Brennan lunged for the stairs. He could feel the veins pulsing in his arms as he ran, each step increasing the pressure on his cardiovascular system. He reached the landing light-headed, breathless. There was no indication that the scene had changed in any way from his first sight of it the day before; the only difference was the door to Carly’s bedroom was open this time. Brennan paused on the worn carpet for a second. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and started his slow paces towards the door. As he walked Brennan’s mind lit on what McGuire had said — he couldn’t seem to take it in, to register the new facts. It didn’t make sense to him, but then, the further he went into this investigation the less he understood. Nothing seemed to be stacking up. No sooner had he set his mind to one course of action than he needed to alter it. He started to feel his breath shortening once more and stalled before the open door.
The hinges creaked slightly as Brennan eased the handle further away from him. Light escaped from the room, landed on the hall carpet. When he placed his foot in the girl’s bedroom his heavy leather sole sounded noisy on the bare floorboards. He breathed deep as he brought his second foot forward. There was already a different atmosphere in the room, unwholesome. Did he imagine that? The smell of flowers seemed to have gone. There was a new scent in there; Brennan didn’t like it as much — it symbolised change, a turn of events, and not a good one.
He turned towards the wall and saw only the posters and the small chest of drawers with little golden handles; they were suitable for a girl’s room, but a much younger girl. Brennan’s thoughts were already with Carly — not the girl in the dumpster, or on the slab — the girl who was living her life in this room, until recently. He looked to his right, and over his shoulder he caught sight of a pair of heavy working man’s boots. They were similar to hillwalking boots, the outdoors type people wear for trekking. The boots were muddy and worn, and attached to a pair of legs covered in faded and torn blue jeans. The knees of the jeans were flecked with grass cuttings, filthy, looked to have been patched. As Brennan’s eyes went up the legs he noticed the blotches of dark blood splattered on the knees. A few inches higher the small marks turned into long smears that ran down the outsides of the thighs. Beneath the motionless body the bed linen was a sodden mass of dark wet blood.
Brennan turned his gaze to take in the whole frame. He could see the entire scene now. It was Peter Sproul; there was no mistaking the face was the man he had spoken to yesterday. The features were emotionless, the eyes staring blankly now, but the gaunt and hollowed cheeks, the unshaven chin and the cracked, twisted lips were unmistakable. As Brennan stared his mind seemed to jump from thought to thought. It was as if a light switch was being flicked on and off behind his eyes — one second he saw it all, the next, darkness.
Sproul’s wrists had been cut, probably with the serrated knife that now lay on the floor at an acute angle to the bed legs, smeared with blood. It looked like a kitchen blade, but Brennan found it hard to tell as a pool of blood had formed under the bed and the knife was in shade. He leaned towards the body. There was no sign of a struggle having taken place, no bruising or cuts and scratches. It looked like a clean scene, a suicide.
McGuire appeared behind him, his footfalls ending some metres from the bed, and the blood. ‘I called it in, sir.’
Brennan didn’t acknowledge him. He held his thoughts for a moment then looked about the room. Everything was as he remembered it yesterday. Nothing seemed to have changed, or been moved. The only difference was the dead body of a serial sex offender lying in Carly’s bed. Brennan stared on, tried to make sense of it all. Why? They hadn’t pressed him; they’d given him no real indication he was a suspect. It didn’t make sense. But then, nothing that went on in a pervert’s mind made sense to Brennan.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
McGuire answered quickly, ‘I think the bastard took the easy way out.’
‘Why?’ He turned, put eyes on the DC.
‘He knew we were on to him.’
Brennan snapped, ‘No he didn’t.’
‘Come on, he would have guessed for sure, sir. He’s not exactly new to dealing with police — he knew we’d go away, check him out and haul him in.’
Brennan looked at the corpse, felt nothing, said, ‘So he was in and out of prison for years, he knew what to expect — does that explain it?’
McGuire didn’t flinch. He knew Brennan was working through possibilities; maybe testing him too. ‘Maybe his last stint put the shits up him; didn’t want to repeat it.’
Brennan walked round to the other side of the bed, crouched down. He looked at the floorboards, ran a finger along the ground and inspected the tip. There was nothing there but dust. ‘Maybe he heard about the News ’s report.’
‘You wouldn’t get that rag up here.’
Brennan looked up. ‘Never heard of the internet?’
‘Right enough… But why’s that going to make a difference? He’ll have seen the previous stories before now, surely.’
Brennan stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked left to right along the line of the corpse. ‘None of them mentioned the fact that Carly’s child was missing.’
Sharp radial lines creased the corners of McGuire’s face. ‘You think he knew something about the kid going missing?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘He was a paedophile.’
‘That’s true.’
McGuire’s mobile phone started to ring. He answered: ‘Yes.’
Brennan watched the DC talking into the handset.
‘All right, Brian. Yes, he’s here.’
Brennan shook his head.
‘Er, he’s just left the room right now, you can tell me. What you got for us?’ McGuire smiled into the phone. ‘Very nice indeed… Right, thanks for letting us know, he’ll be made up.’ He hung up. ‘That was Brian.’
Brennan spoke: ‘What’s he got?’
‘Good news, sir. They’ve unearthed some CCTV footage from the bus station and Carly’s in it.’
‘Brilliant!’ Brennan made for the door; he wanted to put distance between himself and Peter Sproul. ‘Tell me more.’
‘She’s been positively ID’d and she’s talking to a man, some random punter in the station… And get this: she leaves with him.’
‘Did she have the baby?’
McGuire grabbed his earlobe. ‘Ah, I, er, didn’t ask.’
‘Fucking hell. Get on the phone to Brian again and get the details.’ Brennan’s voice was forceful. ‘I want the media kept in the loop and I want you to tell them we need this footage aired on all the news channels tonight.’
McGuire leaned back, scratched his jawline. ‘Big ask, sir.’
‘I’m all about the big fucking ask, lad. Do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McGuire spun, halted as Brennan began to speak again.
‘Might just piss off those wankers at the paper — put them off our mole.’
McGuire looked ahead, spoke: ‘Sir, you never told me what your theory was.’
Brennan stared at him, full on. ‘Who said I had one?’
‘But you think Sproul might have known about the baby?’
‘I’d say he knew very well about the baby. If he was the father I’d say Donald would feel compelled to let him know… Be the Christian thing to do, wouldn’t you say?’
McGuire followed his boss as he took long strides towards the stairs. ‘This is wrecking my head, sir.’
Brennan stalled halfway down the first step, turned. ‘Expect it to get a lot worse when we get back to Edinburgh. I can’t see Galloway being overly pleased that we let a possible suspect slip through our fingers, even with the footage card to play.’
McGuire bit his lip. ‘But he killed himself, sir.’
The DC was running ahead of the facts; Brennan reined him in. ‘Did you see a note, Stevie?’
‘Well, it looks that way…’
‘It does indeed, Stevie, but let’s not jump to conclusions.’