TWENTY. SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY
I
Paddy had wasted thirty minutes looking for the address of the Easterhouse Law Center in the Glasgow A-Z. She shut the book, let it drop down the side of the armchair, and put both her hands on the table in front of her, like a psychic trying to conjure a spirit.
She should have been thinking about Patrick Meehan and the book, scribbling page after page of true crime doggerel, but nothing came to her.
Meehan was from a poor family of Irish immigrants and grew up in the Gorbals during the days of the Razor Kings, when squads of young men fought pitched battles in the high, narrow streets with straight razors sharpened to a tip. He was sent to reform school for breaking the branch of a tree in the park and learned his trade there. Petermen were safecrackers, skilled professionals, gentlemen who knew how to cook gelignite in a frying pan and stay calm enough during a break-in to listen for the lone, distant click of a safe lock. They were respected. He’d escaped from Nottingham jail during a stint for burglary and traveled to East Germany, crossing the border on a stolen bicycle to sell ground plans of British prisons to the Communists-prompted, he claimed, by an MI5 agent provocateur. The Communists questioned him for eighteen months and then handed him back to British intelligence to serve out his sentence. Resentful and broke, he sold his story to a national paper and claimed that he’d drawn up the plan to spring the spy George Blake. He said he’d told MI5 before it happened and they did nothing, which proved they were all counteragents. Six short months after the article was published, he was charged with the brutal murder of an elderly woman in Ayr. Everyone in Glasgow knew he was innocent: the real murderer tried to sell his story to the Sunday Express days after Meehan’s conviction. Meehan was a technician. A criminal but a craftsman, not a thug.
Paddy had been haunted by Patrick Meehan’s story since she was a young girl. The accident of having the same name made her listen every time he was mentioned on the radio news, try to read the newspapers from long before she should have, assume his mantle of guilt every time a fresh appeal was knocked back. A journalist wrote a book about the flaws in the case and the appeal was reopened. Finally, after seven years in prison, Meehan was given a royal pardon for a crime he didn’t commit and set free. For Paddy, Meehan became a symbol of attacks on Catholics, of the blindsiding hypocrisy of the British judiciary, of the triumphant value of journalism.
She knew the story inside out and it had everything: exotic locations, secret-service machinations, a shoot-out across Glasgow, a faithful wife, and a beleaguered hero who won in the end.
As she chewed the end of her pen, looked hard at the blank page in front of her, she felt the will to ever write anything about Patrick Meehan slipping away from her. The only reason she’d started was that she thought it would be easy.
She reached down to the other side and picked up her notepad and the cuttings she had kept about Vhari.
The green woodburner gave off a warm glow as she settled back in her chair, doodling in the margin of the pad, listening to the graphite scratch of her pencil. Vhari Burnett had retreated into the house after they had pulled her teeth out. She would have known by then that they were vicious enough to kill her and yet she had slipped out of view and had gone back inside. Paddy couldn’t imagine anything that would induce her to martyr herself. It couldn’t have been money, Vhari didn’t care about that. It didn’t seem to be a case she was working on, either. But whatever it was, she cared enough about it to give up her only chance of escape.
Paddy looked at the blank page again and tried to imagine Patrick Meehan doing anything, meeting Betty, being questioned, standing trial. All she could see was a pockmarked man sitting at a table, looking at her expectantly, waiting impatiently for her opening gambit. But she didn’t have one.
If she was ever going to write any of it she’d need to do something. McVie was the only man who could help her.
II
For reasons as deep as a volcanic plug, Scotland mourned Sundays. Churches and pubs and newsagents were the only things open. Even the telly was rubbish. By teatime most areas were shuttered and fly-blown. Cars in the streets moved slowly, as though afraid to stir up the leaden air.
The address McVie had given her was in the back lane of the old warehouse buildings that were being renovated and sold to yuppies. His building was down a narrow street, the high buildings on either side swallowing what light there was. On the corner of his building was a pub: a grubby, tired working-man’s bar, a remainder from a time when the area had a workforce and a purpose.
Paddy passed the pool of light outside the pub and made a mental note that she could run back here if anyone jumped out at her from the shadows.
The doorway to McVie’s building was a grand double door set in an arched frame of pale green glazed bricks, its splendor lost in the narrow alley. A pristine panel of buzzers with names next to them hummed. Paddy pressed the button marked MCVIE and waited.
“Yes?”
It was a man’s voice, but he was English and sounded young.
“H-hello?” she stuttered. “I was looking for George McVie?”
He paused for a moment. “Who are you?”
“I’m Paddy Meehan, from his work.”
The voice asked someone something and came back to the intercom. “Come in. Two flights up.”
Intrigued, she pressed one of the big doors with her fingertips and it clicked open in her hand, letting her into a wood-paneled lobby with a modern staircase on the right. Above her, somewhere along the ribbon handrail, she heard a door open and the soft sound of a piano concerto playing on a radio station.
Climbing the stairs toward the sound she wondered if George might have a son from England, or a cousin perhaps. She didn’t know what his domestic situation was. Before the recent change in his behavior she’d assumed he lived somewhere middle-class with grown-up children who sided with their mother, that they all lived together in a house in the suburbs that looked nicer from the outside than it did on the inside, that they were unhappy and too cowardly or unimaginative to leave each other.
A barefoot man was standing on the landing above her. He smiled as she turned the corner. He shifted his weight, resting his hip against the railing as he dried his hands on a tea towel, standing to attention as she approached, holding his hand out to her. He had a flattop haircut, and he wore a white T-shirt worn soft with a hundred washings and a pair of stonewashed denims with a pleated front.
Paddy took his hand and shook it.
“I’m Ben,” he said, an excited throb in his voice.
Paddy was so distracted by Ben’s face she almost forgot to introduce herself: she could have sworn he was wearing mascara and lip gloss. Either that or he had just been swimming, climbed out of the pool, and ate a greasy chicken portion without licking his lips.
She took his hand. “Paddy.”
“Hello.” Ben shook her hand and held onto it, pulling her through a small door, into a low corridor, and out into a large room with a strip of kitchen against the back wall. Facing the kitchen, magnificent windows ran the full length of the room. Unfortunately, the view was of a brick wall twenty feet away, the monotony of it broken only by a few small, dirty office windows, dark now.
Below the big windows, as far from the door as was possible in the room, sat McVie. He was in a chintzy armchair, chosen for a different sort of house, stagily holding a book as if he were reading it. Every muscle on his face was taut, creating deep inverted commas above his eyebrows.