Tony Black - Murder Mile

Brennan opened the passenger door, stepped inside and buckled his seatbelt. ‘Head out Liberton way…’

‘Sir?’ It was a question, McGuire obviously had doubts.

‘Do it, Stevie… now!’

The car took off down the road, turned a hairpin into Duke Street. The burning stench of car tyres filled Brennan’s nostrils, made him feel queasy again; he reached for the button to lower the window and stuck his face against the gushing air. The cold wind seemed to help, buffeted his hot brow and aching jaw. The DI raised his fingertips to where McGuire’s fist had connected; he felt the swelling, knew there would be a bruise, but it was the damage to his self-esteem that mattered more. Brennan had taken a risk leaving WPC Docherty alone in Angela Mickle’s flat. He had used her as bait. He now wondered how he could have been so reckless. He knew McGuire had every right to blame him for what had happened; in the final analysis it had been his decision to mount the operation and he would have to take responsibility for that.

Brennan raised a hand to the roof as McGuire spun the wheel through the roundabout at the top of the Walk. He punched an imaginary brake with his right foot as the Passat veered towards the back of a black cab, then the DS dropped a gear and overtook in the left-hand lane. The DI made a glance in the McGuire’s direction, caught sight of the locked gaze he presented to the windscreen. Brennan knew McGuire wasn’t the only one who would hold him responsible for tonight’s failures: there was the Chief Super to consider. He felt his fists tightening and his lower lip curling over his teeth as he thought about the prospect of explaining himself to Benny. He had nowhere left to go with his superior; he had exhausted all options on the case and the sting at Angela Mickle’s flat was — he understood perfectly — his last opportunity to get it right. The Chief Super was already looking for a way out of the mess: there would be an inquiry into the Gallagher affair, certainly the Fiona Gow case would be re-examined and those of Lindsey Sloan and Angela Mickle too. Brennan knew he was in the clear — he had taken few liberties on the job — but he also knew how the force worked: scapegoats were sought and found. If it came down to it, Benny would fight to protect himself, and Chief Superintendents brought more weight to the ring than Detective Inspectors.

McGuire flashed his headlights at a Lothian bus driver, blasted the horn and stuck his head out the window. ‘Move your fucking arse!’

Brennan snapped out of his introspection as McGuire gestured angrily at the flashing blue light on the roof. ‘All right, Stevie, take the middle lane and keep the head.’

McGuire dropped a gear, rolled the car towards the centre of the road. He was still cursing as he found an open stretch of Nicolson Street and pressed the accelerator down.

‘This traffic is hellish… Are you sure about coming out this way, sir?’

Brennan gripped the seatbelt, ‘Just keep going, head for the A720, and then lap the area…’

McGuire shot a glance in Brennan’s direction; the DI and the DS seemed to share thoughts for a moment, but neither wanted to give voice to them.

Brennan’s heart rate had reduced, his focus had returned, but his thoughts had taken him to a place he would sooner not be. WPC Docherty had been snatched by Crawley, that was the fact they were facing. He knew why it was his first instinct to head for the fields at Straiton: Crawley was a serial killer. He had killed two young women and was ready to kill a third — Angela Mickle — to silence her and his urges. Brennan knew Crawley could only suppress his urges to kill for so long before he needed to strike again — both Lorrimer and Wullie’s experience had confirmed that — it was more than probable Crawley would act on his instinct to kill when confronted with Elaine Docherty. It was reckless, but if he thought she was a prostitute, he could afford to be reckless. He also had his protector, or so he believed.

The radio silence was broken by Lou’s voice: ‘Sir, we’ve reached the Crawley residence… All quiet.’

Brennan looked at McGuire who slapped an open palm off the wheel and grimaced. The DI picked up the handset, ‘OK, Lou, what’s occurring back in Leith?’

The line crackled, then, ‘No reported sightings. Uniform’s moving on foot round the Mickle flat and we’ve got the dogs out…’

Brennan touched his head with the edge of the handset. ‘OK, Lou — join them.’

The car neared the roundabout at the bypass and Brennan craned his neck towards the dark fields. As McGuire flicked the headlights to full beam, Brennan felt his shoulders stiffen. The thudding of his heart increased again, the DI knew that his whole career was now on the line; it was as if all his work over the years had reached this point and yet he didn’t seem to care whether he remained on the force or not. Brennan’s mind was occupied with his previous visits to the grim stretch of farmland where he had seen the mutilated bodies of the two young women. The pictures that had been pinned on the board of Incident Room One came back to him, he heard the words from the pathologist’s report again and he remembered the looks on the faces of the Sloans as he spoke to them about their daughter. Brennan knew he couldn’t take the news of another death; he knew McGuire would be finished by the loss of Elaine too. The thoughts swirled in him, marched through his mind like an unholy pain brigade and made him shake his head in an effort to block them out.

‘Fucking hell, slow it down, Stevie!’ he yelled. ‘How are we supposed to see anything if you’re up to sixty!’

The DS depressed the brake, brought the speed of the car down. Brennan reached for the buttons to lower the windows, a chill wind blew through the vehicle as they dropped. ‘Can you hear anything?’ he said.

McGuire shook his head, ‘Nothing… No.’

‘Right, get on the back road…’

Brennan watched McGuire turn on the blinkers, drop a gear and slot the car into the side road where they had driven towards the site of Angela Mickle’s body. The DI blocked his emotions, gulped down all fears he held and became an automaton, searching the dark fields for a chink of light, listening for a shrill cry from WPC Elaine Docherty. He knew Crawley had a routine, he knew the serial killer had acted out the routine before and had never been caught, or even witnessed by anyone; but Brennan held out the hope that, until now, no one had been looking in the right place, or at the right time.

‘Stop the car, Stevie…’

‘What, here?’

Brennan smacked the dash with the flat of his hand, ‘Yes, fucking here…’

As the car slowed, the DI undid his seatbelt, started to open his door. His feet were dangling over the dirt road as the car came to a halt. He stepped out, turned towards the dry-stone dyke skirting the field. The ground was wet; long grass holding plenty of moisture brushed him as he positioned his feet on the stones of the wall and raised himself to a point where he could view the full mile radius of the murder scenes.

‘See anything?’ said McGuire.

Brennan flagged a hand, said ‘Shh-h, I’m trying to listen.’

The night was silent, black.

The DI felt the stone he stood on move beneath him, he repositioned himself and felt McGuire’s hand steady him. He could hear nothing, see nothing. As he stared out into complete and utter blackness, Brennan felt the immensity of the world conspiring against him. He felt like an insignificant speck as he raked his eyes over the miles of inky darkness. There was nothing there. It felt like the end of the world; it felt like the end of everything he had ever known, as if his whole life had been ineluctably aiming towards this point to prove just how futile all his struggles with existence were.