Tony Black - Truth Lies Bleeding

‘Pull up in front of the SOCOs,’ said Brennan. ‘Don’t want them accusing us of blocking access to their wee gang hut.’

The driver eased through the gears, slowly, and put the car in at the kerb. A small crowd had formed in the street; some uniforms paced a thin cordon. The crowd looked subdued. At once Brennan knew the word had got out.

‘Look at them,’ he said to the constable.

‘What?’

‘Their faces… They know.’

The younger man stared out of the window. His expression seemed to mirror the sad mix of hurt and shame. Grief swayed through the assembled bodies; Brennan knew this wasn’t a good sign. A community in hurt was a community in trouble, and trouble he could well do without.

The constable put on his cap, followed Brennan out to the pavement. The SOCOs paced from a small laneway, into their white van that looked like a mobile library. Brennan watched their faces for signs, giveaways, but they portrayed nothing. They never did. Two uniforms greeted the DI. One was speaking into the radio clipped onto his Kevlar vest but he stopped when he saw the detective. ‘Morning, sir.’

Brennan nodded. ‘We got the doc on site?’

‘He’s been and gone.’

‘Fucking hell. Already? Has he a holiday booked?’

The constable rubbed his cheek, tried to speak but couldn’t seem to find the right words.

‘Never mind,’ said Brennan. ‘Let’s get going.’

As he paced for the lane he was T-boned by a young woman with a digital recorder in her hand. She had just ducked under the blue-and-white tape and definitely wasn’t messing about. ‘Are you the investigating officer?’ she said.

Brennan looked at her then glanced to the uniforms. They pushed in front of her and grabbed her arms.

‘Get off me!’

‘Sorry about this, sir.’

Brennan watched the scene. The woman was early twenties, fresh-faced. She was also too eager for her own good.

‘Do you have an ID for the victim?’

She already had too much information.

‘Do you have any suspects on the girl’s death?’

Brennan felt a flush of heat in his chest; he clenched his jaw. The woman prised an arm free of the uniforms, pushed out the recorder’s mic. Brennan lifted a hand, covered the small, silver-coloured device. ‘You seem to know more than me, love.’

She tutted, near spat, ‘I’m not your love!’

Brennan smiled at her and walked away. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Got that right.’

A SOCO approached as he walked to the lane. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘Is it?’

The man dropped his brows. ‘Sir?’

Brennan stopped, nodding back to the scene he’d just left. ‘How did the fucking press latch onto this so soon?’

Now he raised his brows. ‘The press?’

‘That’s not a welcoming party from the News.’

The SOCO looked past Brennan. The young reporter was being escorted beyond the taped-off area. ‘Never seen her before.’

‘Get a good look. Sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of her. Trust me, I’m a good judge of character.’

The SOCO had no reply. He handed Brennan a pair of blue covers for his shoes.

‘Got some gloves?’ said the detective.

A shrug, shake of the head.

‘Typical. Come on then, let’s do this.’

Brennan strode past the officer, made for the lane. As he passed, the SOCO spoke out, ‘I should warn you, sir, it’s not a pretty sight.’

Brennan turned. ‘It never is, lad.’

Devlin McArdle rubbed an open palm over his smooth head. The razor sting ignited with his touch but the satisfaction he felt with the close crop cancelled it out.

‘Nice one, just the job,’ he said.

The barber smiled, leaned in and brushed at McArdle’s shoulders. A few strands of stubble fell to the floor. McArdle turned down the corners of his mouth, pushed away the barber’s hand. ‘That’s enough, that’s enough.’ As he rose from the chair, the black robe was removed in one swift pull. He strode to the till, said, ‘How much?’

A shake of the head. ‘No charge, sir.’ The barber made a small cross over his heart. ‘Not for you, sir.’

McArdle smiled. It was only a small curl of the lip; he didn’t look used to it, and stopped it almost as quickly as it appeared. As he turned for the door he saw a thin man waiting outside for him. He was tugging nervously at the cord on his jogging trousers. There was a tic queuing on his eyelid and he brushed at it with a speed that looked unnatural. Jumpy, the man was jumpy. Even more than usual, if that was possible. His whole demeanour said trouble — he was either in some kind of bother, or about to be.

At the door the man tried to catch McArdle’s attention. He leaned forward and made a gesture with his shaking hand. McArdle ignored him, walking out the door and onto London Road. The street was busy. It was early afternoon; giro day at the post office had attracted a crowd. As McArdle walked he felt his thighs rub together. He had the squat build of a weightlifter, could handle himself: they called him ‘the Deil’. Those that didn’t know him thought it was a contraction of Devlin, a play on the Scots for Devil, but those who did know him knew the name was hard earned. McArdle liked people to know that about him.

The thin man followed him up the road. McArdle caught sight of him shuffling into doorways and under scaffolding as he tried to keep a respectful distance. He had told Barry Tierney never to stop him in the street; he’d warned the loser more than once. He felt his feet stamping harder with every step, wished he hadn’t put on trainers — boots would have been better for bursting this stupid prick’s head. His shoulders tensed as a haar shot up Maryfield on its way to the tourists trekking Arthur’s Seat. He crossed over the road, onto West Norton Place, and took the side street at the old tech college. He turned to see Tierney pegging it up behind him. McArdle ducked into wasteground behind a Shell garage and waited. In a few moments he started to hear the shuffling gait, the heavy breathing. He reached out and pulled Tierney into the back of the disused building.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

Tierney flinched, brought hands up to his head. ‘I’ve got money… I’ve got money.’

McArdle slapped him; one slap, it toppled him. Tierney fell to the ground and curled up. ‘I’m sorry… I know you said, but I’ve got money.’ He dug in the pockets of his torn Adidas hoodie. ‘Here, here…’ It was forty, maybe fifty pounds.

McArdle snatched it. ‘What’s this?’ He slapped the notes and his fist off Tierney’s head. The force of it scraped his knuckles. Blood streamed from a gash on the thin man’s forehead. ‘You’re into me for more than fifty quid!’

‘I know… I know… I just thought-’

‘You thought what?’ McArdle stamped his foot on his ribcage. Tierney coughed heavily. ‘I’ll tell you when to think, y’piece of shit. Get it?… Eh? Get it?’ McArdle was ready to end Tierney’s days but the noise of a car parking up at the Shell garage changed his mind. He leaned forward, grabbed Tierney by the neck and yanked him to his feet.

‘Look, I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’ve got your money… I can soon get all of it!’

McArdle released his grip, poked Tierney’s chest. ‘What are you on about?’

Tierney gasped, stepped back. ‘When, y’know, Vee and me had that deal with you — remember that time?’

McArdle’s lower lip drooped. He was confused. Was Tierney saying what he thought he was? ‘You mean you and Vee…? You’re not saying you want to pay me off like that again?’

Tierney stepped back. His face twitched and ticced as he brushed himself down with his bony fingers. ‘Yeah, yeah. I mean, no… last time you paid more than that. More than we owe you.’