Murder Mile (25 page)

Brennan picked at the crease in his trousers; as he watched the couple absorb the information he felt an urge to give them space. They needed to take it in, to process what he had just told them. He rose, stepped towards the window and looked out to the street and the sky. His knees locked as he girded his pose; an old Nissan spewed smoke as it started in a neighbouring driveway. Brennan knew the information would release a press frenzy if they ever got hold of it. One brutal murder of a young girl was enough for them to go on for now; if they got hold of the fact that the force was pursuing links to Fiona Gow’s murder as well then the headlines didn’t bear thinking about. He knew the Chief Super would have him on a spit, but the Sloans deserved to know the facts. They deserved at least the facts.

When Brennan turned round, the couple were staring at him.

‘Who … I mean, when?’ said Mr Sloan.

‘There was another murder, some years ago …’ The DI’s voice strained on the details, he caught the act before it became a habit and stilled his register. ‘A local girl, called Gow.’

The Sloans looked blankly ahead, the name didn’t mean anything to them. Brennan watched as moisture welled in Mrs Sloan’s eyes. ‘And you think …?’

‘We’re almost certain it’s the same perpetrator.’ Brennan crossed the carpet to the chair he had risen from, lowered himself back to the Sloans’ eye level, said, ‘We have some forensic evidence.’

‘Evidence?’ said Mr Sloan.

‘It’s indisputable … I’d sooner not go into too much detail but you need to understand that this is a very delicate time for the investigation. We need to tread very carefully with the press … If they get hold of this then they will blow the whole case up and we could lose our chance of catching our man.’

‘Alert him, you mean?’

Brennan felt his face tighten, his brow held firm. ‘We’re dealing with an extremely resourceful individual.’ He stopped himself, held his thoughts in check, made sure he wasn’t about to say anything that would cause more damage to them. ‘But we have the best possible people working on this case, I can assure you of that.’

Mr Sloan looked towards his wife, said, ‘We understand, Inspector …’ he paused, turned to face Brennan, his dark eyes burned, ‘Just tell us you’ll get this bastard.’

The DI nodded; some rain started to patter on the window outside. He looked out towards the sky, the room suddenly felt cramped. Brennan turned back to the couple, they sat very still before him like they had been carved into the wall by a sculptor. ‘There is one more thing …’

‘What’s that?’ said Mr Sloan; he barely moved as he spoke.

‘I need to ask you both …’ He stalled, made sure he connected with them on the right level, ‘And I know it’s hard for you …’

Mrs Sloan cut in, sounded impatient. ‘What is it?’

Brennan raised his hands, pushing his elbows out at a jagged angle, ‘I’d like you both to make a television appearance.’ His voice felt stiff as he spoke. ‘I know it won’t be easy for either of you, but at this stage I think it could assist the investigation.’

Mrs Sloan released her husband’s hand; she stood up and stared
into
Brennan’s eyes. For an instant the DI thought she was about to rage at him, she loomed there, her face creased and her mouth twisted. When she spoke, her words came as a blast. ‘And how in God’s name will that help
us
?’

Mr Sloan reached out to his wife; his hand was quickly pushed away. ‘We’re already painted as martyrs in the paper … Nothing’s going to bring our Lindsey back. Nothing!’ She turned, paced towards the open door. Mr Sloan and Brennan watched in silence as she left the room. All the air seemed to have been sucked out in her wake, replaced by a tense electricity.

‘She’s taking it hard,’ said Mr Sloan.

‘I understand.’

‘She wanted to draw a line under it all.’ He nodded towards the newspaper where it sat next to Brennan on the side table. ‘She wanted to talk about Lindsey but they twisted it round, made us sound, I don’t know, needy …’ He got to his feet, walked to the door and looked towards the staircase as if he expected to see his wife standing there. He turned back to the room, faced Brennan. ‘It just wasn’t supposed to be about us,’ he said. ‘It’s about Lindsey. And we can’t get her back now, Inspector … She’s gone for good … we know that.’

Mr Sloan followed his wife out the door, said, ‘I have to go to her.’

‘Of course.’ Brennan stood alone.

Chapter 34

THE WHEATSHEAF STARTED
filling up, but hadn’t quite reached the point where it could be described as busy. A disconsolate gathering of old men sat at the bar with half-pint tumblers in their hands, nodding towards the flickering portable television that showed a snooker match. The picture was grainy, almost a snowstorm; Henderson watched for a moment, saw a red ball sink in the middle pocket, then turned to the barman. ‘Need to give the aerial a shoogle, I think.’ The man looked at him with hooded eyes, rubbed at his ribcage and cleared all expression from his face; he seemed to be waiting for Henderson to speak again.

‘Pint, mate,’ he said, his voice sounded higher now, more lyrical.

The barman nodded, took up a glass from beneath the counter and started to look at the pumps. Henderson tilted his head towards the one marked McEwans, smiled. ‘I’m, eh …’ he leaned forward, rested his elbows on the scratched and scarred bar top, ‘on the lookout for one of your regulars.’

The barman continued pouring until the pint glass was filled; he clipped the pump up, put it in line with the counter top and placed the full pint of McEwans on the bar in front of Henderson; some white froth escaped the brim and slid down the side of the glass, settled on the bar surface. The barman studied Henderson; each of
his
eyes contained a solitary pinpoint of light – he held his expression still for a moment and then briskly waved a dismissive hand, ‘I pour pints, that’s all.’

Henderson sniffed, cached away his emotions. His mouth opened and closed like he was exercising his jaw as he searched for words. ‘You know who I’m after.’ He placed a ten-pound note in the barman’s open palm, ‘Come on, mate … I can tell, y’know.’

The barman took the money, curled it in his fist and turned to the till. The cash drawer rattled noisily as it opened, then again when it was closed. He scratched the back of his shaven head, the glow of the bar lights reflected on his crown for a moment. Henderson watched, clamping his teeth as the barman stretched around and placed his change on the counter. He didn’t make eye contact again, returned to the other end of the bar and picked up a copy of the
News
.

Henderson kept his gaze fixed on him; he could feel his stomach start to cramp as he tensed his muscles. He picked up his pint, quaffed the head and strolled around the bar and the old men seated beside him. His legs ached now, the muscles started to feel heavy. He’d exerted himself more than usual; even working the clutch on the car had set up a twinge in his calf. He knew he was in no shape for confrontation, but he wasn’t there to be ignored. As he strolled to the end of the bar, the door opened and an office worker walked in shaking out the wet from her hair; her earrings swayed in time with the turning of her head. Henderson watched her pass him by, touched the package of money sitting in his pocket, and waited for a gap to appear at the counter. He felt his cheeks flush as he approached the sulky barman.

‘Look, mate, do me a favour, eh … I have something here for,’ he dropped his head, lowered his voice, ‘Shaky.’

The barman eyed him over the newspaper for a few moments, lowered it, folded it. Henderson saw the cold pustules of sweat sitting out on his forehead as he rose, crossed the short distance to the bar and slapped down the
News
, said, ‘Wait here.’

Henderson followed the back of the barman’s shaven head as
he
walked away from him, turned at the end of the bar and raised the counter. In a few steps he was lost in the blur of bodies. The room had filled up. Henderson felt himself tune in to the birr of unknown voices and settled himself on a stool. He took up his pint again, gulped a mouthful and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He felt uncomfortable now, his neck tensed and set up the same aches and pains as his stomach and legs. Shaky was unpredictable, he told himself, but he wasn’t stupid. He had asked to be paid, sent one of his pugs round; he could hardly complain. Surely Shaky wanted to be paid. He felt himself struggle to find comfort on the bar stool, he settled his weight first on his right thigh, then his left. Nothing seemed to work. He rose, pushed in the stool and raked the room for a familiar face, but found none. He picked up the copy of the
News
that the barman had left behind, idly turned over the pages. He continued skimming until he alighted upon a story that took his attention: the parents of the murdered girl found at Straiton had given an interview.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. They had given details how she had been tied up, choked on her own underwear and her genitals mutilated. Henderson felt a flash of heat in his gut, he wanted to return to Crawley; he had been too soft on him. He took the page from the newspaper, folded it in two, then folded it again and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was finishing off the dregs of his pint when the barman reappeared, his slack jowls slapping on his neck as he walked. At the end of the bar he raised the counter again, eased himself under it and paced the distance between himself and Henderson. He kept his eyes dipped towards the bare boards as he walked. ‘Right, come here,’ the barman flicked his head to the side as he spoke.

Henderson took a step closer, watched as the barman picked up the copy of the
News
then slapped it on the bar counter again.

‘Are you Hendy?’

‘Aye’

The man prodded the paper with his index finger. ‘If you’ve got something for Boaby, put it in there.’ He still hadn’t made eye
contact
with Henderson; his teeth clicked as he clamped his jaw shut.

Henderson cleared his throat, he felt the tension sitting between them like an air of thick cigarette smoke. He removed the cash from his jacket pocket and placed it on top of the newspaper; he watched as the barman folded over the front page and picked up the bundle. He swiftly placed it under the counter, looked back towards Henderson and for the first time since he’d walked in, made eye contact. He said, ‘Now fuck off.’

Henderson’s eyes receded, he riled, ‘What if I want another pint?’

The barman’s voice rasped, took on a harder edge. ‘No pints here for you.’

Henderson felt a needle jab his intestines, he had settled a large share of his debt to Shaky – he felt entitled to better treatment. The thought of his true worth stung him. He stood staring at the barman, turned his head to the door, then glanced back: the barman’s firm gaze was still fixed in Henderson’s direction. ‘You not hear me? Fuck off … Now.’ He took a step forward and Henderson backed away.

As he went, an old man at the bar raised a finger, pushed his way past him, and ordered a pint. The bare wood boards creaked as Henderson walked towards the line of white light that sat beneath the door. As he took the handle the flat wall dimly reflected the street lights outside the bar. The wind bit as he stepped onto the pavement; bitter rain lashed his face as he walked.

Crawley’s car had been ticketed where he had parked; Henderson leaned over and grabbed the sticker from the windscreen, scrunched it up. The wind caught the piece of paper as it dropped towards the gutter; he watched it roll down the street, picking up pace. He opened the door, slumped inside the car and slotted the key in the ignition. As he released the handbrake, the wheels spun on the wet road and he accelerated towards the city centre through the falling rain.

By Crawley’s house, Henderson had released and clamped his teeth so many times that his jaw ached. He felt a still fury bubbling
inside
him as he slung the wheel towards the driveway and braked heavily. For a moment he sat staring out the window at the lashing rain then a set of twitching curtains in a neighbouring property grabbed his attention. The act seemed to jar him back to consciousness; he reached for the door handle and opened up. In the pathway towards Crawley’s home, Henderson jogged, cupping his burning cigarette in his hand to shelter it from the wind and rain. He had always smoked like this – even before prison – but the movement reminded him of life on the inside once again, of smoking in the yard. What had he done? he thought. He’d taken a man prisoner. What was it Crawley had called it? Kidnapping. Mistaken identity.

‘Bullshit,’ said Henderson.

He knew Crawley was guilty, he didn’t need a judge and jury to confirm it. The man was a nonce, a beast. He’d preyed on young girls; he’d terrified Angela. He tried to remind himself of this as he opened up the door to Crawley’s home. Henderson still felt ice in his veins from the reception he’d received at the Wheatsheaf, but it mattered less to him now. He would take the rest of the cash from Crawley’s accounts tomorrow and he’d settle some more of that score then. He’d be free of Boaby Stevens eventually and he’d be able to think about his next move.

Henderson called out as he closed the door, ‘Here’s Johnny!’

There was no reply; the place seemed too quiet.

Henderson lowered the keys onto the hallway table, rubbed the rain from his hair. He settled his breathing for a moment to listen for movement: he heard nothing. The place was silent. He leaned forward, rested the palm of his hand on the banister, looked up the stairs; the house had darkened now but there was no sign of lights burning. He scratched an itch on his brow, said, ‘Get a grip, Hendy …’

Henderson knew he had the situation under control: he’d tied Crawley up in the front room, he’d checked the knots, they were tight, secure. He smiled to himself, moved towards the living room door. As he grabbed for the handle he felt his breathing still, he double-blinked, halted his action and stopped still.

Something wasn’t right, it was too quiet.

He felt his heart rate ramp as he turned the handle.