Murder Mile (33 page)

‘Get fucked!’ said Henderson.

Brennan turned over the folder and looked at the top page, scanned insouciantly. ‘Quite a record you’ve got here.’

‘I want a fag,’ said Henderson.

‘A fag … Tell me, Stevie, isn’t that what they call arse-rape inside these days?’

McGuire sneered, ‘I think so … That’s where he’s going anyway.’

‘For sure and certain …’

Henderson leaned forward, extended his index finger and waved it at the officers, ‘You pair can both fuck off …’

Brennan turned, moved his seat out, sat. He leaned forward on the desk, removed a packet of Embassy Regal and placed it before him. ‘Now, now, Hendy, seems to me like you’ve not had much luck playing the hard man … I recommend you give it up.’

Henderson stared at the packet of cigarettes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean, it took me under an hour to find you … You’ve no friends left in this town. If you ever had any.’

Henderson tapped his chest, ‘I’ve got friends.’

‘Oh aye,’ said Brennan. ‘And was Angela Mickle one of them?’

‘Listen, you’re not pinning that on me …’

Brennan knew he was engaged in a delicate balancing act. He was sure Henderson was responsible for Angela Mickle’s death, but he didn’t know how or why. The SOCOs’ initial search of the flat had not turned up anything, but it was early enough for that to change. Still, without a definite link or a confession, the case against him was slight at the moment. Brennan knew he could pressure Henderson, make him sweat out a confession, but there was another matter to consider, two matters in fact: the deaths of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. The DI couldn’t explain why Angela Mickle’s death had been made to look like the others but he felt sure the postmortem would confirm his suspicions that he was dealing with a copy-cat killer. If Henderson was simply trying to cover his murdering of Angela Mickle by making it look like the work of someone else, Brennan would gleefully drag that confession straight from his throat, but the thought, the possibility, that Henderson was in some way connected to the other girls’ killer couldn’t be ignored.

‘Someone killed her, Hendy,’ said Brennan.

‘Look, I didn’t do it!’ He slapped his fist off the table, the papers in the blue folder shook. ‘And you’re not going to get me to say that I did.’

‘Who would want to harm Angela, then?’

Henderson huffed. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

Brennan turned to McGuire, then back to Henderson. ‘Why not?
You
think someone’s going to come to your rescue? No way, you’re the only one we’ve got down for this, Hendy.’

‘Then you’re not doing your job right, are you?’

McGuire got out of his seat, walked around Henderson and picked up the packet of Embassy Regal. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards Henderson as he spoke, ‘Sounds to me like you know something that you’re not letting on about, Hendy.’

He turned, put a stare on McGuire. He tapped his chest as he spoke, ‘I know lots of things. Fucking loads.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Brennan. ‘Well, tell us something.’

Henderson turned away from McGuire; his eyes widened as he took in Brennan, then he dipped his gaze towards the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’

‘Go ahead …’

Henderson took the packet of Embassy Regal, withdrew a cigarette and tucked it in his mouth. McGuire brought the lighter’s flame towards the cigarette and lit him up. ‘Look, I’m not saying I know who did it or that, I’m not a fucking grass … But, what you were asking there, about who’d want to harm, Ange …’ he paused.

‘Go on,’ said Brennan.

Henderson took a deep pull on the cigarette, took the smoke down into his lungs and held it there. As he spoke, the smoke escaped on his words, ‘A little while back, right, I found something …’

‘Found what?’ said Brennan.

Henderson leaned forward, drew on the cigarette again, lowered his voice. ‘It was … a diary.’

‘Whose diary?’

‘Well whose do you think? … Ange’s.’

Brennan creased his brows, ‘And why would I want to know about a brass’s diary?’

Henderson shook his head, laughed. ‘You fucking pigs, you just don’t get it do you?’

‘I don’t think we do, Hendy,’ said McGuire.

‘No, maybe you should explain it to us,’ said Brennan.

Henderson leaned back in the chair, he crossed his leg, raised his ankle and sat it on his knee. His white sports socks showed beneath his trouser leg. ‘That diary, right, was all about a certain … individual.’

‘And?’

‘And … Well, that individual is the one that you should be asking the questions to.’

Brennan put his elbows on the desk, exhaled into his balled hands. ‘Who are we talking about, Hendy?’

‘I’m saying nothing more …’ he flicked ash from his cigarette, ‘nothing more, you’ll have to read the diary. Surprised you haven’t already, it’s in the flat, under the bed isn’t it.’

Brennan closed the folder in front of him and looked towards McGuire; the DS stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. As he rose, Brennan kept his tone low and serious, ‘OK, Hendy, we’ll check out this diary. But if this is stalling, you’re not going to be doing yourself any favours.’

He shook his head, laughed. ‘Fuck off the pair of you.’

Brennan and McGuire left the interview room. In the corridor, Brennan turned to the DS, said, ‘What do you make of that?’

‘He’s very sure of himself.’

‘Sure of himself … He’s acting like he’s fucking bullet proof.’

‘Or nuts.’

Brennan scratched behind his ear, ‘Well, he’s that all right. Look, get the SOCOs to check for this diary; if they turn anything up, give it a look and get back to me … I’ve got some other stuff to check on.’

McGuire tapped his forehead, ‘OK, boss.’

Brennan turned for the stairs; as he glanced out the window, a butyric sun melted on the rooftops. He took a moment to eye the scene, felt somehow calmed by the sight of a neon-red sky fading into the limitless distance. The world seemed to hold possibilities again; only a few short hours ago he had despaired, wondered if he would ever fit the puzzle together. He knew he was still some way from a resolution, but there was a peaceful, quiet feeling that
came
from having Neil Henderson in custody. Brennan couldn’t explain it, it wasn’t instinctual – optimistic, perhaps – but he felt a level of ease to have removed him from the streets. He knew he hadn’t made the city a safer place – there would be a hundred others waiting to step into Henderson’s place – but there was an assured feeling of release, relief.

Brennan ascended the remaining stairs and headed for Incident Room One; as he opened the door he nodded to the first person he saw, WPC Elaine Docherty.

‘Hello, sir.’

‘Elaine … Any news on the postmortem?’

She touched the sleeve of her shirt, loaded the request in her mind, said, ‘Erm, I haven’t heard … Will I give the morgue a call?’

Brennan heard the door’s hinges sing out, turned to look behind him as Lou and Bri walked in. ‘Yes, Elaine, call the morgue.’ He turned to the others, ‘Right … My office, now!’

Lou was removing his coat, ‘Can I catch my breath first, sir?’

‘No you fucking can’t! … Office, now.’ He pointed down to the other end of the room, stretched out his stride. As he walked, Brennan looked left to right, took in the level of activity, said, ‘Right, come on you lot, we’ve got plenty to be getting on with now, I don’t want to see anyone twiddling their fucking thumbs!’ A blast of electricity ignited the room, seemed to jolt bodies into action. Brennan clapped his hands to gee-up the team.

In his small glassed-off office the DI suddenly felt cramped; he looked out to the reddening sky and the setting sun and felt the confinement more keenly. He turned away from the window, pulled out his chair and balanced his elbows on the desk. He was lacing his fingers into an arc as Lou and Bri appeared. ‘Right, sit down,’ he said. ‘And tell me about Mr Gow’s visit to the station.’

Bri was first to lower himself into the office chair, he thinned his eyes into tiny apertures as Lou sat, began to talk; he spoke in generalities, his speech as discursive and rambling as a child’s.

Brennan raised a hand, ‘Lou, for fuck’s sake, I don’t want to go all around the houses …’

Bri cut in, ‘I think, what Lou’s trying to say, boss, is that Mr Gow never really gave us very much.’

Brennan lowered his head, stared at the desk for a moment. He was still facing the laminated desktop as he spoke again, ‘Look, didn’t you get the folder I sent in?’

Lou lit up, ‘Oh, aye … Well, we got that all right.’

‘And?’ said Brennan, raising his head.

‘Fiona Gow did gymnastics, but we knew that, right?’ Lou turned to Bri; the DS was turning over pages in a spiral-bound notebook.

‘Erm, here we are,’ said Bri, ‘said she had champion potential … Well, her coach did, a Mr Crawley.’

Brennan felt his stomach tense, the muscles tightened like a cincture that sent a spasm all the way to his throat. ‘What did you say?’

‘What?’ said Bri.

‘The coach, Fiona Gow’s gymnastics coach … What was his name?’

Bri returned to his notebook, inflated his chest and exhaled slowly. ‘Let me see … Crawley.’

The DI absorbed the information like a blotter. He leaned back in his chair, raised his leg, resting his foot on an open drawer. ‘Are you saying we are just getting this information now? … What I mean to say is, Jim Gallagher never flagged this earlier?’

Bri turned to Lou; the pair seemed to be confused by Brennan’s reaction. Lou spoke, ‘No, boss … at least, it wasn’t in the file.’

Brennan rose, turned away from the others. He stood before the window and leaned over, placing his hands on the ledge. Clouds crossed the sky and the dying rays of the sun laced together in a liquid, bouncing light. The scene seemed to distract him, he couldn’t focus. As he closed his eyes, tightened his facial muscles, he felt assailed by an army of possibilities – the chief being Gallagher must have known Crawley was now teaching at Edinburgh High, which was Lindsey Sloan’s school. He thought back to their first encounter in the Sloans’ home after Lindsey’s death: Crawley had
said
she wasn’t one of his pupils; but there was still the possibility of contact if he had been her gymnastics coach. The implications were obvious, but Gallagher’s actions remained a mystery to him.

Brennan turned to face the others, ‘Bring him in.’

Lou said, ‘The teacher?’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing then.’ As he spoke, the phone began to ring on his desk, he picked up. ‘Brennan.’

It was Elaine Docherty. ‘Sir, I have the morgue on the line, it’s Dr Pettigrew.’

‘Right, put him on.’ Brennan turned back to the others as they left their seats, headed for the door. ‘And whilst you’re at it, get someone to do a full background check on Crawley … I want everything including his inside-leg measurement and fucking star sign.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the pair spoke together, left the office.

Brennan returned to the telephone, ‘Hello …’

‘Was this rush job really bloody necessary?’ said Pettigrew.

Brennan smiled into the phone. ‘Well, you tell me …’

Chapter 44

DI ROB BRENNAN
had a set of specific questions about the death of Angela Mickle that he wanted answered by Dr Pettigrew’s postmortem. Upon visiting the scene, just off the A720 where her battered corpse was uncovered, he had been immediately of the opinion that she was not a victim of the same killer as Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. There were similarities – all three girls had been mutilated, their eyes had been removed and the location was within the same one-mile radius. But the level of unease he had felt at the latest crime scene was enough to make Brennan think something altogether different had occurred to Angela Mickle.

She was brass, a prostitute, that much was certain; and she was older, if only slightly, than the other girls. It was a fact that the investigation had been unable to establish any valid criteria that linked the girls – they could just as easily have been selected at random – but just because no similarities had been established didn’t mean they were not there. He remembered a line from Wullie that had lodged in his mind: ‘Facts don’t cease to exist just because we don’t know they exist, Rob.’

Brennan held the telephone receiver close to his ear as Dr Pettigrew spoke, listing off his initial actions of cutting the ribs and clavicles before removing the breastplate and taking samples of blood, bile and urine.

‘I don’t need the minute-by-minute version,’ said Brennan.

Pettigrew bridled, ‘Well, there is a point to my detailing the procedure.’

‘And the point being?’

‘I thought she was strangled and would have initiated the postmortem by cutting the scalp and removing brain tissue, but I thought you might want to have her drug usage confirmed if she was a prostitute.’

Brennan felt himself drawing breath slowly, he softened his tone, spoke into the phone. ‘OK, doctor, and what did your analysis reveal?’

Pettigrew brightened, ‘Well, I can confirm she was a very regular drug user, heroin … But that’s not all I can confirm.’ He paused. ‘I said I thought she was strangled and that’s borne out by the neck and head examination.’

Brennan’s picture of Angela Mickle’s final moments was coming together the more he spoke to the pathologist, but he still had questions he wanted answered. ‘And what about the mutilation … How does that compare to the other victims?’

There was a gap on the line, ‘Yes, I thought you’d ask that.’

‘I am asking that,’ said Brennan.

Pettigrew cleared his throat, spoke, ‘The Gow and Sloan cases had striking similarities, the genital mutilation and the eyes, obviously, but there was also the fact that they had clearly been recently killed before any of the mutilation took place … Mickle, I’m not so sure. The strangulation was the cause of death but that could have happened some time before the desecration. And I have to say, the mutilation was frenzied and rough – not clean like the others – and you realise there were no undergarments found on this victim, whereas they’d been inserted into the mouth cavity with the genitalia …’