He was talking about Burns, hinting at the rumors. A hot flush crept up the back of Paddy’s neck but she stared at him defiantly. The police were a tight community. They drank in the same pubs, supported the same football team. They gossiped incessantly about each other, knew who was shagging who, who drank too much, who the idealists were, and who was corruptible or corrupt.
One of the officers stole a look at his watch.
“Apart from Gourlay and McGregor, I’m the only person who saw the good-looking guy at the Bearsden Bird’s door that night,” she said. “They’re saying it was the river suicide, Mark Thillingly, who killed her and I say it definitely wasn’t him. Doesn’t that make you wonder?”
They glanced at each other, hesitant, knowing, she felt sure, that Gourlay and McGregor were men of questionable ethics. The knowing looks dissolved into apathy. Ten minutes and they could go home. They just didn’t give a shit.
Paddy felt her eyes brim with big, stupid tears. “If Lafferty kills me it’ll be on your heads.”
The canteen doors opened and the skinny copyboy peered in. “Meehan? Ramage wants to see you when you’ve finished here.” He looked at the unhappy group around the table and slid back out to the corridor, shutting the door noiselessly after him.
Paddy looked at the bored policemen and felt a burst of righteous fury. “Is this what you joined the police for? To protect each other? What if Gourlay and McGregor are bent?”
She’d gone too far. One officer hissed a warning at her.
Paddy stood up suddenly on unsteady legs. “If that animal hurts my mum I’ll come and find the three of yees.”
She shouldn’t have voiced the fear out loud. She started to cry, her face convulsing as she edged out from behind the table.
As she pulled the door open she heard one officer mutter under his breath, “That’s our home time, guys.”
III
Ramage’s gruff voice called out, “Come!” Paddy brushed her mouth and chin for chocolate debris, stood as tall as her failing backbone would let her, and opened the door.
Dwarfed behind the enormous desk, Ramage had an early-morning shave that made him look young and vulnerable, a small boy in a starched shirt and tie. He was sitting back in his chair, three neat piles of papers sitting side by side, perfectly aligned on his desk. Farquarson would have looked crumpled already, the papers would have been scattered around a tabletop, and he’d have been hunched over them, working.
“Meehan,” Ramage said baldly. “I want three hundred about the firebomb, this time do it in first person and make it punchy. Get Frankie Mills to take a photo of you looking like shit and then fuck off home for a rest until I call you.”
She shook her head. “No. No picture of me. The guy who did this is after me, but so far he’s only got my name. I don’t want him to have a photo of me as well.”
“You think he bombed Billy thinking he was you?”
“Billy looks like a woman from the back,” she explained. “He’s got a curly perm. The guy crept up from behind and threw the bomb at the window. He might even think he got me. When he hears from the police that it was someone else he’ll come to my house.”
Ramage smiled and widened his eyes at the mention of the police. “You think the police are giving him information?”
“They’re the only people who know I’m not saying the same thing as the coppers on the call.”
Ramage nodded at his desk. “So,” he said to himself, “a young lady on the brink of a big story.” He licked his thumb and reached forward, moving a sheet of paper from the middle stack to the next one. He stopped to tidy the edges of the pile. She could almost see the captions on each one: layoff, potential layoff, keep. She hoped she was being moved to keep.
“Okay, then. Three hundred words and then fuck off home.”
“Look, I can’t go back to my house. The police haven’t caught the guy and as far as I know he already knows where I live. I keep catching the same car watching my house. I need a hotel room.”
Ramage smirked at her audacity, put the pen down, and sat up straight to look at her. “Good for you, Patricia.”
“My name’s Paddy,” she corrected curtly.
He tensed his brow at her. “Yeah, don’t act the uppity twat with me.” Staring at her, he licked his thumb again and moved the sheet back to the original pile.
“Boss,” she said, though it nearly choked her, “I’m going to get you a great story. Sell shitloads of papers. Shitloads.”
His smile was reptilian. “We’ll see. I’ll shell out for a bed and breakfast, and that’s only for three days-”
“No, it has to be a hotel. Bed and breakfasts make you leave during the day and I need to sleep.”
He didn’t like being interrupted. He raised his hand and licked the thumb again but stopped and smiled, dropping his hand without moving a sheet. “Three hundred words, and make it good. You’ll need a driver. Know anyone?”
She remembered Sean. She didn’t know if he’d passed his test but the image of his face soothed her. “I do, but he hasn’t got his own car.”
Ramage shrugged. “Get one out of the pool. Tell them to get a new radio and fit it.” He looked her up and down. “You’re young, Meehan. Was Farquarson the first editor you’ve worked under?”
She nodded dumbly.
“You probably miss him and think I’m a dick.”
She wanted to nod but guessed that it wouldn’t be well received. “Dunno.”
Ramage’s smile was almost genuine this time. He lifted a gold fountain pen and tapped the soft green leather blotter in front of him in a slow, rhythmic thud. They should have been up on editorial, in a noisy room surrounded by bustle where the dull thunk of a stupid ostentatious gold pen would be lost.
He shifted in his seat. “As you go on in this business you’ll learn that loyalty to dead men is a waste of time. Grieve, get over it, and then move on to arse-licking the next man in charge. That’s the business we’re in.” He smiled faintly, as if his brutal creed was a source of pride. “You can come with me or you can give me that uppity cow crap and end up selling advertising space. Understand?”
Paddy nodded and Ramage dismissed her with a flick of his hand.
Paddy backed out of the room and shut the door quietly. The windows along the corridor let the weak light of the day into the corridor. She slowed to a stop, leaning on the windowsill and looking out over the roofs of the Scottish Daily News vans parked outside. In the future the printworks wouldn’t be under the paper. They’d move to the new site and the building would be nothing more than an office. They could be selling insurance.
She looked out over the gray day and knew Billy’s family would be in the hospital, waiting for her to turn up and commiserate on behalf of the Daily News. She should go and phone Sean and tell him he had a good-paying job if he wanted it. She had three hundred words to write and just six hours before she was expected at the inquiry into the police call to Burnett’s house, but still she lingered in the lemon-scented corridor, looking out of the window at the windy street, feeling one era slip into the past and another begin.
IV
Bernie knew it was Kate at the door. The whisper of a knock at ten in the morning, the tentative pause between the raps-he didn’t know anyone else who would do that. He stood behind the door, sensing her on the other side, wanting to open it to her but never wanting to see her again.
“Bernie?” Her voice was as familiar as his own and he could read volumes into the timbre. She was frightened and worried that he might be angry with her. She was ill too, didn’t sound strong. Her normal voice was breathy but there was no air behind the voice. “Bernie? Let me in?”