Slip of the Knife (26 page)

They found a parking place in the street, and straightened their uniforms as they got out and came around to her door. They glanced up at the building and Paddy thought they looked intimidated, two constables from the South Side bringing her to their unseen masters. They grabbed her as she got out, holding her elbows too tight, pinching the bones, nasty little bullies as they huckled her towards the glass doors on behalf of their bosses.

“You really don’t need to hold me this tight,” she said, as they pushed the doors open and brought her into reception.

They weren’t in a police station, Paddy could see that straightaway. Reception looked like a corporation’s. There were no holding cells here and the public had little reason to drop in, so leather seats lined the wood-paneled hall, a pretty receptionist looked up attentively, and the phones on her desk weren’t nailed down the way they were in other cop shops.

“I’m not going to run again,” Paddy told the older officer.

He shot her a dirty look. “Be quiet.”

The younger officer came over, settled on her other side, and they waited. She’d have to speak to Sean and tell him they’d been seen picking Callum up. It wouldn’t be as bad for him as it was for her, she thought. He was only a driver for the News and was Callum’s cousin. Sacking someone for not reporting a member of their own family was too Maoist, even for panicky Bunty.

She looked up the slatted wooden stairs. Whoever had sent them to get her was up there, reading about Terry, or Kevin, or her. She’d come back from this with a story about Kevin Hatcher, squeeze something out of the person questioning her and feed it to Bunty to appease him. Whatever Merki was writing, he was still a hundred miles behind her.

“I think I’m being followed,” she said to the officer next to her, “by a wee guy in a tracksuit. I’d suspect the police, but he’s wearing a Celtic shirt and I know you’re all Prods.”

He wasn’t listening though; he was looking past her to the stairs. He stood up, raising an eyebrow.

Paddy turned to see a frumpy woman in a cheap business suit coming down towards them, nodding once at the officer. She spoke as she took Paddy by the upper arm, urged her to her feet, and marched her to the lift. “Miss Meehan, I’m DI Sharon Garrett. Can you come with me, please.”

It wasn’t a question.

Paddy looked at their watered reflection in the steel elevator doors. She was flanked by Garrett and the young officer, the older guy standing behind them, allowing himself a smile. She looked very small in among them, her clothes crumpled. She could smell the smoke off herself.

The empty lift arrived and they got in; Garrett pressed the button for the fifth floor and the door slid shut.

“Do you want to question me about Kevin? Is this whole thing about Kevin or are you factoring in Terry as well? I’ve got a photo of the guy I was telling you about.”

No one spoke.

“How is Kevin? Did you see his bruises?”

Garrett shifted her weight to her other foot.

“I was thinking, why would he have a line out to sniff if he was swallowing cocaine? And stuff was missing from his house, boxes of negatives. Did they tell you that?”

The doors opened out onto a long, quiet corridor of partitioned offices. At the far end a man in blue overalls was buffing the green lino floor with a humming machine. The corridor was very quiet.

As Garrett led them to the end, Paddy could see that all of the offices were empty. Windows onto the corridor looked into dark rooms, straight through to the outside windows. They passed the cleaner, stepped over the flex of his humming buffer, and went into a disused office. The shelves were empty, the desk clear. Someone had worked here once though: pale oblongs where posters and wall charts had hung marked the wall. It smelled of dust.

Garrett sat Paddy down and moved about behind her, pulling down the blinds onto the corridor, adding gloom to the office’s many other crimes. Then she sat down behind the desk, facing Paddy, blinking every ten seconds, leaving the two officers to stand by the door.

In the corridor outside, the floor buffer bumped gently off a skirting board, the hum missing a beat before continuing its journey.

Paddy had been interviewed by the police before, but this didn’t feel like a police interview. It felt like an ambush.

“Sorry”—the wooden chair creaked beneath her as she leaned forward—“who are you again?”

“DI Garrett.”

“You’re a policewoman?”

“Police officer.”

“Aren’t you a woman? Sorry. The skirt made me think, you know . . .” Garrett continued blinking to schedule. “You prefer ‘officer’?”

“It’s customary.”

“What do you prefer though?”

“Whatever is customary.” Garrett didn’t display a flicker of emotion. It was like talking to a fridge. No one at personnel would be tempted to strong-arm Garrett into Family Liaison.

“Hm.” Paddy sat back. “This empty office, away from everyone, waiting. We are waiting, aren’t we? For someone. Someone more senior than you.”

Garrett wasn’t unattractive but she had gone to a lot of trouble not to make the best of herself: shoulder pads emphasized her square body, the skirt didn’t fit her and her haircut was boxy, the blond streaks fooling no one. She didn’t have a smear of makeup on.

“Miss Meehan, why were you at Kevin Hatcher’s flat yesterday morning?”

Paddy told her the truth, aware that the stuffy office was isolated from the rest of the station: no one passed in the corridor outside, the lift didn’t ting as it reached their floor.

Garrett asked pointless questions, things she already knew the answer to, about Paddy’s claims regarding an Irishman who had come to her house, descriptions of the man who had been at her son’s school yesterday. She didn’t seem to be coaxing information out of Paddy but rather keeping her busy.

She made Paddy go over the details of finding Kevin, of going to his house on Sunday night, but cut her off whenever Paddy mentioned Liberia or the IRA. She didn’t even want her talking about the missing photograph from the portfolio so Paddy pushed it, starting to answer a question innocuously and then veering off to speak about the Irishman, naming him as McBree, mapping Garrett’s reaction when she said it. McBree. The name made her blink out of sequence.

“So you went there yesterday morning expecting Kevin Hatcher to—”

“Would a police officer ever wear a Celtic top?”

“Just answer the question—”

“McBree. He’s an important man in the IRA, very, very high up. International profile. Why does that not interest you?”

No one spoke.

“My family are Irish and my mum thinks the police’ll arrest you for being in possession of a potato. Why am I getting no interest in this guy? If I told you one of the Guildford Four had done it, would you pull them in? A big man in the IRA is in the city and that’s of no interest to you? What, because you already know?”

Before Garrett had the chance not to answer, the door behind the officers opened and Garrett sat up, her face warming. “Afternoon, sir.”

Knox was standing in the doorway, face pinched, shoulders square, ready to make his mark. He turned to the officers beside him. “Wait in the corridor.”

Suddenly sweating, Paddy stood up. “I’m leaving.”

He smiled calmly. “You can’t.”

“I’m not under arrest.”

“I want to talk to you.”

Knox shut the door slowly, listening for the secure click of the mechanism, and turned back to the room. As he sauntered over to Garrett’s seat she backed out of his space, standing subserviently at the side. He sat down, looked out of the window and back at her, overplaying his insouciance.

Paddy took out a cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke at him.

“No one will believe you,” he said coldly.

“That you brought me to a deserted part of the building to menace me?”

His eyes flickered in Garrett’s direction. “About Hewitt,” he said casually.

Paddy uncrossed her legs. “Terry’s murder.”

“The officers told me what you said this morning. You’re wrong. The IRA have denied responsibility. The gun has been found and traced to a drugs murder in Easterhouse last year. We have evidence that it was nothing to do with the IRA.”

She took another draw on her cigarette, listening to the hum of the buffer slowing to a dying whine. She could hear the plug being snapped out of the wall. The lift tinged and she heard the doors slide shut after the cleaner. They were alone on the floor.

“Why am I here?”

What little color there was in Knox’s face drained away. He craned towards her, the skin so tight she could see the hammering of the pulse in his neck. “You’re here because you ran away yesterday morning. You should have come straight here as the officers requested. It makes police officers suspicious when someone they want to question runs away.”

“If it was such a big deal why didn’t they come to my house last night? Everyone knows where I live. The police found me easily enough on Saturday night. And by the way, where is Kevin? I spoke to all four casualty departments yesterday and couldn’t find him registered as a patient.”

“Kevin Hatcher is dead.”

He watched her face, taking a clinical interest in her reaction as the news sank in.

“When? When did he die?”

Knox cleared his throat, tipping his head back to Garrett. She stepped forward and spoke, her voice softer than before. “Kevin was dead on arrival at the hospital. They register a death differently, that may be why you missed him.”

“No, they don’t. I was on the calls-car shift for six months. I went around the hospitals every night, twice sometimes. They register a death on arrival in the same book as casualty admissions.”

Knox’s face didn’t move, but as he looked at her his eyes softened in amusement. This is how big we are, he was saying: we can make a man disappear. I could make you disappear.

He was expecting her to shout at him, to meet his play and issue impotent threats, but Knox was as hardened as Donaldson and her threats would be just as flaccid. Instead, she made the one move he wouldn’t have an answer to: she covered her face and pretended to cry, muttering about poor Kevin under her breath. She was only acting, and when her face was good and wet she looked up at Garrett, who blinked twice, for her the equivalent of an emotional flurry.

Knox had a stale smile stapled to his face. He rubbed the desktop with his fingertips, trying to worry off a small stain.

Paddy took a shaky draw on her cigarette. “McBree. He killed them both.”

Knox shook his head. “No.”

“How can you possibly know he didn’t?”

“Nothing links the two deaths. One’s a shooting, one’s a stroke, one’s indoors, one’s outdoors, neither man was involved in politics.”

“Why would Kevin leave out a line of cocaine to inhale when he’d swallowed enough to make him have a stroke and vomit? It’s like finding a glass of whiskey next to someone who died from drinking vodka, for fucksake.”

Knox stood up calmly and made for the door. The interview was over, though she couldn’t see what he’d got out of it. She stood up too. “You’re refusing point-blank to look at McBree?”

He stood, rolled his head back, and turned to face her.

“They spent the night before Hewitt’s death at the casino. A lot of strange people visit casinos. We’re interviewing several of the people who were there that night.”

“But not McBree?”

“You will get the wrong end of the stick and keep chewing, won’t you?”

She meant to give a cavalier laugh but it sounded like a hysterical sob. “You’re concerned that I may be slandering the IRA?”

“We’re concerned that you may be spreading fear and alarm, Meehan.”

Paddy stubbed her cigarette out on the desk, picked up her bag, and brushed past Knox at the door. Outside, the two officers turned as she opened it, looking back into the room for guidance. Someone gave them a nod to let her go and she pushed through them.

She didn’t want to wait for the lift and found the door to the stairs, jogging down three flights without drawing a breath. She stopped when she felt sure they weren’t coming after her, leaned her back against the wall, and let herself cry properly.

Her feelings for Terry were complicated. He’d frightened her and chased her and she knew deep down that her life would be easier now that he wasn’t around. But Kevin Hatcher—Kevin was just a nice man.

TWENTY-TWO

NOTES FROM A TEXAN

I

Blythswood Square was a short, steep street away from the police headquarters and Paddy found herself heading up that way, trying to think of a justification for going into Fitzpatrick’s office and orchestrating a fight with him. She steamed up the hill, her face still puffed and red from crying. At the top she caught her breath, realized she was looking for someone timid to have a fight with. She couldn’t go back to the News offices or Bunty would banjax her into writing about Callum. She found a seat on the square, looking back down the hill to a line of squad cars.

She could write a news piece about Kevin dying and phone it in. Writing things up always made her feel detached and calm. But the editors wouldn’t take it without certain bald facts: she didn’t know which hospital to name-check or even what he died of.

Kevin was dead, Terry was dead and the Strathclyde Police Force weren’t showing a flicker of interest in the fact that McBree had to be involved.

She took out a cigarette and lit it, her throat closing over in disgust as she tried to breathe in. She persevered. The nicotine made her feel more detached, calmer, fed. She sat back on the wooden bench, the heat from the slats soaking into her back, thinking about Father Andrew making a big point of shaking her hand after mass every Sunday and Mary Ann crying at the kitchen table.

Sickened, she threw the cigarette to the curb.

II

The mousy receptionist rolled her necklace around her finger, half strangling herself with her pearls, as Paddy leaned on her desk, messing up the tidily sorted pencils laid out in a neat row by the phone.

“He’s just very, very busy, you see.” She glanced at the door to Fitzpatrick’s office.

“Listen to me,” said Paddy. “I want you to go in there and tell him if he doesn’t see me now I’m going to report him to the Law Society.”