Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

“Hiya.” Paddy raised a hand and waved at them, felt stupid, and dropped her hand to the table, stroking the wood and smiling weakly. She needed to be more lucid, her job was hanging on a shaky nail and these were not kind men.

The sallow man continued: “As you know, Miss Meehan, this inquiry is convened to take evidence about the police call to seventeen Holbart Road, Bearsden, at two forty-seven a.m., one week ago. This is a closed committee. Do you understand what that means?”

She looked young, she knew that, but there was no reason to talk to her as if she was stupid. “I do understand what a closed committee is, yes.”

“Anything you tell us will remain confidential.”

The red-faced man glanced suspiciously at Sullivan. The insecure one saw him and did it too. Paddy looked up and found Sullivan examining his shoes, poker-faced. It was a direct insult but it was from senior officers and Sullivan had to pretend not to notice. If the men worked in a newsroom Sullivan would have been within his rights to punch both of them.

“Yeah,” she said, feeling a defensive spark. “It won’t stay confidential, though, will it? Shug Grant’s got a hotline to what you’re going to ask me and I know it isn’t coming from Sullivan or this lady here.”

The secretary allowed her eyes to rise to the ring binding on her notebook and stopped taking notes. The policemen shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. The uncertain one looked to his friends to see what to do.

“So, confidentiality is a worry for you.” The sallow one brushed over the comment. “What is it you have to tell us?”

Shocked at their lack of concern, she sat back in the chair. “Aren’t you interested in the fact that there’s a leak here?”

The sallow man looked surprised that anyone anywhere would dare to question him. The rosy-faced man sat forward and took over. “Miss Meehan-”

“It’s ‘Ms.,’ actually,” she said, because she knew it pissed people off.

The men paused to smirk and the rosy-faced man tried again. “We do have the authority to require you to cooperate. I can guarantee that nothing you say will be leaked.” He glanced accusingly at Sullivan again.

“You’re wrong.” Paddy stroked the desk again. “See, I know for certain that Mr. Sullivan isn’t the leak because I’ve already told him what I’m going to tell you. I also know it isn’t the lady secretary because the leaks are too strategic. So, if this information gets into the press after this conversation then we’ll know for certain that it’s one of you three.”

She looked along the line of distinguished gentlemen, each of whom dodged her eye. They seemed perplexed. The very idea that they might be challenged by a plump youngster was ridiculous.

“I’m going to be frank.” She watched the tabletop but her voice was strident and schoolmarmish. “I know your name. You, the guy who’s telling Shug Grant about what goes on in here. Now, I’m not going to announce your name at the News but I do know who you are.”

They sat still and looked at her. The red-faced man’s smirk was frozen into a rictus grin. Paddy tried not to smile. It was delicious to be frightening when so little was expected: the element of surprise always gave her a running start.

The three men shifted in their seats, raising an eyebrow, tilting a chin back, twitching their annoyance. The sallow man took charge. “Shall we start again?” He nodded to the secretary to resume writing.

“Okay, then, let’s introduce ourselves properly: I’m Patricia Meehan.” She looked at the rosy man, staring at him until he was embarrassed into speaking.

“Superintendent Ferguson.”

She stared at the sallow-faced man.

“I’m Chief Superintendent Knox,” he said reluctantly.

The third man introduced himself too but Paddy wasn’t listening. Knox was a common enough Scottish name but Paddy couldn’t think past it. This Knox seemed a closed man, bitter and repressed, and looked like the type to misuse his position. If a chief superintendent’s name was used at the door, it would explain why Gourlay and McGregor had left Vhari Burnett in her house in Bearsden. And it explained Gourlay and McGregor’s being transferred to Partick just as the investigation into Vhari Burnett’s murder got under way. No wonder Tam Gourlay thought he could threaten her.

If Knox was on the take, the money would show: he’d have a big house, a flash car, or kids at an expensive school. She could find out where he was spending it unless Lafferty found her first. But if Knox was working with Neilson, Lafferty would know she was here.

Quelling her panic, reminding herself that Knox couldn’t do anything while she was in the room, she tried to concentrate.

After gentle prompting by Ferguson, Paddy told them about arriving at the house in Bearsden and finding Gourlay by the car. She repeated the conversation about the BMWs. They brought out a car catalog and let her pick out which models most resembled the cars she had seen. Eventually, when she could put it off no longer, she told them about the man in suspenders pressing the fifty quid into her hand. Knox was genuinely surprised.

“He bribed you?” he said, as if it was Paddy’s fault that he didn’t know already.

“He put money in my hand and asked me to keep it out of the paper.”

“But you printed the story anyway?”

“Well, I’d’ve given it back but he shut the door in my face.”

“So, it was a bribe?” he repeated, looking angrily at her.

Sullivan stepped forward to the table and leaned on his fingertips, looking at no one, and said, “The fifty-pound note was the object from the house that we found Robert Lafferty’s prints on.”

The rosy joiner whose name she hadn’t caught rolled his head in recognition. They’d all heard about the prints but not the note. Sullivan had kept his word not to tell. She watched him withdraw. He seemed no more aware of Knox than he was of the other two senior officers.

“Did you see any money being passed to Tam Gourlay or Dan McGregor?”

“Nothing,” she said, to their evident relief. “I saw nothing.” Then, as if she was just continuing the story, she added, “I walked back toward my car, passing Gourlay and McGregor, and Gourlay said, ‘It’s really important to keep it out of the papers because she’s a lawyer,’ something like that, and McGregor slapped him on the back of the head.”

The committee looked a little stunned. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what happened.”

They were pleased that she hadn’t directly accused either of the officers of taking a bribe. Ferguson ’s eyes flickered to the secretary taking the minutes. There were two conversations taking place here, she realized: what was said or inferred, and what was minuted. Only the minuted conversation would be of any consequence in the future.

Ferguson offered her a drink of water and stood up, leaning across the desk and pouring it for her, diverting her attention, breaking up the line of questioning. This was a damage limitation exercise. They weren’t going to ask anything they didn’t already know or pursue a wild-card line of questioning.

Knox looked at her hard. “We’ve seen the notes from the first time you were questioned by DI Sullivan. You didn’t mention the fifty pounds then, did you?”

“No.”

“And despite taking the money, you still printed a story about the incident in the paper the next day?”

“Which part are you objecting to? Taking the money or welshing on the deal? Because I didn’t really take the bribe, he shoved it into my hand and shut the door.”

“But you kept the money?” He was emphasizing the point, knowing it would be minuted.