Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

The office filled up quickly with the morning shift, the casual timekeeping of Farquarson’s reign being long past. Journalists and subs poured through the door in twos and threes. Paddy hadn’t been in on a day shift for five months and had forgotten the look of the office when it was full. Copyboys were kept busy fetching teas and coffees, journalists organized their workspaces for the day, setting ashtrays by their smoking hand, feeding paper into the typewriters, while subs scanned copies of the morning edition for follow-up stories and section editors issued orders.

Shug Grant arrived three minutes late with a fat editor from international news. He didn’t acknowledge Paddy but stopped near her to laugh ostentatiously at his companion’s joke. She didn’t look up.

She stayed at the end of the desk, dully aware of the sharp scratch on her knee, hands folded across her stomach, nursing the pains she hadn’t been able to shake off for days until a copyboy was at her elbow. “Ramage wants to see you.”

She looked around the office for anything she wanted to take with her. They might not let her back in. She had a big mug in the tea room but couldn’t be bothered walking the full length of the room and passing Shug Grant to get it.

She stood up slowly and shoved her other arm into the coat. “Downstairs?”

The copyboy nodded sadly. “Downstairs.”

She paused at the door and looked back into the bustle and confusion. It was a sunny day outside. Shafts of golden morning sunshine sloped in through the wall of windows, settling on the dirty blue carpet. No one looked back at her. She hadn’t even been told she was being sacked and already she was nothing more to them than a sad shrug, a rumor. She wouldn’t be the last.

She dragged her heels downstairs and along the quiet corridor, knocking twice and slumping against the wall. Ramage called for her to come in and she found him behind his big desk, leaning back smugly in his chair. There wasn’t a single sheet of paper on his leather desk blotter but there was a small brass cafetiere next to a dark green cup and saucer trimmed with gold. The rich chocolate aroma of real coffee filled the room.

“Sorry to keep you on after your shift.”

She stayed near the door and shrugged. “’S okay.”

Ramage examined her for a moment. “It was only twenty minutes, Meehan, you don’t need to sulk.”

Afraid she would cry when he said it, she bit the side of her mouth hard.

Ramage pressed the flat of his hand on the brass plunger and pushed it down slowly, watching as the wheel crushed the coffee grains against the bottom of the glass. “Come over here.”

She shuffled over to the desk.

“What happened to your knee?”

“Cut it. Climbing over a gate.”

He poured himself a black coffee, lifted the saucer and cup and sipped noisily, his pinkie crooked to the side. “What’s happening with the police corruption story?”

Paddy looked at Ramage’s face. He sipped the coffee again and watched her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. He wanted to talk to her, not sack her.

She perked up. “Well, I’ve found the guy who owns the cars that were parked around the back of the Bearsden house. He went out with Burnett’s sister but she’s disappeared. I think he’s looking for her, he’s desperate, and I don’t think it’s because he loves her, either.”

“He thought her sister was hiding her?”

“Probably. Vhari Burnett had just moved house and the dead guy in the river knew her new address.”

“So he went through him to find her?”

“I think so.”

“What about the police?”

“Well, the two officers who were at the door call in Bearsden aren’t saying anything that could lead to him; they’re being very careful about that, which suggests they’re on the take. But more importantly, they’ve both just been transferred to the station the Burnett investigation’s based in. Everyone knows they’re bent, it’s highly irregular, and I think I know which senior officer okayed it.”

“He’s bent too?”

She shrugged. “I’m guessing. I don’t know for sure, but his name came up a couple of times.”

“Good.” Ramage leaned back again. “Any evidence yet?”

“Some fingerprints of a heavy who ties them all together.”

“The one who attacked the car?”

“Yeah, the firebomb guy. He’s the link but I’m the only thing that ties him to the Bearsden Bird’s house. I can witness that a piece of paper came out of the house that night and they’ve found his prints on it.”

Ramage’s face didn’t register a flicker of recognition at the mention of the piece of paper, and Paddy guessed he didn’t know. Knox hadn’t told Shug Grant after all.

“No sign of him? Is he following you, going to your house?”

“No.” She paused. Ramage might make her go home. “Not so far. I haven’t seen him anyway.”

“Was he the guy at the front door?”

“No. The guy at the door’s prints are on the paper but not on file.”

“So they’d need to arrest him first before they can take his prints for comparison?”

“Yes,” she said, forgetting to disguise her surprise that Ramage wasn’t an idiot. He noticed it, his right cheek twitching in irritation, so she hurried on. “Anyway, the police are dragging their heels about going for the right guy and keep trying to pin Burnett’s murder on other people. Someone’s definitely protecting him.”

“And the investigation team? They clean?”

She thought of Sullivan taking abuse from the officers in the inquiry, holding his stomach in for her because she’d done the right thing. “As a whistle. The officer in charge knows something’s fishy and he’s meeting me alone, giving me tips.”

Ramage pointed at her quickly, as if she had followed his suggestion. “Good contact. Keep him quiet, Meehan. Don’t tell any of the dogs upstairs about him. He’s yours.”

Relieved that her execution had been commuted, she smiled eagerly at Ramage. “Top tip,” she said, “thanks.” As if she needed a warning to be cagey around other journalists.

Ramage sipped from his coffee again and looked a little sick, pressing his lips together and sucking his tongue hard. She guessed the coffee smelled better than it tasted. “And how did the inquiry go?”

“They seemed determined to avoid all the important questions.”

He nodded slowly. “So it’s someone on the board of inquiry?”

Paddy was impressed again by how astute he was. “Could be.”

“They do that. I’ve seen it before. Get themselves onto the board of inquiry and try to steer it.”

“Really?”

“Sure, same thing happened in a story we covered in Liverpool ten years ago. So, how much longer d’you think you’ll need to pin it?”

She had no idea. “A few days,” she said, and wondered why she had. “At most.”

“Good. Good.” He put the cup down, glancing at it resentfully. “I’ll only pay for the hotel for another two days and I want it done by then.” He flicked a hand to the door. “Out.”

Paddy smiled at him, a genuine smile. He was smart and prepared to pay for the hotel and he wasn’t going to sack her. “Cheers, Boss.”

Out in the stuffy corridor her tired mind sagged again. She only had two days left. Trying to marshal her thoughts, she felt in her pocket for the crumpled photocopy of the funeral photo, pulling it out and unfolding it as she walked along the pavement outside.

The dusty black toner was crumpling on the folds but Kate Burnett’s face was still clear, a mess of blond hair and a small smile perched on her lips. She tied the whole thing together. Paddy had to find her.