Murder Mile by Tony Black Page A

we can be glad the press haven’t got here before us.’
    McGuire tutted, ‘We’re ahead of the posse for now you mean.’
    In the street two teenage boys kicked an empty can of Cally Special between themselves, they laughed loudly as they went; the noise from the can and their laughter rattled up and down the street. Brennan looked at them in their skinny jeans, arse cheeks on show beneath exposed underwear and then he looked at the Sloans’ house. He approached the pair, adopted a gruff tone, said, ‘Pack that clatter in.’
    The boys stopped still, turned to each other and passed a long stare between them; one of them kicked the can again. Brennan produced his warrant card, closed in on the teenager. ‘Pull your head in, son, or I might be tempted to run you in.’
    The boy flicked his long fringe, sparked up, ‘What for?’
    Brennan jutted his head forward, ‘Insulting a police officer, jaywalking, having ginger hair or cheek and bloody impudence … the choices are endless. Tempt me.’
    The boy swept back his fringe, pushed his friend roughly to the side; they stropped off towards the other end of the street. Brennan watched them go – waited for the inevitable single-digit salute – then walked towards the house. McGuire was already at the gate, holding it open with an outstretched arm. He tipped his head towards the DI, said, ‘Ready for this, sir?’
    ‘As I’ll ever be.’
    The doorbell chimed, a dog barked behind the frosted glass. It was a small dog, the white blur of its outline was seen at their feet as the door was opened by a man in his fifties. His hair was grey and wiry, sitting flat on his crown but sticking out from behind his ears. His skin looked mottled, he seemed tired, like he hadn’t slept for days.
    He coughed, then, ‘Yes.’
    Brennan showed his card again, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is my colleague, DS McGuire … may we come in and talk to you?’
    At once the man shrunk before them, his knees seemed to have buckled. ‘Oh, Jesus. God, no.’
    Brennan reached out, steadied him with a hand on his elbow. ‘It would be best if we came inside.’
    The man turned slowly, there was a call from further in the house, a woman’s voice. ‘Davie, who is it?’
    He didn’t answer, merely led the officers through the narrow corridor to the living room. Brennan took in the surrounds, it was a small house, nothing flash, but had been well taken care of. The carpets were new and the furnishings didn’t look to be that old; in some of these council properties the décor was like stepping back in time. It said a lot about the family, he thought. They cared about appearances, and those that cared how they looked often cared what was said about them in such neighbourhoods; of course it could just be that they thought they were a cut above the rest. One wage, never mind two, was a rarity in these homes.
    ‘What’s this?’ A woman was standing in the middle of the floor, she drew her cardigan tight. On the couch behind her sat a man in a tracksuit and trainers. The man who had answered the door went to her side, placed an arm around her.
    ‘It’s the police, love.’
    She shook her head, said, ‘No. It’s not my Lindsey … Have you found her?’
    ‘It would be better if you sat down, Mrs Sloan,’ said Brennan.
    The man in the tracksuit stood up. He was a thin, angular man with outsized hands that sliced the air like rotor blades as he showed he was holding some papers, said, ‘I should probably be on my way now, Mrs Sloan.’ He fumbled with the papers, looked unsure of what to do with them, then bunched them together and placed them on the couch behind him. He seemed at a loss now his large hands were empty, stood rubbing them together in front of Brennan and McGuire.
    Mr Sloan spoke, ‘That’s fine, Mr Crawley.’ He turned to the officers standing in his living room. ‘This is, I’m sorry I don’t know your first name …’
    ‘Colin …’
    Mr Sloan took his