Denise Mina - Field of Blood

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.