opened, conversations commenced once more. Brennan felt a surge of pride; it was a victory all right. He was back on the force — the proper force, not sitting at some desk counting paperclips and listening to wet-behind-the-ears DCs dicking on about stuff they knew nothing about.

‘You… What’s your name?’ said Brennan.

‘Sutcliffe, sir.’

Brennan smirked. ‘Got to have balls to join up with a name like that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A brown-noser; Brennan hated those. ‘I want the main incident room cleared.’

‘But DI Lauder-’

‘Fuck Lauder!.. Shift the shooting caseload to IR Three.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The uniform stayed put. Everyone else in the room seemed to have frozen too.

Brennan barked, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

The assembly sprang to life. Brennan was chancing his arm, but he knew he had to make his mark right away. The whole station would be looking for weakness, waiting for the first balls-up, the first ‘i’ undotted, ‘t’ uncrossed. It couldn’t happen. Self-belief was an inward direction, but an outward expression. A badly timed sigh, a tremor in the voice, a challenge to his authority or any one of a hundred poker tells would have them prattling in the canteen. It was start as you mean to go on, or face the consequences. He’d learned that tackling drunks when he was in uniform: you need to shout them down, set the boundaries fast, or they arked up, got lippy. After all that had happened lately, there was too much at stake to play anything other than the firm hand. His career had been on life support for the last few months; it was time to give it the kiss of life.

In the lift he allowed his head to rest on the wall for a moment; just a moment, then his neck snapped forward and he opened the file. Straight away Stevie McGuire’s bullet-point listings riled him. McGuire couldn’t spell, or use grammar — if this was DC material then the public had a right to feel short-changed.

‘Parents should sue the public school.’ Brennan shook his head. He dreaded to think what state the scene was in if McGuire had been first on hand. Times were tough, budgets tight, but if the job was worth doing it was worth giving to decent officers. There were far too many shiny-arsed careerists about the place; too many graduates on the fast-track, and McGuire was a prime example.

The lift doors pinged; Brennan stepped out.

The desk sergeant was poring over the sports page of the News. Brennan greeted him in the usual manner: ‘All right, Charlie.’

‘Rob.’ He put down his paper, thinning his eyes.

‘What cars you got?’

The older man sat upright, folded his arms. ‘All out.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

He shook his head, made a wide arc with his hand. ‘Nope, all out. Crime’s big business in Edinburgh… Haven’t you heard?’

‘So, tell me, Charlie, should I take the bloody bus to a murder scene?’

The sergeant folded his arms again; his grey moustache twitched. ‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger.’

Brennan slapped his folder down on the counter. ‘Gimme that radio.’

‘What?’

‘The radio, Charlie…’

‘What are you going to do with that?’

Brennan tilted his head. ‘See if I can get the bloody Archers on it… What do you think?’

A slow, frail hand went over to the stand-mic. The desk sergeant handed it over. ‘I’ll bet you can’t work it.’

‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Charl… Get me McGuire on this.’

‘He’s at a murder!’

Brennan snapped, ‘Aye. My investigation. Now get him on.’

The radio crackled for a few seconds before the older man called out for DC McGuire. There was no reply.

‘He’ll be at the scene, Rob.’

Brennan tapped the counter with his finger. ‘Again.’

‘ Rob.’

‘Try him again, Charlie.’

The static on the line crackled momentarily, then the call went out once more. The line fizzed, then, ‘DC McGuire.’

Brennan pressed the button. ‘Stevie, it’s Rob Brennan. I want you back at the incident room. Leave your car, I’ll need that later.’

‘Rob… Did you say leave my car?’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing, then. Leave the car, and get yourself back here with uniform. Hurry it up, though. I need a run back there.’

A lengthy gap played on the line.

McGuire came back, ‘Received that, Rob.’

‘That’s DI Brennan… Stevie.’

Another pause. ‘Yes… sir.’

Brennan handed over the stand-mic. ‘That’ll do.’

The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘You’re going to rattle his cage talking to him like that, Rob.’

‘Bullshit.’

A sigh. ‘You’re the boss.’

Brennan took a deep breath, deciding not to reply. He took a seat by the front door and tapped at the blue file whilst he waited for the squad car to arrive. He didn’t look up but sensed the desk sergeant going back to the sports pages of the News. Fucking Hibs back four, he thought to himself. Galloway had some turns. Like to see how she’d take to him commenting on her copy of Hello! magazine he’d seen in her Mulberry briefcase. Cheeky sow. He knew not to engage, though: the battle of the sexes had been fought and lost.

The folder in his lap called to him, but something else called louder. Brennan rose, went to the front door. He nodded as two eyes ringed with burst capillaries appeared above the paper. ‘Going for a smoke.’

Nods. The paper rustled again.

Outside the sky was grey, threatening rain. Brennan liked this time of year. Not quite summer, but well out of winter. The extremes of the seasons irked him; you never knew what to wear from one day to the next. If he could pick the weather, he’d go for grey skies and a hint of a chill every time. Sunshine was overrated. The smell of cut grass and barbecues was overrated. When he’d been in uniform, he’d hated the warmer months; they brought out drunks and fly-men robbing lead off the roofs. They were nothing but trouble. Crime was crime but the petty stuff always seemed like a social problem to Brennan. A failure of society, politicians… a waste of his time. The evil ones, the murderers, the cold-blooded killers — they were the ones he wanted off the streets, locked up. At the very least, locked up.

Brennan took out his packet of Silk Cut. His heart sank. He wanted a B amp;H, a strong boy, a lung bleeder, but turning forty called for a few concessions. The days when he’d swap ciggies with Wullie — a Capstans smoker, no less — were well and truly over. He hoped he didn’t bump into Wullie while he was hanging off the end of a Silk Cut — the shame of it. Brennan had a sly laugh to himself as he remembered the old boy; it subsided quickly.

A shaft of light broke free of a bundle of grey cloud and painted a yellow oblong on the station car park. A few patches of spilled diesel were lit in the sun’s rays, little rainbow bubbles illuminated in potholes. Brennan turned his head, drew deep on the cigarette and opened the file.

DC McGuire’s bullet points had been hastily keyed in.

White female, (no age) young.

Found in industrial-sized bin. Blood smears on bin.

Access lane, by tower block. Car park to rear.

Four teens (female/local) at scene.

No statements, girls too upset. Coming in. Calls out to parents.

No time of death, Doc called, on way.

Scene secured, uniform on perimeters. Lab setting up.

Brennan turned over the thin sheaf of paper. There was nothing on the other side. The rest of the pages were blank too, except for some standard forms and a contacts sheet with numbers he already had in his phone. There was nothing he couldn’t have received in a two-minute briefing but the modern obsession with detailing every step dictated the written word. He closed the file; it looked pathetically thin, but he knew by the end of the day it would stretch to several volumes.

The sun disappeared behind another grey cloud, the wet patches in the car park darkened once more. Brennan stubbed his cigarette on the side of the building, flicked it onto the road. The last embers in the tip sizzled on the wet tarmac. As he watched the wind take the filter tip a black Audi pulled into the space opposite him. He recognised the number plate at once. It was new; it wasn’t police. The engine stilled. Driver’s door opened.

Dr Lorraine Fuller wore a brown trouser suit that was fitted and hugged her thin waist. She carried a heavy case — not a doctor’s case; it would be full of paperwork. Brennan made a note of her movements as she clawed her long hair from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. She looked harassed. She took a coat and another bag, a purse, from the back seat of the Audi, then she noticed Brennan staring at her. Lorraine looked away instantly. There was no smile, greeting; but definite acknowledgement. She pointed the remote locking at the car, turned for the station. She juggled her handbag between hands before deciding on the one it had been in originally. She tucked her coat over the crook of her elbow and walked briskly, heels clacking on the hard ground.

Brennan watched her for a moment or two, then turned his gaze to the door, leaned in and grabbed the handle as she approached. There was a stalled breath’s distance between them as she spoke. ‘I need to see you.’

Brennan looked down. ‘It’s difficult.’

‘Why?’ Her tone was harsh.

‘I’m back on the squad.’

‘I know.’ She let the implication hang.

‘Okay. When?’

‘Soon. I’ll call.’ She moved towards the door. Brennan eased the handle downwards, pulled. As he watched her go inside he thought about their last meeting — it was more than a week ago now, too long. He couldn’t help that, though. Sometimes you needed a break from people; even those close to you.

A squad car sped into the hatched area at the front of the station. DC McGuire hurried himself, got out the passenger’s door with a leg dangling over the tarmac before the car had stopped.

Brennan turned, approached the younger man. ‘Stevie.’

‘Sir.’

He raised the folder. ‘What else you got for me?’

McGuire spoke to his feet. ‘Time of death’s been put at some point last night. We’ll know better when they get her on the slab.’

Brennan didn’t like his phraseology. His mood was already soured by seeing Galloway, and then Lorraine. ‘It’s somebody’s daughter, lad.’

The DC checked himself. ‘Sorry… There’s, eh, something else.’

There always was, thought Brennan. ‘Go on.’

‘The body’s been tampered with.’

Brennan tucked his chin onto his chest, peered from beneath raised eyelids. ‘Sexually?’

‘No, least, we don’t think so… It’s been mutilated, badly mutilated.’ Brennan could see the DC found it difficult. He watched him rub his hands together. Now he talked to his palms. ‘The girl’s been sawn up.’

‘What do you mean?’

A deep breath, slowly exhaled. ‘Her limbs were removed… The legs, below the knee, were severed and bagged.’ He looked into Brennan’s face. ‘We don’t have the arms.’

‘The girl’s arms are missing?’

The DC nodded. ‘They were removed… crudely.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Brennan turned for the car. ‘He didn’t do her much good.’ He yanked open the passenger’s door, got inside and slammed it shut, lowered the window. McGuire stood still as Brennan barked at him, ‘Get the incident room set up — we’re in the big room.’

‘What about Lauder’s shooting?’

‘Fuck Lauder!.. I want statements from those girls by the time I get back and have the lab primed for an all-nighter. Okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah… Anything else?’

‘Yes. Get a list together of every missing teenage girl in the country… And you report everything that comes in to me first, not the Chief Super. Got that?’

McGuire nodded, but looked unsure; scratched his open palm.

‘Stevie, everything… No matter what she tells you. Got that?’

‘Yeah… Got it, sir.’

‘Good. If you remember this is my investigation, Stevie, then we’ll get on just fine.’

Brennan slapped the dash.

The squad car pulled out, sirens blaring.