The Field of Blood (23 page)

Sneaking past the front gate, she lifted the garage key from under a brick. If her dad saw the light on he’d think it was their neighbors, the Beatties, and stay well away. As she pulled it open, the garage side door concertinaed a thin black carpet of mulch.

The air inside was cold, a damp cloud hanging over everything, eating into her fingertips and ear lobes, carrying the cold into every corner. Paddy kept her coat on and sat down in a slightly moist brown armchair. She finished the biscuits in her handbag, eating them one after another as if it was a chore.

The Beatties had managed to pack a wild amount of stuff into the Meehans’ garage. They had erected a set of precarious shelves from bricks and odd planks of wood against one wall and had stacked cardboard boxes full of bric-a-brac on them. Paddy stood up, picking her damp tights off the backs of her legs, and looked through the boxes, the soft cardboard coming apart in her hand when she tried to tug it.

The Beatties went on foreign holidays and got to keep toys from when they were younger. The Meehan children were made to give theirs away to charities just when they stopped playing with them but before they lost all proprietorial sense over them. In one box they had stored a Union Jack biscuit tin from the Silver Jubilee and a cheaply framed picture of the Queen as a young woman, holding on to the back of a chair. Black speckled mold grew across her long pink skirt.

Paddy sat in the cold armchair, looking around the room. If she had been a Beattie she could write an article about Thomas Dempsie and Baby Brian. She could say it was the anniversary of Thomas’s death, explain the Barnhill connection clearly, and let readers draw their own conclusion. She could do it if she didn’t care what her family thought. They were punishing her already, and she hadn’t done anything. She was suffering their wrath anyway, she might as well do the Judas deed. But she felt bad enough for having upset her mother when she hadn’t done anything. Heather Allen would do it, even if it were her family. She would grit her teeth and write the Dempsie article.

Forgetting for the moment that she had taken Sean’s ring off, she touched her ring finger with her thumb and experienced a momentary horror when she found her finger bare. The impression of it was deep on her finger: the red mark had faded, but the skin remained smoother where the band had been. She definitely liked her hand better without it.

By the time she got into bed that night, she noticed that she had changed her habit of twisting her engagement ring to stroking its silky absence fondly.

Paddy sat on the bench in the newsroom, watching the editors filter back in slowly after the privilege of lunch, their tempers sweetened by a midday pint and a hot meal. The journalists, who had to make do with ten stolen minutes in the canteen or a sandwich at their desks, watched them insolently, feet up on desks, fags dangling from mouths, the antagonism between the two groups palpable. They hated each other because editors gave the orders and chewed up the journalists’ work, while the journalists produced and bitched about editors’ cuts, even when their copy had been improved a hundredfold, perhaps especially then.

A clump of editors were standing in the middle of the newsroom, sharing a final joke, when a flurry in the corridor caught everyone’s eye. William McGuigan, the paper’s chairman, as rarely seen in the newsroom as empathy or encouragement, made a dramatic double-doored entrance from the lifts. His large port-wine lips had deflated with age and lost their edges so that they reminded Paddy of an overripe fruit. He was flanked by five men, two in police uniform and three in plainclothes. One of them, a white-haired man in a pristine gabardine jacket, stood authoritatively out in front of the others, eyeing the room, suspicious of everyone.

The newsroom fell silent. The presence of so much authority made everyone feel as if they were about to be arrested and summarily put to the wall. Stuck behind the crowd, Dub climbed up on the bench and Paddy stepped up next to him.

As the focal point of a crowd at silent attention, McGuigan looked around, savoring the moment. “Gentlemen, these are police officers.” He flicked a hand at the uniformed officers and dropped his voice. “Something very sad has happened.” He paused dramatically.

The white-haired policeman stepped impatiently in front of him. “Listen to me,” he shouted, his delivery loud and functional, a lorry to McGuigan’s sports car. “A body was found in the Clyde this morning. Sadly, we have good reason to believe it is that of Heather Allen.”

Assuming a despairing suicide, a hundred guilty glances ricocheted around the room, many of them resting on Paddy, who was holding her breath. From the corner of her eye she saw Dub glare back at the accusers protectively.

“We believe that the young lady was murdered,” bellowed the officer, drawing all eyes back to him. “Her car was found outside Central station, and we are asking for your help. If anyone has any information they think is relevant, please come to us. Do not wait for us to come to you.”

Determined to carve a portion of the attention for himself, McGuigan stepped in front of the policeman. “I have assured the officers that you will cooperate, and let me say this: woe betide anyone who doesn’t.” Reading his audience’s faces, he realized that threats were not appropriate. He tried to soften them with a laugh, but it died on his lips.

Several people crossed their arms. Someone muttered, “Fucking arse.” The white-haired officer stepped in front of McGuigan again. They seemed to be very slowly working their way across the room.

“We have set up interview rooms downstairs. Rooms 211 and 212.” The officer glanced at McGuigan for confirmation. “We’ll be taking some of you down there for interview.” He took a tiny black notepad out of his pocket and opened it. “Can we have Patricia Meehan and Peter McIltchie first.”

Paddy stepped down from the bench, finding her knees wobbly with shock, and worked her way out to the front of the room, meeting Dr. Pete in front of the white-haired policeman. Around them the crowd of journalists and editors moved away, whispering about them and about Heather’s terrible end.

Two newsmen darted up for a few words with the police officer and caused McGuigan to raise his hands and address the room again. “Oh, yes, of course we will be reporting on this, but we’ll be doing it in cooperation with the police. We will, however, be withholding some information strategically, and all stories will go through the news editors to make sure that is done consistently.” He smiled, stretching his baggy purple lips to their maximum, pleased to have had the last word. Everyone was listening to him, but no one was letting it show.

Paddy and Dr. Pete waited while the white-haired officer gave urgent orders to one of his underlings about doors or watching doors or something. McGuigan, keen to get back on a cheery footing with the senior officer, said something to him about getting his own back over a game of golf. The man didn’t answer him.

Paddy couldn’t take it in: Heather was dead. Someone had killed her. Dr. Pete was sweating, his top lip and forehead damp, and he seemed to be tensing his shoulder in an odd way, as if he had fallen over on it. One of the younger policemen, a squat-faced man with a thick neck, nodded hello to him. Pete tipped his head back to acknowledge the greeting but flinched at the sudden movement, holding his shoulder, nodding briskly when the man asked him if he was all right. He looked guilty of something terrible, and Paddy knew why. She wanted to run down to McGrade in the Press Bar and get him a drink, but didn’t think the police would let her. He held his arm and shifted his weight, moving himself out of the group and nearer to Paddy.

“Why do they want to talk to you?” she said quietly. “I know why me, but why you?”

“I’m an easy press.” He sounded breathless. “I know one of the officers. Drank with his father.”

“Plus you always know what’s going on.”

She sounded like an arse-lick because she was avoiding stating the obvious: that Pete was the bully in chief, the head of the pack that had hounded Heather from her job. The police would ask him if the newsroom boys had gone any further than chasing her out of the office, if they had followed her home and killed her.

“You.” The white-haired officer turned back and pointed at Paddy without any preliminaries. “You go with him. McIltchie, if you don’t mind, you’re with me. How are you?”

“Aye. Going on.” Pete dabbed at the sweat on his top lip.

Pete and Paddy stayed close to each other as they were escorted out to the lifts they were never allowed to use. She guessed he was about three whiskies short of normal.

“Not be long,” said Paddy as the doors slid open in front of them.

“Better not be. I’m melting.”

Inside the lift the mirrored walls exaggerated the officers into a small, unfriendly brigade. Paddy was a full head shorter than everyone else. She was lost in a forest of torsos. One floor down, the lift doors opened and they spilled out into editorial.

The corridor through editorial ran along the outside wall of the building. The harsh daylight flooding through the window did nothing to flatter Dr. Pete’s waxy complexion. Paddy glanced out into the street and noticed two cars outside, one parked at either end of the road, idling, neither of them taking advantage of the large, half-empty car park. They were police cars, watching the building to see who would try to leave now that the body had been found. The police were sure it was someone at the paper.

In the corridor the policemen at the front of the procession opened two doors next to each other and siphoned Paddy into one room, inviting Dr. Pete into the other.

The conference room held a large table with seating for fifteen. Paddy looked at her hands and realized she was trembling slightly. She was alone, frightened, and ten years younger than the two brawny men who were going to question her, outgunned anyway because they were asking the questions.

The squat-faced man who had tried to speak to Pete was in charge in their room. He picked out the places for them, pointing his companion into a seat, putting Paddy next to him, and taking the opposite side of the table for himself. She hadn’t noticed before they sat down because he was so tall, but the policeman to her left was blond and square-jawed, with electric-blue eyes. Pete’s friend was dark and fat and older. His face looked squashed, his nose flat, as if someone had sat on it while the clay was still wet.

The squat man looked her in the eye, establishing himself as the boss.

“I’m DS Patterson and this is DC McGovern.”

She smiled at both, but neither of them caught her eye. It wasn’t open hostility, but neither of them seemed particularly interested in making new friends. Patterson took out a notepad and flipped to the relevant page, asking her to confirm her name and position as a copyboy and to give her home address.

“You had a fight with Heather, didn’t you? What was that about?”

Paddy looked around the table for a moment, wondering whether she had any reason not to tell the truth about Callum. “My fiancé’s related to one of the boys in the Wilcox case.”

“The what?”

“The Baby Brian case.”

The policemen shot each other significant looks and glanced at their papers for a moment, changing expressions before looking up again. The squat one nodded at her to go on.

“When I found out, I confided in Heather, and she wrote the story up and syndicated it.”

“Syndicated?”

“She sold the story to an agency, and they sell it on to lots of other papers, papers whose markets don’t overlap.” They didn’t look any more enlightened. “The English papers. The story was everywhere. My family won’t believe I didn’t do it, and now they won’t talk to me. I don’t even know if I’m still engaged. I don’t know if my fiancé’ll have me back.”

“So you were angry with her?”

She considered lying but didn’t think she could carry it off. “I was.”

“So you hit her?”

“No, we had an argument in the toilet.” She closed an eye and shifted in her seat.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t hit her.”

“You did something.”

“I held her head down the toilet and flushed it.” It sounded so thuggish she tried to excuse herself. “I’m sorry I did it now.”

“It must take quite a temper to actually hold someone’s head down the toilet and flush it.”

The beautiful policeman caught her eye and smiled encouragingly. “Have you got a temper?” She realized suddenly that he’d been brought in to question the wee fat bird deliberately. Resentful, she crossed her legs and turned to Patterson.

“Are you working on the Baby Brian case?”

They glanced at each other. “Our division is, yes.”

“Have you ever heard of a wee boy that died called Thomas Dempsie?”

Patterson barked an indignant laugh. It was an odd reaction. Even McGovern seemed surprised.

“Does no one think there are similarities between the two?”

“No,” said Patterson angrily. “If you knew anything about the cases, you’d know they were completely different.”

“But Barnhill—”

“Meehan.” He said it too loud, shouting over her. McGovern watched him, trying not to frown too openly. “We’re here to ask you about Heather Allen, not to speculate about ancient cases.”

“Thomas Dempsie was found in Barnhill. And it was his anniversary. Exact to the day.”

“How would you even know about that?” He looked at her carefully. “Who have you been talking to?’

“I was just asking if you’d thought about it.”

“Well, don’t.” He was getting very angry. “Don’t ask. Answer.”

Paddy suddenly remembered that the editorial toilets were two doors down the corridor, and she remembered Heather sitting on the sanitary bin. She wanted to cry.

“Are they really sure it was Heather?”

“They can’t say for sure. She was in a bad state. We can’t use dental records, but we’re quite sure it’s her. Whoever it is, it’s wearing her coat. Her parents are going to identify the body now.”

“Why can’t you use dental records?”

He said it with a certain relish. “Her skull was smashed in.”