Truth Lies Bleeding (41 page)

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Authors: Tony Black

BOOK: Truth Lies Bleeding
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Brennan passed over the details that McArdle had provided in the cell. He kept his tone low and serious as he detailed the whereabouts of the Limping Man.
‘I know the place well,’ said the Irishman. He cleared his throat, rustled some papers. His tone remained flat. ‘I’ll get on this right away.’
‘Best of luck,’ said Brennan.
‘Be more than luck we’ll need . . . by the sounds of him.’
‘I’d expect him to be armed, and very definitely dangerous.’
A huff. Hint of a raised inflection. ‘Oh, yes. I’d say so.’
As Brennan looked out to the office, lowered the phone, he could see the revelry was likely to continue for some time yet. He didn’t feel like celebrating. Too much had happened lately to make him feel more than a little unsociable; he felt like withdrawing from the world. He sensed a prolonged period of analysis queuing in his mind. There were facts to be chewed over, digested. There was never a definitive ‘why?’ – he knew that well enough. But it didn’t stop him challenging for an answer. Was there something to be learned? Something to be revealed about the human condition? He doubted it. There would only be black hours of rumination, more data to add to the sum of his knowledge, but little understanding. The mysteries he preoccupied himself with were inscrutable, and as perennial as the Edinburgh rain.
As he thought about the Irish force apprehending the Limping Man, Brennan reached into his wallet and removed the newspaper cutting he’d carried around for so long. He placed the thin paper on the desk in front of him and read the headline through one more time. He had done it – he had found his brother’s killer, but the achievement did not register the kind of elation he had hoped it would. That was the problem with his job, thought Brennan. All the sense of achievement came after the tragedy had taken place – there was no altering what had happened. There was no medal to pin on his chest. As Wullie had told him long ago, ‘There is no winning in the force, only degrees of losing.’
Brennan picked up the cutting and stared at it, touched its curling edges, ran a finger over the grainy image of his brother. Then he crumpled it into a ball and dropped it in the waste-paper basket beneath his desk. He rose, walked to the filing cabinet on the other side of the room and removed a bottle of Talisker from the bottom drawer, put it under his arm. He picked up his jacket, switched out the light, and went to join the team.
A wide-eyed McGuire, his face flushed and glowing, stopped Brennan as he came through the door. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed to the bottle. ‘Prize for your favourite DC?’
Brennan nodded. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ He handed over the bottle. ‘Enjoy yourselves. Because tomorrow we start the paperwork!’
McGuire held up the Talisker, turned on his heels, then tucked it under his arm and made a show of cracking the seal. A voice in the corner of the office roared out, ‘Come on, three cheers for the boss.’
Brennan turned away, flagged them down. ‘No. Don’t . . .’ He headed for the door as the cheering started.
McGuire called after him, ‘You not staying for a drink, sir?’
‘No, I’ve got someone to see.’
‘Secret rendezvous, is it?’
A weak laugh. ‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do, sir.’
Brennan dug his hand in his pocket, waved with his other one. He was glad to see the team so pleased; they had done well. Despite everything, they had achieved something worth being proud of. For a moment he wanted to be part of it all, then he remembered who he was, and what position he occupied in the hierarchy. ‘Look, don’t stay up too late. Be a big day tomorrow.’
‘Listen to Dad,’ said McGuire.
Brennan headed for the door. He turned once, twice, as he was wished well, but when he was out he kept his head low and focused on each step he took. He needed to get away, to taste different air.
In the car park Brennan picked out the Passat, directed the key and unlocked it. He had a stop to make before going home; it was another one of those stops he didn’t want to make, but he knew that he had to do it. The case had demanded his attention, had drawn him away from everything, and everyone, else – but now it was time to shift focus back to the areas he had ignored.
As Brennan pulled out of the station car park the radio news was relaying the arrests in Calais. By tomorrow the case would be all over the front pages. The papers would call it a result. His superiors would be pleased. But Brennan just felt cold. At the outset a young girl had died and, along the way, more people had followed her. He knew that too many people had been hurt and damaged by the events that had sprung from Carly Donald’s disappearance, and all of it could have been avoided. He didn’t know who to blame or why things had turned out the way they had, but he felt some sense of relief that it was now over. The killing would stop, and Beth was safe.
The voice on the radio started to relay the details of the case from the start, when Carly Donald was found in a communal bin in Muirhouse. ‘
The grim find was made by schoolgirl Trish Brown, who said she would never be able to get the image out of her mind.
’
Brennan knew how she felt. He could still see the pale, mutilated figure abandoned in the rubbish, the life drained from her like a rag that had been wrung out.
‘
Father of the murder victim, the Reverend John Donald, earlier spoke of his joy upon hearing his granddaughter Beth had been found safe and well. A one-time contender for Scotland’s top church job, the minister confirmed he would no longer be considered for the Moderator’s role, as he would be concentrating his efforts on his family life.
’
Brennan cursed. ‘Jumped or pushed?’ He leaned forward and switched off the radio. ‘Arsehole.’
Chapter 51
AS DI ROB BRENNAN ARRIVED up outside Dr Lorraine Fuller’s home, he brought the car to an abrupt halt, turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine coming to rest. It was a cool night and the breeze bit as he opened the door and walked up the path. He could see a light burning in the front room as he rang the bell. A curtain moved and Lorraine appeared at the window. She seemed flustered, not expecting to see him, but then she made for the door, rattled the chain and lock as she opened up.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Our appointment’s not until tomorrow.’
Brennan didn’t bite. ‘Can I come in?’
She widened the door, motioned him inside with a flourish of her hand.
In the living room, Lorraine folded her arms. ‘So, is this a flying visit or should I offer you a drink?’
Brennan didn’t answer, removed his coat and sat down.
‘Wine okay?’
He nodded. Lorraine had never been one for small chat and he was grateful for that, but he knew they had things to say to each other.
The television was on but the sound had been turned to mute. Brennan watched a few seconds of
Antiques Roadshow
– an old man had brought along a collection of toby jugs and twitched every time the presenter picked one up. Brennan lasted nearly a full minute before he got out of his seat, briskly, and turned the television off.
Lorraine returned with the wine. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Brennan took the glass. ‘I want you to know this is the first chance I’ve had to see you since I took this case.’
She stared at the orange juice in her own glass, swirled it round the base. ‘I saw the news. It’s over, then?’
Brennan sighed. ‘
Really
.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
He sipped the wine. ‘Nothing.’ He reached to place his glass on the table, retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. He was about to remove the picture he’d been carrying around but something occurred to him. ‘Do you remember those sessions we had, ones where we talked about my brother?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I got him . . . Andy’s killer.’
‘
What
? I mean, how?’
Brennan fiddled with a button on his jacket; the words felt trapped in his throat. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’
Lorraine put down her glass, moved closer. ‘You still don’t like talking about this. You know, if you’ve found some kind of closure, then maybe now’s the time to tell me.’
Closure? What was that? Shrink-speak. Brennan looked at Lorraine. Her hair was up; she had no make-up on. He hardly recognised her. ‘Okay. What do you want to know?’
‘Whatever you’d like to tell me.’
Brennan stopped himself, let the last twenty-four hours’ events flood into his memory banks and mix with what he knew about Andy.
‘There was a man, Grady . . .’ he said.
‘Go on.’
Brennan took a breath, hesitated, then continued, ‘He was a businessman, one of those with fingers in several pies. I had seen his name mentioned a couple of times when . . . well . . . does it matter?’
Lorraine leaned forward, took his hand.
‘Andy had this job, a roughcasting, big payer but you need the weather for it so . . . Am I boring you?’
She shook her head.
‘He was telling me about it and it came out that it was for Grady.’ Brennan tightened his hold on Lorraine’s hand. ‘I told Andy not to take the job. I told him Grady was bad news, his name was coming up in investigations again and again. There were connections to Ulster and—’
‘Grady sounds serious.’
Brennan frowned. ‘Serious trouble. But Andy didn’t want to know. He took on the job and we rowed. I told him he had a family to think about and he shouldn’t do it . . . heavy stuff. He wouldn’t listen.’ Brennan could hear his voice growing weaker as the memory played. ‘We argued and argued and eventually I wore Andy’s patience down. He broke. It all came out: how he resented me for leaving home and making him give up his ambitions to paint in favour of the family firm; he said he had to do the job because I wouldn’t . . . He blamed me for everything. He’d never said any of this before.’
Lorraine put her free hand on Brennan’s face; it felt cold as she spoke: ‘It’s okay. People say things they don’t mean all the time.’
Brennan felt the hurt welling in him again. ‘No. Andy meant it. I could tell. And do you know what I did? Nothing. I left it. I never said another word. I should have pulled him from that job with my bare hands but I let my ego get in the way.’
‘Rob . . .’
Brennan pushed Lorraine aside. He stood up. ‘I could have saved Andy, but I was too bloody pig-headed. I let him get killed.’
Lorraine stood up too; there were tears in her eyes. Brennan put his fingertips to her face, wiped a drop away. ‘That’s not going to help anyone.’
‘Why are you telling me this now, Rob?’
‘You asked.’
‘No. I mean, why now?’
Brennan watched her rise, take a tissue from a box on the shelving by the wall. She went to sit down again and he leaned over, picked up his jacket and removed the picture. ‘Maybe this is part of it.’
Lorraine froze for a moment, then snatched the picture, tore it in two.
‘You don’t get it, do you, Rob?’
He watched the two pieces of the image he’d carried around fall to the floor. Then turned his gaze to her. ‘Lorraine?’
Her shoulders shook as she cried into her hands. For a moment Brennan was confused, then something sparked in him as Lorraine raised her head and showed her flushed cheeks. ‘There is no baby.’
Brennan thought he’d misheard. ‘
What
?’
She turned, screamed at him, ‘I printed it off! It’s just a picture!’
The words didn’t make sense to him. ‘Lorraine, what are you saying?’
She got up, turned away to face the wall. He watched her wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I wanted to hurt you. You’d hurt me. I wanted to build up your hopes and then let you down, like you’d done to me.’
Brennan listened but couldn’t believe it – when it had sunk in he knew he couldn’t look at her again. He collected his jacket and walked for the door.
Lorraine chased after him. ‘Rob, I was wrong.’
He turned the latch, pulled. Lorraine stepped in front of him, blocking the door. ‘Rob, I was wrong. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.’
‘Get out of my way.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
‘Rob, I-I didn’t realise—’
He pulled her by the arm, flung her back into the hallway. ‘Neither did I.’
In the street Brennan felt the cold sting at his eyes. There was more moisture in the air now. As he got in the car he turned back to see Lorraine on her doorstep; she was still crying, wiping at her tears with her hands. He looked away, started the car.
The traffic was light. Brennan worked up to the speed limit and then felt his temperature rising; he touched his brow – he was sweating. His hands were clammy on the steering wheel and he felt a shortness of breath. He followed the row of cars he was in to the traffic lights, passed through them and took a left into a residential area he didn’t know. For a second or two he felt lost, but he didn’t care.

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