It was warm in the room, body temperature. A veil of sleep slid down from her brow like a black cashmere blanket until a finger poked her on the shoulder. She opened her burning eyes. Grant was watching her carefully.
“Hey, tubs, what’re ye going to say?” He smiled.
The uniformed officer stepped forward. “Ah, come on now, Mr. Grant, you’ve been well warned about that sort of behavior.”
It was as effective as a midgie trying to stop a mudslide. Grant raised a finger, telling her he’d get her later, and sat back. Paddy shrugged as if she was helpless and thought about all the other people Ramage could have sent to cover the inquiry. He was holding on to all the hungry hacks like Shug and herself, stripping the News of kindness and camaraderie. The other journalists were listening for her answers.
“Who have they had in this morning?” she asked them.
A slick guy in a cheap suit sat forward, making Grant sit back. “The operator who got the call for the address. And Tam Gourlay. Dan McGregor was yesterday.”
“Much of a morning, then?”
He smiled coldly. “No, not really.”
She smiled back, baring her teeth. Shug returned the warmth. The two other journalists joined in until they were all smiling insincerely and wondering when they could stop. The inquiry room door opened and Sullivan looked into the waiting room. He clocked Paddy and smiled wide. “Meehan, please.”
She was so tired that her legs felt rubbery, her footfalls uncertain, as she stood up and shuffled over to the door. She paused and took a breath before following Sullivan through the tall double doors, into the official inquiry.
It was a big, empty room for such a small committee. Four great long windows overlooked the Clyde River and a red marble bridge, currently choked with traffic. The ceiling was high but plain with thick, unembarrassed utility pipes snaking across it.
A long table was set to the side of the room. At the far end sat an older woman with thick glasses, head down over a notepad. Along the table, three men in fancied-up police uniforms-a strip of braiding here, some gold trim on a pocket-were sitting in a little line facing an empty chair. They seemed too old to be dressed in uniform, too dignified, and would have looked as if they were in fancy dress but for the obvious quality of the material. They didn’t look at Paddy as she came in but filled up a glass of water or checked through the sets of notes they had in front of them.
Sullivan invited Paddy to sit at the table opposite the men but remained standing himself, hovering in her eye line near the door.
These three were prosperous men, working-class boys who had slowly worked their way up through the ranks. She could see in their faces a kind of rake’s progress of middle age, a warning tableau of what might happen if you didn’t look after yourself. The man nearest the secretary had a red complexion and puffy, blood-pressured eyes. Next to him was a thin, sallow-skinned man with a pinched mouth, bitter perhaps over some blip in his career. The third man was cheerful, glancing sideways at his companions, seeming to look for reassurance or signs of friendship, needy and ungrounded.
Paddy fumbled with her coat and it slid inelegantly to the floor. Rather than bend the four miles to the floor, she kicked it under the chair and sat down, putting her hands on the table, trying to shake the dozy mist from her mind.
The sallow man tapped the table in front of her to get her attention. “Good afternoon, Miss Meehan.”
The secretary raised her pen and began to scribble.
“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.