particular perversion.’
Bentley climbed out of the car, pushing the rear passenger window down and throwing Jackson a dog biscuit out of his jacket pocket. Tait climbed out as well and hurried to catch up with him as he slouched towards the station.
‘So what does that mean? That he was in on the killings with O’Driscoll? Why would he expose him if that were the case?’
‘I don’t think so, that wouldn’t make sense. None of his rhetoric suggests that he was involved. Perhaps it’s how he found out about O’Driscoll though. Something to consider.’
They walked into the station entrance and the Duty Sergeant shouted after them as soon as they came through the door.
‘Bentley, she’s after you. Wants you up there straight away. You too Tait.’
‘Oh fucking joy of joys, whoop de do. Thanks Bob.’ Bentley answered sarcastically as he trounced off towards the stairs, Tait in tow.
‘Did you talk to anyone about Rebecca Angus?’ she asked, a step behind his broad frame, not able to walk alongside on the narrow stairwell.
‘Aye. No one admits to seeing the psycho recently and no one can recall if she knew Elvis. How did you get on at his flat? How far away was it from her place?’
‘It was a couple of streets away. Close enough to be there in a few minutes. Much like you, not really a lot there. The flat was sparsely furnished. A table with a single chair in the kitchen, a painting of some flowers on the wall above it. Nothing in the living room and a single freshly made bed in the only bedroom. To be honest, it didn’t even look lived in. Forensics have been through it thoroughly and found next to nothing. No prints apart from his, even on the front door, which is odd. You’d expect at least the postie’s. No mail or any other documents at all in the place. Not even any clothes. Only thing they did find was a photograph on the kitchen table, a picture of O’Driscoll with another man. The two of them dressed in some kind of uniform, smiling at the camera while clanking pints of Guinness.’
‘Feels like a fuck hole. Somewhere he takes people to do the deed rather than somewhere he lives. Where’s the photo?’
‘It’s with forensics. They are scanning it into the system to see if we can get a hit on facial recognition.’
‘Or they could have just shown it to us old farts who might recognise who it is! That’s two fucking days wasted and they won’t come back with anything, never bloody do.’
He stopped at Cruickshank’s office door and stepped to one side, letting Tait past.
‘Sir?’ she said as she stepped past him, perplexed.
‘First off, don’t call me Sir. You’re the fucking officer in charge. Second, you’re the fucking officer in charge, so you go in first!’
She stared at his worn, haggard expression, looking for a glint of his normal weary cynicism but only saw helpful impatience in its place.
‘Thanks Bentley, I appreciate that. By the way,’ she said, reaching into her bag and taking out a photograph, ‘I have a copy here. Do you recognise him, you old fart?’
Bentley took the photograph and studied it intently, shaking his head slightly as he examined the faces. ‘No, don’t recognise him. Hold up.’ He paused, bringing the photograph closer to his face, looking fastidiously at the lapel on the fatigues O’Driscoll wore. ‘Fuck, ‘Óglaigh na hÉireann’, that’s an IRA badge he’s wearing. Jesus. Head of the fucking Catholic Church in Scotland, Serial Killer and member of the bloody IRA. Storming CV he’s got.’ He handed the photograph back to Annie.
‘Better tell Shankers then.’ Tait said, and knocked on the door.
‘Come.’ came the bellowing reply. Tait opened the door and walked into Cruickshank’s office, Bentley lumbering in behind her.
‘Tait, this is DI John Saul, a colleague from our Northumberland patch. Bentley, the two of you have
Bentley climbed out of the car, pushing the rear passenger window down and throwing Jackson a dog biscuit out of his jacket pocket. Tait climbed out as well and hurried to catch up with him as he slouched towards the station.
‘So what does that mean? That he was in on the killings with O’Driscoll? Why would he expose him if that were the case?’
‘I don’t think so, that wouldn’t make sense. None of his rhetoric suggests that he was involved. Perhaps it’s how he found out about O’Driscoll though. Something to consider.’
They walked into the station entrance and the Duty Sergeant shouted after them as soon as they came through the door.
‘Bentley, she’s after you. Wants you up there straight away. You too Tait.’
‘Oh fucking joy of joys, whoop de do. Thanks Bob.’ Bentley answered sarcastically as he trounced off towards the stairs, Tait in tow.
‘Did you talk to anyone about Rebecca Angus?’ she asked, a step behind his broad frame, not able to walk alongside on the narrow stairwell.
‘Aye. No one admits to seeing the psycho recently and no one can recall if she knew Elvis. How did you get on at his flat? How far away was it from her place?’
‘It was a couple of streets away. Close enough to be there in a few minutes. Much like you, not really a lot there. The flat was sparsely furnished. A table with a single chair in the kitchen, a painting of some flowers on the wall above it. Nothing in the living room and a single freshly made bed in the only bedroom. To be honest, it didn’t even look lived in. Forensics have been through it thoroughly and found next to nothing. No prints apart from his, even on the front door, which is odd. You’d expect at least the postie’s. No mail or any other documents at all in the place. Not even any clothes. Only thing they did find was a photograph on the kitchen table, a picture of O’Driscoll with another man. The two of them dressed in some kind of uniform, smiling at the camera while clanking pints of Guinness.’
‘Feels like a fuck hole. Somewhere he takes people to do the deed rather than somewhere he lives. Where’s the photo?’
‘It’s with forensics. They are scanning it into the system to see if we can get a hit on facial recognition.’
‘Or they could have just shown it to us old farts who might recognise who it is! That’s two fucking days wasted and they won’t come back with anything, never bloody do.’
He stopped at Cruickshank’s office door and stepped to one side, letting Tait past.
‘Sir?’ she said as she stepped past him, perplexed.
‘First off, don’t call me Sir. You’re the fucking officer in charge. Second, you’re the fucking officer in charge, so you go in first!’
She stared at his worn, haggard expression, looking for a glint of his normal weary cynicism but only saw helpful impatience in its place.
‘Thanks Bentley, I appreciate that. By the way,’ she said, reaching into her bag and taking out a photograph, ‘I have a copy here. Do you recognise him, you old fart?’
Bentley took the photograph and studied it intently, shaking his head slightly as he examined the faces. ‘No, don’t recognise him. Hold up.’ He paused, bringing the photograph closer to his face, looking fastidiously at the lapel on the fatigues O’Driscoll wore. ‘Fuck, ‘Óglaigh na hÉireann’, that’s an IRA badge he’s wearing. Jesus. Head of the fucking Catholic Church in Scotland, Serial Killer and member of the bloody IRA. Storming CV he’s got.’ He handed the photograph back to Annie.
‘Better tell Shankers then.’ Tait said, and knocked on the door.
‘Come.’ came the bellowing reply. Tait opened the door and walked into Cruickshank’s office, Bentley lumbering in behind her.
‘Tait, this is DI John Saul, a colleague from our Northumberland patch. Bentley, the two of you have
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