Tony Black - Murder Mile

‘I have Lou and Bri on the way now…’ Brennan scratched his forehead, ‘there’s complications, sir.’

‘Go, on.’

‘It’s my belief that Detective Inspector Jim Gallagher identified this suspect some time ago, perhaps as far back as the Fiona Gow killing, and has suppressed it for reasons unknown.’

The Chief Super’s eyes widened, a little gap appeared in his tight lips. For a moment he seemed frozen, closed off to the world and then he blinked rapidly and found words, ‘That’s quite an allegation, Inspector… You do realise that; I mean, you realise what you are saying?’

Brennan nodded slowly, ‘Sir, there’s a very definite paper trail; I wouldn’t be stating this otherwise.’

The Chief Super rose from his desk, turned to face the window. He crossed his palms behind his back and looked out towards the sky and the line of the horizon. For a few seconds he was silent, and then, ‘That’ll be all, Rob.’

Brennan stared at the back of the Chief Super’s head, ‘I’ll send in the paperwork.’

There was no reply.

As the DI raised himself from the chair, the dim scrape of the chair legs on the carpet tiles seemed to stir the atmosphere of the long office.

‘Oh. One more thing, Rob,’ the Chief Super turned, ‘where is Inspector Gallagher?’

Brennan had reached the door, held the handle in his hand; he released it, turned to face Benny. ‘Last I saw of him, he was at the scene in Straiton. He should be on his way in… I have instructed the team, those on the needs-to-know, to play dumb.’

‘Thank you, Rob. Send him downstairs when he appears… And let me know, please.’

‘Sir.’

Brennan reached for the handle, turned. As he walked out the door he spotted the Chief Super returning his gaze to the wide window.

The DI dipped his head towards Dee on the way out, ‘Thanks,’ he said.

In the hallway he took a deep breath, then removed his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He felt somehow unclean to have talked to the Chief Super about Gallagher — like he was a schoolboy telling tales. He wondered if Wullie would have approved, he wondered if he approved of himself. Brennan tramped towards the coffee machine and rested a hand on the fascia; he ferreted for coins in his pockets and slotted the amount required for a black coffee. As the machine spat and gurgled, he waited, silently staring at the slow drain of black liquid into the plastic cup. When the machine quietened, he watched the last drops of coffee escape and then the bubbles resting on the surface, first in the centre, and then drifting to the sides. He reached down and removed the cup, walked away.

On the stairs, Brennan was met by DS Stevie McGuire, ‘Ah, it’s yourself… Ready for round two with Henderson?’

Brennan raised his coffee cup to his lips, blew. He looked towards McGuire, turned and continued towards the interview rooms without uttering a word.

A few steps from the bottom of the staircase, McGuire spoke again, ‘Lou and Bri called in… Crawley’s home’s deserted.’

‘What do you mean, he’s fled?’

‘Well, it’s empty. There was no sign of him, but… Jim turned up.’

Brennan halted where he was. ‘Jim lobbed up to Crawley’s house?’

McGuire nodded, ‘Lou and Bri spotted him.’

Brennan scrunched a handful of hair from his fringe, ‘Christ Almighty… That means he knows we’re onto him. Where is he now?’

‘Lou and Bri are bringing him in.’

Brennan shook his head, ‘Right, cells. But you tell me when he’s in — and before Benny knows…’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go on then, get onto the Brothers Grim, make sure they fucking-well know the score as well.’

As McGuire removed his mobile phone, Brennan proceeded down the corridor towards the interview rooms. When he entered, Neil Henderson was sitting in the facing seat, smiling to himself. Brennan placed his cup of coffee on the table and started to remove his jacket. As he hung it over the back of the chair, McGuire entered and nodded.

‘All done?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Henderson folded his arms, then just as quickly unfolded them and showed his palms to the officers. ‘Well, did you get it… The diary?’

Brennan picked up his coffee and took a sip; he winced a little, it was still too hot. He returned the cup to the table and removed a packet of Embassy Regal from his jacket. Henderson watched him as he moved, each turn followed by his twitching eyes.

‘How did you come to know about the diary, Hendy?’ said Brennan.

‘She showed me it, didn’t she.’ He smirked as he finished his sentence.

‘What just out of the blue… She tells you about Crawley.’

Henderson tapped on the table with a dirty fingernail. ‘No, well, not really… It was after the thing on the news, about the murder and that.’

‘Set her off did it?’

‘Yeah, did a bit.’

McGuire crossed his legs, looked over Henderson. ‘And so she turned to you as a sympathetic ear, is that right?’

‘Yeah, I was all she had.’

Brennan leaned in, removed a cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘You were all she had… Bit sad that, isn’t it? All she had was her pimp.’

Henderson brought his palm down on the table, ‘Look, am I getting out of here or what? I gave you the fucking diary, you know who you should be looking for.’

Brennan and McGuire exchanged brief glances. The DI took a long draw on his cigarette, watched the slow trail of blue smoke making its way towards Henderson as he exhaled. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to work like that, Hendy… You see, Crawley’s done a runner, and I want to know who tipped him off. I think you might know Crawley a bit better than you’re letting on.’

‘Bullshit… He’s a fucking beast.’

McGuire reached behind his seat, produced a blue folder and placed it on the table. Brennan opened the folder, turned a few pages. ‘You know what these are, Hendy?’

He shrugged, looked away.

‘Well, let me explain… They’re bank statements, Crawley’s to be precise, and they tell an interesting story, say they were emptied up to the maximum amounts a wee while ago…’

Henderson remained impassive.

Brennan continued, ‘Now when I spoke to a close friend of yours recently, Boaby Stevens that is, he told me you repaid a substantial part of your loan to him, and the amount matches the withdrawals from Crawley’s bank accounts…’

Henderson sat back, stared at the wall. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

Brennan smiled, ‘I don’t fucking need to, Hendy, you’re in enough shit as it is… Did I mention you’re in the frame for Angela’s death?’

‘That was fucking Crawley!’

Brennan shook his head, stubbed his cigarette. ‘The forensics team tell us a different story… Now, look, I’m going to be very generous to you, Hendy, so generous you’ll be thanking your lucky stars you ever met me. I’m going to ask you, nicely, to tell me all about your involvement with Crawley, from your first meeting to your last. I want to know how much money you took from him, how much more you were planning to take, I want to know what you told him about Angela and her diary and I want to know, most importantly, where the hell he is now.’

Henderson stood up, knocking over his chair. ‘Dream the fuck on!’ Brennan watched him walk to the end of the interview room and kick out at the wall. He turned away from the officers and walked towards the other end of the room, launching at the opposite wall with a fist. He put his hands up to his head and stomped from left to right, then lashed out again. He continued in this pattern until he looked back to Brennan and pointed, ‘Crawley’s the fucking beast!’

Brennan reclined in his chair, put his hands in his pockets. He watched Henderson pace a little more and then kick over the chair. ‘Pick it up, Hendy, sit yourself down and tell us what we want to know. You’re going nowhere from here except a cell… How long you go there for depends on what you tell us, so grow some fucking sense.’