DI Rob Brennan stepped from the front door of the police station and removed a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. There was only one cigarette left in the box of Embassy Regal; Brennan placed the filter tip in his mouth and scrunched the empty container. He lit the cigarette and stood staring into the distance as the tobacco filled his lungs. He could see the roofs of tenements catching the last rays of a tarrying sun. There had been a spill of rain earlier in the day, the pot-holed car park held dark pools of water that reflected the last of the day’s light. It was cooling now, not just the temperature, but the sky’s colour too, the cobalt expanses greying from the edges towards the centre. The scene set Brennan’s pulse racing — time was ticking away. He knew what he needed to do before the sky turned from blue to black but he doubted whether he would be able to achieve it. There were too many uncertainties stacking up around him; too much he couldn’t control.
As he drew the cigarette towards his mouth once more, the DI thought of Angela Mickle and the other girls. He had spent plenty of time going over the deaths of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan but somehow he felt differently towards Angela. Her life had been ruined by what had happened in her past — Brennan recalled the entries she had made in her diary and wondered how the young girl who wrote them must have felt about the world and its new cruelties she was discovering. Brennan shook his head, took another drag on the cigarette and tried to regain his focus. He knew none of this was helping the investigation; was it helping him? He had always tried to compartmentalise his sympathies, store them away. It was a hindrance to have to feel like a normal human being at times like this; he wanted to be able to bring down the shutters, block out his emotions, but it was difficult when the victim was a young woman who had once been a young girl so much like his own daughter. How did these turns of fate transpire? he wondered. How did Angela Mickle go from one day being just another member of her school’s gymnastics team to the object of a predatory paedophile’s fantasy? Her fall from preyed-upon schoolgirl to preyed-upon prostitute looked like a long drop, but in reality — in her mind, he surmised — was probably no more than a matter of weeks. Angela Mickle had lost any grip she held on normality the day Crawley started to take an interest in her; when she met Neil Henderson, she lost everything else. He thought of the shabby flat the pair shared in Leith, the used condoms littering the floor, the dirty, stained mattress in the centre of the living room. They lived like animals, worse than animals. It struck Brennan that, perhaps, she was in a better place now — but he doubted it — it was a preprogrammed part of his brain lobbing out platitudes to make him feel better. One thing was for sure, wherever Angela Mickle was now, she was out of Crawley’s clutches, and as far away from Neil Henderson’s reach as could be.
Brennan scrunched his brows, flicked his cigarette into the car park. The amber tip fizzed as it came into contact with the wet tarmac. He watched the dim embers of the tobacco turn to grey as the white paper absorbed the moisture, and then a gust caught the cigarette butt and blew it out of sight. He felt the muscles stiffening in his shoulders as he braced against the sudden wind, his shirt sleeves billowing. He wanted to be away, somewhere else; he didn’t want to think about the case and the deaths of three young women who he had only got to know once they had been killed. He thought it was too much for one man to have to deal with and then it struck him how strange it was for himself to have such a thought. He had dealt with many brutal murders before, so what was it about this case that sickened him so much? Was it his age, the age of his daughter, the end of his marriage? The fact that he had found one of his own officers covering up important evidence? He resigned himself to never know the answer, but the fact that he no longer had the stomach for the work was something he knew he would have to face.
The station doors swung open; DS Stevie McGuire stood in the jamb for a moment then paced into the cold. He was holding a blue folder. ‘Thought I’d find you out here.’
Brennan nodded to the DS, ‘And you did.’
‘Henderson’s charged…’
Brennan didn’t answer.
McGuire continued, ‘Bri was on the phone: they’re on their way… Look, I was thinking you might want to cast an eye over this before they get here…’
Brennan took the folder from McGuire; it contained the file — so far as it stood — on Crawley and the complete file on DI Jim Gallagher. ‘Cheers, I’ll have a deck at this before I see him.’
McGuire started to rub at his arms, ‘Jesus, brass-monkeys out here isn’t it?’ He seemed to register Brennan’s lack of interest in communicating. ‘Right, I’ll get away, boss…’
‘OK.’
McGuire opened the station door, said, ‘Look, do you want me to tell Benny that Gallagher’s in… not right away, obviously, I mean when you’ve had a chat with him.’
Brennan kept his face front, ‘No, Stevie, I need to see Benny about something else…’
‘Oh, right… What’s that?’
Brennan turned, a thin smile played on the side of his face, ‘Just something.’
McGuire winked, made for the door, ‘Say no more.’
Left oh his own, Brennan turned to the folder he had been handed, started to go through it. He had seen much of the information on Crawley earlier, but as he turned the pages over he alighted on a piece of information that jabbed at him like a knife point.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Brennan.
The DI shut Crawley’s file and started to thumb through the early pages of DI Jim Gallagher’s file; he was closing down on the information he sought when a navy-blue Mondeo drove into the car park and pulled up before the station’s entrance.
Bri exited the passenger’s door and nodded to Brennan, ‘How goes it, boss?’
As Brennan replied, Lou left the driver’s side and went to open the back door; DI Jim Gallagher was sitting in the back seat. ‘Where do you want him, sir?’
Brennan snapped the blue folder shut, roared, ‘Get him in the fucking door, now!’ He turned for the entrance, jerked the handle and stomped into the station. As he stood waiting for the others he wondered if he would be able to face Gallagher and then the thought became a sounding board in him that he knew he would have to test. As Lou and Bri led in the DI, Brennan turned to face him squarely, said, ‘What were you doing at Crawley’s house, Jim?’
Gallagher’s eyes were glassy under his moist brow, then he flashed a weak smile across his face, ‘Rob, for crying out loud… I heard the call on the radio and went to check it out. Is that what all this is about?’
Brennan watched the others exchange glances, then he fixed his glare on Gallagher. ‘No you never, Jim… Because we didn’t put that on the radio.’
‘But, I–I…’
‘Take him down to the cells, lads.’
Gallagher bridled, seemed to dig in his heels where he stood. ‘The cells? Is that really necessary, Rob, we can talk this through surely
…’
Brennan nodded towards the steps, ‘Not my orders, Jim… That comes straight from Benny.’
As Lou and Bri led Gallagher away, he turned, tried to catch Brennan’s eye, but the DI dipped his head towards the folder in his hand. He let them get out of sight before he started to follow them. As he did so, he glanced towards the front desk; Charlie sat silently, his mouth clamped tight shut. Brennan acknowledged the desk sergeant and proceeded towards him.
‘Give me that keyboard there,’ he said.
Charlie handed over the grey office keyboard and turned the monitor screen to face Brennan. ‘Anything else I can do?’ he said.
‘No, this is fine… Just need to check something out on the database.’
Brennan reached over and picked up the mouse, placed it on the counter. He started to scroll through a few screens and then opened the blue folder to the page he was reading from earlier. He wanted to check the dates Jim Gallagher had attended Dungarn Boys Home, and cross-reference them with an idea that was germinating inside him. He located the dates, then closed down the screen, returned the keyboard to Charlie.
‘All OK?’ said Charlie.
Brennan nodded, lifted the phone and dialled Incident Room One. ‘It’s Rob, give me Stevie.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The phone’s receiver clunked on the hardwood desk and then was picked up a few moments later, ‘McGuire.’
‘Stevie, I want you to check something out for me… Now, you’ll have to do this right away. Get into the files and search for Dungarn Boys Home…’
‘Why on earth…’
‘Don’t fucking ask, I need to know about the place, just get me the full SP… Can you do that?’
‘Yes, sure… I just don’t see the…’
Brennan cut in, ‘You don’t need to, Stevie… I’m going to see Gallagher, I’ll be downstairs, so anything you turn up, bring it in right away. I don’t have long with him before I’ll have to hand him over to Benny.’
‘OK, Boss. I’ll get right on it.’
Brennan hung up the phone; he put a stare on Charlie as he turned from the desk and headed for the back steps towards the cells. He knew that the fount of all station gossip would have plenty to say on this matter one day, but he also knew he could rely on him to keep it to himself right now — some subjects, by their very nature, rendered themselves above gossip and Brennan knew that instinctively; even Charlie understood that.
As he descended the stairs towards the cells, Brennan played over in his mind the moments that had led up to this point. He had been suspicious of Jim Gallagher from the first but had no real evidence to back up his assumptions. He knew Gallagher was a glory hunter and he had witnessed his cozening of the Chief Super at first hand; however, what he had never considered was that Gallagher’s involvement was criminal. He had covered up vital evidence in a triple murder case that had attracted widespread media attention; the force would not be kind to him, never mind the law. What really galled Brennan, however, was the fact that the murderer was still out there, and Gallagher knew it. Why would he sabotage the case like this? How many lives of innocent young girls did he want on his hands?
Brennan felt his stomach tighten, then turn sharply. He felt a sickening grip his heart and threaten to topple him. He steadied himself on the grey wall, reached out a hand and then placed the flat of his back on the cold plaster. For a moment everything spun; thoughts of the case laced with thoughts of Gallagher’s actions. Nothing made sense any more; perhaps, above everything, that was what wounded Brennan. He felt like he had lost his edge, like the job was no longer within his ken.
He stood before the cell door where the word GALLAGHER had been chalked up, looked down the hallway and nodded towards the duty officer, ‘Want to open up this one, Davie?’
The broad officer padded towards Brennan and removed a bunch of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He looked like he might speak, pass comment on the cell’s occupant, but then he thinned his lips as if suddenly thinking better of it. Brennan spoke as he entered the cell, ‘I’ll give you a shout when I’m done.’
‘OK, sir.’
In the cell, Gallagher sat on the edge of the narrow bed with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt open at the collar. His laces had been removed from his grey shoes and their tongues sat upwards like gravestones. He looked at Brennan when he walked in the room but then lowered his head as if resigned to his fate. He displayed a bald patch at the back of his head, stray hairs scraped over the pate showed like fence palings. For a moment Brennan stood before Gallagher, listened to the key turning in the door, and then he paced towards him.
‘There’s no way back, Jim,’ said Brennan; he reached into his pocket for a cigarette and then recalled he had finished the pack. ‘The Chief Super knows all about your antics…’
Gallagher huffed, ‘Antics?… And what would they be, Rob?’
Brennan positioned himself on the adjacent wall, planted the sole of his shoe there to support him, ‘Crawley… You cut him out the investigation. Why?’
Gallagher brought his hands up to the sides of his head; he splayed out his fingers and touched the temples. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Why Jim? Why did you cover for him… If there is some kind of excuse, if he had something over you, I can live with that, but you have to tell me.’
Gallagher’s fingers started to massage his head, first the sides, and then the crown, mussing what remained of his hair. ‘You’ve no fucking clue, Rob.’
‘Well, fill me in…’
Gallagher sat up straight; his eyes were rimmed in red. His face seemed to have lost several shades of colour as he spoke, ‘Do you have a cigarette?’
Brennan tapped at his pockets, shook his head. ‘Hold on, I’ll get some.’ He walked to the door and opened the Judas hole to attract the duty officer. When Davie appeared he motioned with two fingers towards his mouth to signify he wanted cigarettes. The officer opened up the door, held it ajar. ‘Hold on, I’ve got a pack in the doocot,’ he said.
As Brennan waited for Davie to return, the main door to the cells opened up and DS Stevie McGuire passed through; as he saw Brennan he increased his pace. ‘All right, boss…’
‘Stevie, what did you get for me?’
He held up a single sheet of paper, ‘Not much to go on, but…’
Brennan raised his hand, read the copy of an original charge sheet that detailed the manslaughter of John Burnside by Colin McCabe, both residents of Dungarn Boys Home. He turned his gaze back towards Gallagher in the cell as he spoke again, ‘Right, Stevie, go on…’
‘I ran the name through… Colin McCabe… it’s Crawley.’
Davie appeared with the cigarettes; Brennan took the packet of Silk Cut and a box of Swan Vestas matches and returned to the cell. As the door closed and the key turned once more, Brennan lit two cigarettes and handed one to Gallagher. The strong smell of tobacco lingered in the enclosed area as he walked back to his place at the wall and looked at the charge sheet. He kept the paper in his hand for a moment then leaned forward, placed it on the bed next to the prisoner.
Gallagher picked it up, read. His voice came weakly, ‘That’s good work, Rob… You were always a good copper.’
Brennan raised his cigarette, inhaled deep. ‘Tell me what happened at Dungarn, Jim.’
He sneered, thin white lines appeared at the sides of his red eyes. ‘It would be easier to tell you what didn’t happen at that place.’
Brennan allowed Gallagher a moment, then pressed again. ‘That boy, on the charge sheet…’
‘Colin McCabe… It’s Crawley, he changed his name years back, way before the Education Board started looking into that kind of thing.’
Brennan frowned, ‘No, I didn’t mean him… The victim, John Burnside, tell me about him.’
Gallagher raised the cigarette to his mouth and took a deep draw on it; his hand seemed to flutter before his face as he held the cigarette. He pinched his lips and blew out a thin trail of blue smoke as he spoke with a trembling voice, ‘He was a cunt… What do you want me to say, Rob. He arse-fucked us all… He was a fucking animal. What we did, he had it coming.’
Brennan watched the ash fall from the tip of Gallagher’s cigarette, stepped forward. ‘What we did?’
Gallagher’s head turned sharply; his eyes were wide as he took in the DI. ‘You’re the detective… Why the fuck do you think I’m here?’
Brennan stood before Gallagher, bent his knees to face him. He had taken in Gallagher’s words, absorbed their implication, but their true meaning seemed to have escaped him. The logical answer had been given, but Brennan’s mind seemed to be having difficulty keeping up. ‘ We, Jim?’
Gallagher lowered his head again, the cigarette in his fingers fell to the ground as he clutched at the back of his neck and sobbed. ‘Colin and me, we killed him… Colin took the weight, they had it down as manslaughter but it should have been murder because we killed him, we both did.’
Brennan felt an urge to reach out to Gallagher, to place a hand on his shoulder and offer him some comfort; the man was hurting, but there was no sympathy on offer to him. Brennan rose, turned away towards the cell door. As he gathered his breath, his strength, he tried to process the information he had just received.
Gallagher called out to him, ‘What’ll they do to me, Rob?’
Brennan turned back, his heart was pounding beneath his shirt front. ‘What’ll they not do to you, Jim.’