Denise Mina - Field of Blood

They smiled at each other. The wind blew Sean’s hair the wrong way, and a train passed in the valley below. Paddy raised her shoulders and snuggled inside her coat. It felt different with Terry: she felt close to Sean, but there was no fire.

“One thing, though, and I know I don’t have any right to ask ye favors right now, but about the engagement: gonnae not tell my mum?”

He looked at her for a moment and his eyes softened. “That’s no bother, wee pal.”

She reached up and touched his cheek with her chilly fingertips. “Look at ye. You’re so handsome, Sean. I’m not even good-looking enough to go out with you.”

Sean took a draw on his cigarette. “You know what, Paddy. I always let you say things like that ’cause I liked it that you’re modest. But you’re a good-looking girl. You’ve got a small waist and big lips. People say it all the time.”

It felt like a warm bubble bursting in her head. She searched her memory for corroborating evidence that she was attractive but couldn’t find any. The boys at school weren’t mad for her. Men didn’t approach her on the street. She didn’t ever remember being complimented before.

She laughed awkwardly and hit his arm.

“Piss off.”

“You are.” He looked away, uncomfortable that she was making him elaborate. “You’re beautiful to me.”

“Only to you, though?”

“Eh?”

“Am I only beautiful to you?”

Sean nudged her gently.

“No. You’re beautiful, Paddy. Just beautiful.”

They sat together quietly, smoking cigarettes and looking out over the valley. Every time she thought about what he’d said, Paddy felt dizzy. It could change everything if it was true. She had always hated her face. She hated her looks so much she was embarrassed to leave the house some mornings. They sat, and during a couple of quiet pauses she felt a burst of gratitude so overwhelming that she almost asked him to marry her.

She woke up more aware of the day ahead than the weekend that had passed. Terry was going in early to get out all the Dempsie clippings and stop anyone else’s using them. He was going to phone around the police stations and then try to speak to McVie and Billy, who was probably a less self-interested source of information, to find out if anything had happened overnight to Naismith. Then he was going to approach Farquarson and ask if they could write the story themselves. She hoped Terry would be enough of a draw. She certainly wasn’t on her own.

The family didn’t notice a difference in her as they ate breakfast. Trisha boiled her three eggs as an act of reconciliation, and Gerald passed her the milk for her coffee before she asked for it. She sat and ate among them, watching the toast rack pass from person to person and Trisha dishing out the porridge. She acted normally, her mind back in the weekend, thinking her way through Naismith’s van, the riot, and Terry Hewitt’s bed.

The frost gave everything in the world a sharp edge, and the weak sun couldn’t burn the morning off the land. Even Paddy’s breath was a cloud of sharp crystals as she hurried carefully across slippery pavements to the station.

She found a seat on the train and sat down heavily, wincing at the tenderness of the flesh between her legs. It gave her more of a thrill than the sex itself had. She thought of herself sitting in Terry’s passenger seat, watching him walk back from Naismith’s van, of the cold, damp rock on the windy brae. Sean could go out with other girls now if he wanted. He could hold their hands and kiss them and promise them a cozy future. In time she would just be someone he used to know.

When she saw Terry Hewitt standing outside the door of the Daily News building with his hands in his pockets, one leg bent and resting on the wall behind him, she knew somehow that he was hoping he looked like James Dean. He looked like a plump guy leaning on a wall.

She was still a long way away and, abandoning his pose, he glanced down the road to look for her, knowing she would be coming from the train station. When he spotted her outline in the distance, a duffel coat and ankle boots, scurrying towards him, he did a double take and self-consciously resumed his stance. She was standing just feet away before he looked up again. He looked angry.

“You’re wanted in the Beast Master’s office. Right away.”

Paddy glanced at her watch. “But the editorial meeting’s about to start.”

“Right away.”

He turned away, ready to lead her upstairs, but she caught the tail of his leather.

“Shit, Terry, what happened?”

He didn’t stop or even look back. He flapped his hand for her to follow, leading the way through the black marble lobby. The echo of Terry’s metal-capped shoes ricocheted off the cold ceiling and walls. The Two Alisons simultaneously turned their heads and watched them cross the floor. Paddy knew it was serious. Not only had Terry been sent to intercept her and take her straight to Farquarson, he was escorting her through the formal entrance, the entrance for strangers who didn’t belong to the paper.

He jogged up the stairs in front of her, and Paddy hit his leg. “Stop,” she pleaded, but he didn’t. He marched on, and she had no option but to follow him. “Terry, please?” He sped up as if he were trying to get away from her.

She was losing her breath as they arrived on the newsroom floor. She was about to start a fresh plea, but he crossed the landing in two steps and threw open the doors to the newsroom. Not a single face looked at them, not one head rose nor idle eye fell upon them as Terry led her across the hundred-foot stretch of carpet to Farquarson’s office. Even Keck kept his eyes lowered as she passed the bench, pretending not to hear her mumble a needy little “hiya.” Only Dub looked at her, a little sadly, and she had the distinct feeling that he was saying good-bye.

The black venetian blinds were drawn, the door shut. Terry rapped twice, rattling the loose glass, and pushed open the door, stepping back to let her in ahead of him. Paddy crossed the threshold.

Farquarson was alone, bent over his desk, alternately moving two cutout lead paragraphs back and forth over a page proof. He sat back, glancing blankly at Hewitt, completely ignoring Paddy. She still had her coat on and was suddenly very warm.

“Boss?”

She dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. She felt every eye in the newsroom watching her back, seeing the sweat pop on her neck, noting how fat she was.

“Thomas Dempsie.” Farquarson left it hanging in the air as if it was an order.

She was almost afraid to move. “How do you mean?”

“You were right. There was a tie-in with Brian Wilcox after all.”

Paddy looked back at Terry, grinning behind her. A news editor sitting at a typewriter looked her straight in the eye. Keck was sitting on the bench, his back to them, listening, and she could tell by the angle of his head that he was depressed.

“So, here’s the plan,” continued Farquarson. “You’ll write up the Dempsie case as a history, straightforward, shouldn’t be too hard. If it isn’t complete shite we’ll use it as an insert next week.”

“Next week? Won’t we have to wait until the trial?”

Terry smiled triumphantly and kicked her gently on the ankle. “That’s the good news. There isn’t going to be a trial. Naismith confessed.”

“To what?”

“Everything. He confessed to murdering Thomas Dempsie, to taking Brian Wilcox and forcing the boys to kill him, to kidnapping Heather Allen and killing her- everything.”

She frowned. “Why would he confess to everything?”

“Well,” said Farquarson, “they found evidence in his van linking him to Heather and blood that matches Brian Wilcox’s.”