Tony Black - Murder Mile

She smiled, ‘Will I need my high heels, sir?’

‘You just might.’

Brennan patted Elaine’s shoulder, returned the cigarettes and lighter to Collins and walked towards McGuire’s desk. The DS was poring over a folder, making annotations in the margin with a Biro.

‘Stevie, got time for a word?’ said Brennan.

The DS dropped the pen, slapped the folder closed, and stood up. He made no eye contact with Brennan as he quick-stepped towards his office at the end of Incident Room One. As Brennan watched McGuire, he felt as if he had made a miscalculation somewhere along the line, but he wasn’t sure where. In his office, Brennan closed the door gently, then walked around to the other side of the desk, said, ‘Take a seat, Stevie.’

‘I’d sooner stand… sir.’

Brennan turned down the corners of his mouth, ‘Suit yourself.’ He watched as McGuire turned away from him, folded his arms. It seemed a petulant stance, like one a teenager would adopt. It was tempting to slap sense into the lad thought Brennan, and then he calmed his spirits. ‘Is there something bothering you, Stevie?’

The DS sighed audibly, ‘Oh, let me see… Now what could that be, sir?’

‘She’ll be perfectly safe, she’ll be wired.’

McGuire leaned forward, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty… Is that going to make an ounce of difference?’ He turned his shoulder, raised an arm towards the incident room, ‘Have you seen those pictures up there on the board?… What chance is she going to have against that bastard?’

Brennan placed his elbows on the desk, locked his fingers together. He allowed a few seconds of silence to settle in the room, gave McGuire a moment of reflection. ‘I wouldn’t put her in any danger; come on Stevie, I don’t see Elaine complaining.’

McGuire reeled back, placed his hands on his hips, ‘That’s because she’s too fucking ambitious for her own good… And you’re just taking advantage of that!’

‘No, I’m not. She’s been working the clubs with Collins and she’s proven herself… She’s the best person for the job.’

McGuire stared at Brennan, lifted his hands from his hips and smacked them off his thighs, ‘Fuck the job!’

Brennan rose from his chair; he could see eyes directed at him through the glass. ‘Stevie, now calm down.’

‘I’m serious; look at the state of this case: Gallagher’s made cunts of us all and now all you’re concerned about is getting him back, righting wrongs any old way…’

‘Stevie, that’s not true.’

‘Bullshit!.. I thought you would never put your team in danger, thought you looked out for people, but I was wrong.’ He turned for the door, yanked the handle. As he exited, the door swung behind him then clattered into the frame.

Brennan pressed his fingernails into the edge of the desk, lowered himself into his chair. He watched McGuire stride through the office at pace, all heads turning towards him; as he left the main door of Incident Room One the DS had lost none of his fervour.

DI Rob Brennan travelled in the front of the van with Collins driving; there was a hint of rain in the air outside but the threat of more to come hadn’t materialised by the time they reached the roundabout at the Playhouse Theatre. There was already a number of people queuing in the taxi rank — young girls in short skirts and young boys looking them over, digging elbows in each other’s sides as they went. Brennan felt a shudder of despair as he looked out at the familiar landscape of the Edinburgh streets. He was tired of the city, nothing there offered him any surprises now. In another hour or so the shivering teenage girls would be holding their shoes in their hands, staggering and puking into the gutter. The boys would be throwing fists and holding burst noses or pissing against shop doorways. Edinburgh never changed; the city was like a production line throwing off skinny, spotty yobs who blocked the streets and cells and made the DI wonder when or if he would ever be free of it. He knew he was being hard on the place, but it was his job to know the real city behind the Georgian facade of the New Town and the whisky-soaked bonhomie of the Old Town. Brennan recalled the statistic that in London you were never more than six feet from a rat; in Edinburgh, he knew, the same distance could be applied to junkies, pimps and pushers with some degree of accuracy.

‘The state of that,’ said Collins, nodding towards a drunk negotiating a zigzagging path towards the traffic lights.

‘He’ll not last the night,’ said Brennan.

‘He’ll be lucky to last to the end of the street before some wee ned has him pummelled…’ Collins turned briefly to face the DI, ‘rite of passage these days, isn’t it.’

Brennan watched the drunk hanging on to the light at the pedestrian crossing, but didn’t answer Collins. He started to roll down his window and took out a cigarette from a new packet of Embassy Regal. The cold wind from the street filled the cab and sent Collins reaching for the heater. Brennan took the hint and rolled the window up a little but left enough of a gap for him to knock the ash from the tip of his cigarette onto the road. As the van rolled onto Leith Walk, he thought about his temporary lodgings on nearby Montgomery Street and wondered what there was to keep him in the city now. He knew, of course, the answer was his daughter. Sophie was still here and she needed him, even if she didn’t know it and would certainly never admit it. As he took stock of his life’s worth, Brennan knew it was a thin tally to account for his time on the planet; he hoped for better for his daughter, didn’t all fathers?

Brennan knew Angela Mickle had deserved better too, as had Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. None of them deserved what their tragically short lives had amounted to. It gored Brennan to think of the way they had suffered, how their families had suffered. None of it was remotely comprehensible to the DI, but then he knew that was the way it should be — it would take a sick mind to understand the likes of Crawley. The teacher had preyed on youngsters in his care and moulded them into objects of his sick fantasies. Brennan knew there would be lawyers and psychiatrists who would try to explain away Crawley’s actions, but the thought of any kind of clemency for him made Brennan’s guts tighten. He felt only revulsion for the man. There were two clear sides: the victims and the perpetrator, and Brennan knew which side of the chalk line he stood on. He felt his jaw locking tight as he thought of Crawley; there had never been a time when he had strayed completely from his duties as a police officer but Brennan knew he would reverse all of that to give Crawley a glimpse of the true terror he had brought to those young lives. The case had worked its way under Brennan’s skin; had he grown too close to the investigation? he wondered. Yes, probably. But he was only human, he had seen the faces of those victims, heard the cries of grieving parents — how could it not affect him? As they turned off Leith Walk, the DI knew for certain that if he failed to catch Crawley the job was over for him; too much damage had been inflicted on him already, another blow would be his last.

Brennan threw his cigarette butt from the window, and pointed Collins towards a gap in the traffic. ‘Pull in there.’

As Collins parked up, Brennan looked out towards the grey tenements sitting under the fast-darkening sky. He tapped a fingernail off the dashboard and turned round towards the back of the van, ‘You guys set?’

The pair monitoring the wire nodded, raised thumbs. ‘Sir.’

Brennan turned to Collins, ‘Right, let’s join them.’

As they moved towards the back of the van, they collected headsets — the DI spoke into his, ‘Stevie, you in position?’