Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

The tall arches under the railway bridge had been converted into workspaces, not the ramshackle hodgepodge of organic economic development but uniform government-subsidized workshops that spoke of an economy in terminal decline. Yellow brick filled in the grand arches of blackened Victorian bricks, each with a double garage door in the middle, painted red with a unit number stenciled onto it.

Paddy walked toward them and felt the damp river air clinging to the bricks. Most of the units were dark and locked, some of them permanently. Only one or two had signs denoting a business operating out of them. Unit 7 was one of the few arches with the lights on and the red doors open. It was at the far end of the lane, across the road from a scrap merchant’s yard. A sign on the fence declared that the yard was PROTECTED BY DOG, and below the claim was a silhouette of a snarling wolf.

Wherever the Burnett family legacy was being used it certainly wasn’t being invested in Bernie’s business. He wasn’t leaving a smart Bearsden villa every morning to come here. A warm orange light spilled out from inside the door and the sound of a pop radio buzzed. The large hand-painted sign was propped up outside against the wall, BERNIE’S MOTORS, hardly visible behind a bank of engine parts. Two cars were parked outside, one with both back wheels off, the other apparently in good working order. Paddy didn’t know much about cars but she could see that it was a smart green Jaguar, an old one but with a perfectly preserved chrome trim and arched roof. The driver’s and passengers’ seats had been taken out, leaving jagged, uncomfortable axles pitted with bolts.

She was so engrossed in the handsome car that she didn’t see Bernie until she was almost standing on his toes.

“She’s a honey, isn’t she?”

He was looking lovingly at the Jaguar. She’d seen him before, in the photo of Grandfather Burnett’s funeral, holding Vhari’s arm. He had a James Dean haircut and wore a ripped navy blue boiler suit, smeared with black grease, going baggy at the knees. His red neckerchief served no purpose other than to make the oil-blackened boiler suit a fashion statement. His jaw was so square he looked as if he’d been drawn with a ruler. “I was trying to get oxblood leather seats for inside but they’re pretty hard to find.”

“Not a believer in the fashion maxim that ‘red and green should never be seen’?”

He laughed and looked at her for the first time, taking her in and pointing at her coat approvingly. “Nice.”

“A quid,” she said.

He nodded, impressed. “Top stuff.” He pointed at the Jag again. “Two hundred quid. She looked in such bad nick when I got her that no one else bid. If you know anything about these cars it’s the trim and the undercarriage that corrode. Even if she’s just for parts she was an absolute bargain.”

She could find no trace of Vhari Burnett in his face but Bernie’s accent seemed familiar, posh to the verge of sounding English, and she’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. At work maybe. Someone she’d interviewed for something. She could only imagine how self-possessed he’d need to be to carry the accent in such a working-class area. Talking like that in the Eastfield Star would have been an invitation to have all his car windows smashed.

Paddy stuck out her hand. “You Bernie?”

Suddenly suspicious, he looked at the hand and took it reluctantly, letting go as soon as he could. “Who are you?”

“Paddy Meehan. I’m a reporter with the Daily News. ”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Neither do I.”

It was only half-true but it got his attention. “Why are you here then?”

“Thillingly.”

She startled him. “What about him?” Bernie asked.

“The police are convinced Mark killed Vhari.” She used his first name, hoping Bernie would mistake her for a friend. “I think that’s crap.”

His eyes were wet, she could see that even though he wouldn’t look at her. “What makes you think that?”

“He was the chair of Amnesty. He’s not going to torture someone by pulling their teeth out. And I think he was a nice guy.”

He leaned over, pretending to examine the skeleton innards of the Jaguar, and nodded. “He was a nice guy.”

“I think Mark got beaten up in the car park outside his work just before Vhari was attacked. I think he knew something and they were pressing him for information and I think that’s what happened with Vhari as well, but they went too far and killed her. Where’s Kate, Bernie?”

He frowned and bit his lip.

“Can I talk to you inside for a minute?”

He looked around the lane, sad, remembering his dead sister perhaps, and looked at Paddy, at her spiked hair and ankle boots and good coat for a quid.

“It’s bloody freezing down here.”

“It is,” he said absently. “I’ve got thermals on.”

She nodded inside and he turned and stepped into the garage, waiting until Paddy followed him before scraping the big metal doors shut. He drew the heavy bolt across them.

Paddy had been trapped with a violent nutter before. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. Hands in pockets, she slipped her index finger through her house keys, ready to rip the face off him if he came closer than a couple of feet.

She looked around and realized that her defenses were pitiful. There were drill bits on the floor, metal toolboxes and spanners everywhere. If he wanted to batter her to death she was completely fucked. “Did you see your sister that night?”

Bernie shook his head. “I haven’t seen Kate for years.”

“I meant Vhari.”

He flinched at the mistake. “I hadn’t seen her for some time either.”

If he had been questioned by the police he would have known exactly when he last saw her, would have had to work it out and could answer immediately.

“The police haven’t even talked to you, have they?”

He looked at her curiously.

“What does that tell you about the quality of the investigation, Bernie? Doesn’t it worry you that they don’t even know Vhari had a brother?”

He half smiled. “They don’t know about me?”

“Apparently your parents didn’t mention a brother when they were questioned.”

He tipped his head back and barked a bitter laugh that echoed around the hollow arch. He pressed his hand to his chest. “I don’t count. Adopted. There’s six years between Vhari and Katie. They thought they couldn’t have any more so I got drafted in, but when Katie came along I was considered surplus to requirements. They never really took to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not blood, you see. ‘Our adopted son, Bernie.’ When I was wee I thought that was my full name. They offered me money to go to university but the truth is that I’m not that bright. I wanted to be a mechanic. They haven’t spoken to me for years.”

“I’ve got a picture of you.” She took out the clipping of the funeral and unfolded it before handing it over, watching to read his reaction.

Bernie smiled sadly down at it. “I haven’t seen this one. The Burnetts ignored me all the way through the service. They only stood next to me at the lineup by the church door because they couldn’t cause a scene. Came to speak to me at the end but I scampered.” He touched a fingertip to the picture. “And there’s Kate.”

She twisted around and saw he was touching the blond with curly hair. “That’s Kate? I thought it was Vhari. They’re alike, aren’t they?”

He looked away from the picture quickly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.”

As he walked over to a large tool table she had the distinct impression that he was trying to draw her attention away from Kate. He poured tea from a tartan flask into two heavily stained mugs. A large industrial heater burned in the corner, a flat brazier of pink flame that tinged the light in the room pink, creating an expectation of warmth that was instantly swamped by the sharp, damp cold emanating from the brick.