Tony Black - Murder Mile

McGuire looked confused, sat forward in his chair and stared at the page Brennan was reading, ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘I mean, Stevie,’ he looked up, ‘this is genuine.’

‘Then it might be of some use after all…’

‘I don’t know about that.’

McGuire rose, walked round to the same side of the desk as the DI, said, ‘Well, there’s only one way we’ll find out.’

Brennan huffed, lifted the diary and flicked through the pages, ‘Suppose we’ll have to read it all.’

‘Maybe we could just skim.’

The DI frowned, turned back to the page. It felt somehow like an intrusion — Angela Mickle was dead — Brennan still remembered how her corpse looked in the field, exposed to the cold and rain of the Scottish morning. He wondered what it was about the artefacts of the dead that somehow made them feel sacred; was it a learned response? This was just a diary, words on a page, how could it be any more sanctified than any other piece of young girls’ writing. But it was; he knew it. As Brennan read through the small pages he felt himself building an image of another side of Angela; she was no longer the murdered prostitute to him. Angela Mickle had some level of intelligence, that was evident, she had some integrity too and the words she put on the page revealed all of this and more.

‘Look at this,’ said Brennan.

McGuire read where the DI pointed, ‘Gymnastics… another one.’

Brennan turned to face McGuire, ‘I should be the one to tell you this, Stevie: I caught Jim Gallagher with his fingers in the cookie jar…’

‘You what?’

Brennan sighed, marked his place in the diary and spoke, ‘There was a teacher, a gymnastics coach called Crawley, linked to Gow and Sloan… and he buried the fact.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As shooting. There’s no way he couldn’t have known. I’ve sent Lou and Bri out to pick the teacher up; if he turns out to be our man…’

‘Jesus, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Have you told the Chief Super?’

Brennan turned back to the diary, ‘No.’

McGuire touched the DI’s elbow, ‘Sir, you have to tell him… that sort of thing will be around the station like wildfire before you know it.’

‘I know, Stevie.’ Brennan thought about McGuire’s remark for a moment; he did indeed have an obligation to inform the Chief Super, and he knew just how he would take it: badly. Benny had put his store of faith in Jim Gallagher and he’d wasted it all; it was going to look bad for the Chief Super, not as bad as it would for Gallagher, but bad enough. Brennan thought he would derive some form of satisfaction from being proven right about Gallagher but instead he felt only an emptiness inside. He didn’t want to see a man’s career ruined; he didn’t want to see the man ruined, but he knew that was just what was going to happen. Suppressing evidence in a case of this magnitude was a serious matter, it went beyond any reprimand Benny could dole out. One question remained unanswered for Brennan, though: why? To risk his career, and more, had to come backed with heavyweight reasons. Detective Inspectors didn’t take those kinds of risks unless they had no other choice and Brennan wanted to know what made Gallagher do it.

‘Here, you take over, Stevie.’ Brennan handed McGuire the diary, rose from his seat. He walked towards the window and looked out into Incident Room One. WPC Elaine Docherty was parading down between the desks with a clutch of papers in her hands. As she reached Brennan’s office, prepared to knock on the door, he opened up.

‘What have you got for me?’

‘It’s the backgrounder you asked for on that teacher…’ Elaine handed over the bundle of papers.

‘Does he have form?’

‘Er, no, sir. This is all Education Department data…’ she paused for a moment, ‘I think you’ll be interested in the stuff on page four.’

Brennan turned to the page she mentioned, it was a list of the places Crawley had taught; Elaine had highlighted Portobello Academy and Edinburgh High. In the margins beside the schools she had written in red ink the dates Fiona Gow, Lindsey Sloan and Angela Mickle had attended those schools — they all matched.

‘Good work, Elaine,’ said Brennan, he raised the sheets of paper in acknowledgement, turned back to his office; as he did so he was waylaid by DS McGuire brandishing the mauve-coloured diary.

‘What was the name of that teacher?’ said McGuire.

Brennan dipped his brows, turned towards the DS. ‘Colin Crawley.’

McGuire dropped his arms, he seemed to be deflating, but in a second he raised the diary again, presented it to Brennan, ‘I think we’ve found our man, sir.’

DI Rob Brennan did not feel good about what he was about to do. As he headed for the Chief Super’s office he felt a slow trickle of sweat run the length of his spine. There was a dull ache in his chest, not a pain exactly, more like an emotion lodging itself there. He had felt the same ache when he had heard of his brother’s death; he seemed to remember the ache started small, covered an area about the size of an egg, but then grew bigger until it had engulfed his entire chest, then later, his entire being. Brennan didn’t anticipate the same reaction this time round, but he knew that the emotion he felt was for a passing: Jim Gallagher was finished.

Brennan realised he wasn’t a brutal man, if anything, at times he felt too soft. He had spoken to Wullie about the way he felt some people operated and the old man had said they were just ‘acting out their nature’. As a race we were a mix of personalities; where there were brutes and self-servers, there were also the oppo-sites. Brennan knew he wasn’t a polar opposite to the brutes — but there was enough humanity in him to know that a man was a man and he identified with Jim Gallagher’s fall. He knew there were men on the force who, in his situation, would have been getting the rounds in — counting it as a result. But not Brennan. He felt saddened, if not sickened, and wanted more than anything to understand what had driven Gallagher to it. As he approached the Chief Super’s office, reached out for the handle, and stepped in, he felt no level of satisfaction for the news he had to deliver.

Dee, the secretary, lit up as Brennan walked into the room. She gazed at him for a moment, seemed to take stock of his demeanour and suddenly changed her expression. ‘Is there something wrong, Inspector?’ she said.

‘I need to see him,’ Brennan raised a hand, ‘no, don’t get up, I’ll announce myself.’

They both knew this was irregular, but somehow the news he carried with him automatically merited the change in procedure.

Dee nodded, ‘Of course.’

As Brennan entered the long window-filled room, the Chief Super stayed bowed over a blue folder at his desk; it took some moments for him to register that Brennan was there. When he raised his head, the Chief Super looked first at Brennan and then at the door, as if checking it was properly closed. He motioned him to sit.

‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny, Rob,’ he said.

Brennan forced a smile onto his face, it sat there like an interloper for a second and then vanished. ‘The murder investigation has taken a… turn, sir.’

Benny removed his glasses, ‘For the better?’

‘Well, the answer to that would be yes and no.’

The Chief Super closed the folder on his desk, laced his fingers. ‘I think you better explain, Rob.’

Brennan leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, ‘We have a prime suspect…’

‘Excellent,’ Benny opened his palms, clasped them together.

‘Not quite, sir.’

‘Well, are you bringing him in?’