Murder Mile (32 page)

Brennan spun on his heels; something caught his attention on the desk to his left. It was the florid tie that he had previously seen around Gallagher’s neck. The DI moved to the desk; he didn’t know what he was looking for but something told him he should be looking. He opened the top drawer; a packet of McCoy’s crisps and a Mars bar stared out at him. He opened the second drawer; on top of a loose pile of papers sat a blue folder marked ‘Gymnastics’. Brennan retrieved the file, placed it on the desk and leafed through.

‘Now, Jim, let’s see what you’ve been up to …’ The pages contained Gallagher’s thin spidery scrawl in the margins, but there was nothing that stood out for Brennan. He knew what he was looking for – something to incriminate the DI, something to confirm
his
suspicions. As people began to trickle back from lunch, he turned more pages, then he was interrupted by Collins sprinting to his side.

‘The ID’s in … she’s been in before and she’s brass. Name’s Angela Mickle …’

Brennan bit, ‘Result.’

‘That’s not all, boss, we’ve got an address as well.’

Brennan closed the folder he was looking at, picked it up. ‘Brilliant.’

‘Want me to tell uniform to check it out?’

‘Shit no, we’ll do that.’ Brennan called out to the room, ‘Who’s got a free minute?’

Elaine Docherty stood up, ‘I can help out …’ It was the first time Brennan had spoken to the WPC since the revelation that she was attached to McGuire; the awkward friction between them was palpable. ‘I mean, if you need someone I can …’

‘Great, Elaine.’ Brennan choked back the tension. ‘Can you take this file, make a photocopy and give it in to Lou and Brian …’

She looked disappointed, ‘Oh, I thought …’

‘What?’

‘Aren’t you going on a raid?’ she said.

Collins laughed, ‘Elaine’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie, boss.’

‘We are …’ he handed over the file, ‘but you’re going to the interview rooms.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Brennan nodded, ‘And when you’re finished … put it back in Jim’s top drawer.’ He tapped the side of his nose, grinned at her, ‘Like it was never out of there, if you know what I mean.’

Elaine smiled back, ‘Yes, sir.’

Brennan turned for the door, ‘Right, Collins … You ready to rumble?’

Chapter 42

DI ROB BRENNAN
passed the car keys to Collins on the way down the stairs. There was too much going on inside his mind to concentrate on the task of driving. He had been right; he had followed his instinct and it had paid off. He knew that the latest victim in the field near Straiton was a prostitute, he had sensed it, and his suspicions had been confirmed by her fingerprints yielding a police record. He would go over the file, the whole team would, and search for something – anything – that could prove useful for the wider murder investigation, but at this precise moment, all Brennan wanted to do was catch the brass’s killer.

He knew when people on the edge of society met their end in this way, their killers left a sticky trail behind them. There were no criminal masterminds working the Links. Life was brutal there, on the fringes. He had encountered so many slayings that were no more than arguments gone too far, an exchange of words that became an exchange of blows. Those deaths weren’t planned; any planning came after the event, in a pathetic attempt at covering up.

In the car Brennan picked up the radio and made sure there was uniformed back-up on the way. The line crackled for a moment, then the radio room replied: ‘Two cars are attending … Inspector.’

Brennan spoke into the hand-piece, ‘Right, I don’t want them
going
in guns blazing. They wait in the wings until I arrive and they wait quietly … Got it?’

The radio operator confirmed the request, ‘The message has been relayed, the cars will wait for you, sir.’

Brennan put down the hand-piece but kept the volume high on the radio.

The address was for a flat in Leith; Brennan knew the location well. It was near the Links; there were good people living there, a community that objected to street walkers plying their trade in their midst, but Brennan knew there were good people everywhere. There were bad too; crime was never far, whoever you were.

The DI thought over the last few hours, and what they had unearthed. Another young woman had been killed, in horrific fashion. Angela Mickle might have been a prostitute, but Brennan wondered what chaos in her life had led her to be cut up and dumped in a field on the city’s outskirts.

He spoke out, ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

Collins turned to face him, quickly drew his eyes back to the road. ‘What’s that, boss?’

‘This brass … Why? I mean she’s been killed and some bastard’s hacked her up and dumped her in Straiton like the others.’

Collins dropped a gear, pressed the brake pedal, then accelerated again. ‘You want my guess? … She’s been offed by some nut-job – a punter, a boyfriend – and he’s gone, “Shit what have I done, I’m in the frame for murder” …’

Brennan steadied his hand on the dash as the car leaned into a tight bend, ‘And he’s thought, I’ll make it look like those murders out in Straiton … I don’t buy that, Collins, he’d have to be fucking daft to think he’d get away with that …’

Collins spun the wheel, ‘Aye, that’s what I’m saying, a nut-job …’

‘OK, well, let’s follow your theory … Suppose your nut-job’s successful in convincing us that he’s killed this brass just like the others … Then that puts him in the frame for three murders, not one …’

‘Well, if you put it like that, sir …’

‘I do put it like that.’

They had reached the address; Collins slowed the car. Brennan and the DS stepped out of the vehicle and jogged towards the front door of the tenement building. Two officers from across the street started to move in their direction, another police car was parking up further down the road.

Brennan turned to Collins as they waited for the uniforms, ‘No, if this nut-job of yours wanted to make this Mickle girl look like the others, he had to have another reason.’

‘Like what, sir?’

Brennan shrugged, ‘If I knew that, Collins … I’d have nothing to learn.’

The uniforms caught up with the officers, nodded towards the DI and stood patiently awaiting instructions. Brennan pressed the intercom buzzer, said, ‘Police.’

The door sprang open.

On the stairs Brennan pointed one of the officers to the back door, said, ‘Wait in the green … And keep an eye on the windows, eh.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Brennan led the others up. He felt his thighs aching as he ascended the steep staircase at pace; he knew there was a time when he could run up and down Leith stairwells all day and never feel so much as a twitch, but he also knew those days had now gone. On the landing he rested a palm on the banister, looked towards Collins, ‘Which one?’

The DS nodded down the hallway, ‘Door on the end, there.’

Brennan waved the uniforms towards the door, told one to wait at the top of the stairs. ‘Right, knock away,’ he said.

Collins banged on the door with the heel of his hand, ‘Open up, police!’

There was no reply.

He tried again, ‘Open up, police!’

Silence.

‘OK, knock it in,’ said Brennan.

Collins and the DI stepped out of the way to let the uniforms kick into the door; it took only two swift pelts before the rotten wood behind the Yale lock gave way.

Brennan entered first, called out: ‘Police!’

He checked the doors, left and right, a cupboard and a grimy bathroom. At the end of the narrow hallway was a dark room; he flicked the light switch and a bare bulb burned in the centre of the ceiling. He saw a filthy mattress in the middle of the floor, and a doorway leading to a small kitchen. He nodded Collins towards the kitchen, ‘Check it out.’

Brennan looked over the mattress, it was stained and worn; empty condom packets and cigarette stubs lined its edges. He shook his head.

‘All clear, sir … Stinks of disinfectant.’

‘Oh, really …’ The DI walked towards the kitchen; it looked scrubbed, quite a contrast to the rest of the flat. ‘Get the SOCOs up here, Collins.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The DS removed his radio.

One of the uniforms had moved from the stairwell to the living room of the flat, he walked to the edge of the mattress and addressed Brennan. ‘Sir, there’s an old dear out here says the girl hasn’t been in today.’

‘That would be because she’s up in Straiton, son.’

The uniform lowered his head, looked at his shoes.

‘I’ll have a word with her.’

Brennan followed the uniform back to the landing, the door to the flat next door stood open now. A woman in her bad sixties stood with a tabby cat in her arms, stroking its back. The cat purred like a Geiger counter.

‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Brennan.’

The old woman’s voice was reedy and high, ‘Are you here about the noise? … Oh, the noise from that place was unbearable … I told them, you know.’

‘Them?’

‘The pair of them … Her and her fancy-man.’

Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head towards the open door he’d just walked through. ‘There were two occupants of this flat?’

‘Well, originally there was only the one, the girl.’

‘That would be Angela Mickle?’

‘I’ve no idea what her name was; she had a foul mouth, we never spoke.’

‘And the other … The fancy-man?’

The woman removed her hand from the cat’s back, raised a finger, ‘Ah, now he was called Henderson. I know that because there was a tremendous scuffle on the landing outside the flat one day and he was bellowed at by another man … I think it was over money.’

‘Henderson, that was the name he used? You’re sure about that?’

The cat opened its eyes and stopped purring; it was a cue for the old woman to recommence the stroking of its back. ‘Quite sure, Inspector.’

Brennan confirmed the uniform had taken a note of the name, returned his gaze to the woman, ‘And when did this Henderson fellow move into the flat?’

‘Oh, not long ago … Hardly any time at all. But my goodness, the rows, day and night.’ She thinned her eyes, squinted beyond Brennan’s shoulder, ‘Has there been some sort of bother?’

The DI removed his hand from his pocket, touched the old woman’s elbow, said, ‘Thank you very much, love … That’ll be all. If you could just give your details to the officer, I’d appreciate that a great deal.’

Brennan edged back towards the flat. Collins was putting away his radio as he entered the living room. ‘Well?’

‘Get back on that …’ said the DI.

‘What for?’

‘Ask the station to check on any ex-cons called Henderson released in the last few weeks.’

Collins removed the radio again, held it before his mouth, but spoke to Brennan. ‘Who’s this, boss?’

‘Likely our man … He was staying here,’ Brennan waved a hand over the carnage of the room, ‘I don’t think you could call it living.’

Collins spoke into the radio, relayed Brennan’s request and then held the hand-piece clear of his ear whilst he waited for a reply. ‘So, he’s a scrote?’

‘By the sounds of it … A scrote that owes someone money too.’

‘Money?’

Brennan looked around the room, picked at the peeling plaster on one of the walls. ‘According to the neighbour there was a scuffle on the stairs … Sounds like Henderson was being noised-up for money.’

The radio crackled; Collins spoke into the hand-piece: ‘Go ahead.’

The operator’s voice came through a cloud of static: ‘Only one … Neil Henderson released from Saughton; in for aggravated assault.’

Brennan nodded, ‘That’ll do us.’

‘Thanks,’ said Collins. ‘Can you pull the files and drop them in Incident Room One?’ He clicked off, turned to face Brennan. ‘So what now, sir?’

‘We punt Neil Henderson’s face to the wooden tops …’

‘And what about us, sir?’

Brennan started to fasten his coat, walk towards the open door. ‘Well, you’re coming with me. To check a few traps?’

Collins called out, ‘Come again?’

‘He’s in hock …’ said Brennan. ‘And I don’t think it’s to the Royal Bank, do you?’

Collins smiled, ‘I hear you.’

Brennan’s quick footsteps made a steady repeating beat on the stone steps as the officers descended the stairs. A number of doors that were being held slightly ajar were closed tight as the officers came into view. Brennan smiled to himself and allowed a note of optimism to seep into his thoughts. He had a lead, a name. He’d been there before though, nothing could ever be taken for granted. But something told him that he now held information that was
useful.
The DI couldn’t quite see where this Henderson character fitted into the overall scheme of things, but that was often the way an investigation went. What was opaque often became transparent only after a few shakes of the dice. He knew Henderson was no serial killer, that was for sure; the chaotic nature of his lifestyle didn’t fit with Lorrimer’s profile and, unless he was very much mistaken, he was dealing with a diminutive intelligence; how else could he account for the fact that he was confident he would have him in custody before the day was out.

On the street, some pigeons scratching for scraps on the paving flags scattered when Brennan and Collins appeared. As the pair headed for the Passat, the DI called out, ‘Chuck me the keys over, eh.’

‘You driving, boss?’

‘Oh, I think so …’

Collins removed the keys from his trouser pocket, lobbed them towards the Inspector. ‘So, where’s first on our shady loanshark hit-list?’

Brennan pointed the keyring at the car; the blinkers flashed on then off, ‘Well, I’m all for starting at the top … Where’s Boaby Stevens hole up these days?’

Collins nodded, ‘Shaky … Still the Wheatsheaf, isn’t it?’

‘Well, let’s go and give him a wee rumble, eh.’

Chapter 43

AS DI ROB BRENNAN
walked into the interview room, Neil Henderson turned his eyes towards the blank wall and sighed. DS Stevie McGuire entered after Brennan and slapped a blue folder down on the table: as he did so, a gust of dry air swept past Henderson catching his fringe. The sergeant removed a chair, dragged its legs across the floor as he kept a firm gaze on Henderson. When the chair was positioned adjacent to the interviewee, McGuire sat down and crossed his legs. He smiled at Henderson and then turned to Brennan and let out a wry laugh. The DI smiled back, walked to the other side of the desk and placed his hands either side of the folder; he tilted his head up to face Henderson and spoke, ‘Well, well, Neil … Not had much luck have we?’