DI Rob Brennan knew most people were miserable. The first time he had encountered Thoreau’s dictum: ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, was like an epiphany. Life is drudge; it affords the majority of people just enough comfort to stave off the nagging rage at the injustice of their existence. A bellyful of cheap booze; escape through vicarious sporting victory. It is a pathetic life for them, he thought. He passed judgement not in a critical, arrogant way — he meant it in the true meaning of the word, worthy of pity. It was what got him through the day. Dealing with the ignorant and ill-mannered was workable if you didn’t lower yourself to their base emotional states. He had always frowned on those who reacted to rude waiters or receptionists or bank tellers — what was the point? With people so low on the life-rewards scale, you can’t reason. Every action and reaction is aimed at redressing their low rating, clawing back some modicum of self-worth, levelling the world they despise. You can try to remonstrate, take them on on your terms, but it always ends the same way: with the rolling up of sleeves. It is easy to be brought down to their level — impossible to raise them to yours.
Brennan knew he had a difficulty with DC Stevie McGuire. The lad, and he was a lad, had never impressed him. He didn’t take the job seriously, and this was a job you could not take any other way. He had McGuire’s number, as they say, and it didn’t amount to a fraction of what it should. The boy was typical old-school Edinburgh: the type whose first question — once they’ve passed a favourable judgement on your accent — is what school did you go to? They never ask out of idle curiosity, or to make conversation like other people; in Edinburgh, they ask to see if you are part of their club. Brennan was a part of no club; he did not join in.
McGuire’s actions bothered him. It wasn’t his background — that was something he’d learned to deal with, couldn’t alter so didn’t try — but the sense of entitlement he carried soured him. Brennan held on to his rank with a similar sense of entitlement but it was different in one main regard: he had earned it. McGuire felt due rewards he hadn’t grafted for — or, so far as Brennan could see, was ever likely to, or capable of. If the lad had shown promise, or enthusiasm even, he would have gladly pushed him up the ranks, but his attitude as it stood created the opposite effect in him: Brennan wanted to expose his flaws. Was this wrong? Was it a failing on his part that he couldn’t warm to McGuire? Did he have some deep-seated class prejudice that kept him from identifying any good qualities in him? Surely not. Brennan knew when he was being hard on himself. It was almost a speciality. What he was being was analytically critical. He had to be. The life he led demanded it. There was your opinion, then there was the polar opposite, then there was every shade and nuance in between, and Brennan knew well to check them all out, because you never knew which one was going to get the job done.
‘Stevie, when you’ve a minute.’ Brennan nodded to the glassed-off office at the back of Incident Room One.
The DC looked up from the desk he was leaning over. The WPC he’d been speaking to turned as well. McGuire nodded. He straightened himself and walked towards the back of the room, tucking a yellow pencil behind his ear as he went.
Brennan moved behind the desk, removed his suit jacket and put it on the back of the chair. There was already a pile of files waiting for him to go over. He loosened off his tie and then undid the top button on the collar of his shirt. As he turned over the first file he saw more pictures of the murder victim. On the glossy photographic paper she looked unreal, like an image in a magazine, some celebrity still or a screen-grab from a movie. It unsettled Brennan to think like that. Did he have to remind himself that only a few hours ago she was flesh and blood? It annoyed him that modern life had desensitised so many people, himself included.
‘You want to see me, sir?’ said McGuire. He seemed breezy, almost smiling as he brushed in.
‘Shut the door,’ Brennan indicated the seat in front of the desk, ‘and sit down.’
The temperature of the room seemed to have lowered several degrees all at once. McGuire looked as if he’d just awoken from a premonitory dream. Self-preservation seemed to kick in. ‘Look, before you say anything, I just want you to know that I never went to Galloway about the arms.’
Brennan sat back in his chair. The backrest creaked as he let it take the weight of his frame. He placed his elbows on the armrests, crossed his fingers over his belly. ‘Is that so?’ The tone of his voice said much more than the words.
McGuire scratched his ear. ‘I, well… She had pulled me up when I came back from Muirhouse and told me to report everything to her first… not you.’
‘And you told her you had other plans, I’m sure.’ Brennan allowed a crease to appear in his cheek; tilted his head. He knew McGuire was too weak to stand up to the Chief Super.
‘Erm, well, not exactly.’
‘No?’ Brennan uncrossed his fingers, leaning forward. He tried to make his demeanour look interested. ‘Well, what did you tell her, Stevie?’
The DC’s eyes flickered. He touched his brow with the hand he had used to touch his ear a moment earlier. ‘I said… I would do, y’know, what she asked.’
Brennan leaned back again, allowing himself a full smile now, a headlamp grin. ‘Oh, I see, Stevie boy, I see… You thought you’d play both sides!’ He wagged a finger at him.
‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘Looks like it to me.’
McGuire put his hands on his thighs, stretched out his fingers and looked towards the window. He seemed to have changed shape, grown smaller. It was as though a light had gone out in him.
Brennan lowered a hand into the pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. He withdrew a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter. For a moment he tapped on the box, let the intention rise, then withdrew a cigarette. He lit it, blew out smoke. He offered the pack to McGuire.
‘It’s a no-smoking office, sir.’
Brennan took another pelt on the cigarette, blew out some more smoke. ‘Arrest me.’
McGuire stayed silent. Rubbed his palms some more.
Brennan spoke: ‘No, you’ve not got the balls to take me on, have you?’ He took another draw. ‘Why don’t you go and tell Galloway? Get her to arrest me.’
The DC clenched his jaw. He seemed to know what Brennan was playing at, and didn’t like it. By contrast, Brennan was very happy with where he had him. He laughed out, ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t chuck your toys out the pram.’ He rose, stubbed out the cigarette in the paperclip tray. He moved round to McGuire’s side of the desk, rested his backside on the edge.
‘I had a wee chat with your buddy earlier,’ said Brennan.
‘Who?’
‘Lauder… He seemed to think I had a mole.’
McGuire firmed his jaw again. ‘Did he now?’
‘Oh, yeah… Thinks that’s the only way the girl from the News would have got to Muirhouse before the investigating officer. Got any thoughts on that?’
McGuire looked back towards the window. It seemed to be too uncomfortable for him to sit on the seat — he gripped the armrests tightly but he didn’t get up. ‘That’s a very serious accusation.’
‘Who said it was an accusation?… I didn’t say he’d accused anyone. At this stage, it’s merely a theory, speculation. Not even in the realms of allegation… Unless, that is, you have something you want to tell me.’
McGuire stood up, faced the DI. Brennan looked him up and down, noticing the knuckles on his hands were white where he had been gripping the chair. ‘I did not fucking tip off the press.’
Brennan watched his eyes. He was close enough to see the irregular brown flecks in the blue irises. He stared for a moment then moved away, returning to his seat. He was satisfied.
‘Okay. That’ll be all.’
McGuire blinked. His mouth widened as he ran the back of his hand across his lips. He seemed to be looking for the right words but didn’t find them; that or the courage to say them was lost. ‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan picked up the files again. He looked at them as he spoke: ‘Choose your friends in here very carefully, Stevie. The ones you think have your best interests at heart rarely do.’
McGuire opened the door. He was still twitchy; said, ‘Yes, sir.’