The Dead Hour (6 page)

“Dunno.”

JT moved in close. “See anything else?”

“Nothing. It was just a domestic.”

“But the woman was bleeding when the police were there?”

“Aye.” Paddy touched her mouth. “I think she’d cut her lip or something.”

“Well, you’re wrong. She had teeth pulled out all along one side of her jaw. Then they caved the back of her skull using a hammer. Left her for dead but she wasn’t. She managed to drag herself twenty feet in four hours, out to the front door. Trail of blood all the way through the house. Found her behind the door, curled up, like she was waiting.”

Paddy cringed. “He took her teeth out?”

“Didn’t you notice?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Both McVie and JT looked at her, one gleeful, the other saddened by her incompetence.

JT slid out from between them, holding up a hand as though, regretfully, he would have to leave them alone, JT-less until the morning when his star would rise again.

She waited until he was gone. “I did so notice the blood. I just didn’t want to give anything away to him.”

But McVie wouldn’t look at her. “Guy’s a dick,” he muttered.

FUCKING HELL ALMIGHTY FUCKING SHIT GOD

Kate looked out between two rotting planks of wood. She could see the cottage from here, though the drop to the loch side was so steep that she was almost invisible. A stranger, someone who had never visited before, wouldn’t know the boathouse was part of the same property. She was chewing her tongue, knowing she could gnaw it raw again if she kept it up. She stopped herself, stepping back from the rotting boards and opening her mouth wide, rolling her unnaturally pink tongue around in a wide circle.

A small yellow rowing boat hung high above the lapping water, tethered to the ceiling. The oars were fixed to the wall, everything where it should be, nothing changed in the two decades she had known it. She should sell the cottage, advertise it in the Times and sell it to a Londoner with bags of dough as a highland retreat. She had only owned it for three months but the caretaker handed in his notice and the property was already falling into disrepair. The garden was overgrown, the mint in the back had tumbled over everything else, choking all other vegetation as it crept toward the house.

She drank some more watery powdered milk out of the measuring jug and looked out through the crack again.

She had the tin of ham with her but no can opener. Stupid. She needed a bath as well and hadn’t even turned on the immersion heater before she took sudden stomach-churning fright and, grabbing what she could, had run out of the cottage and come down here to hide. She had brought the jug of reconstituted milk. It tasted nasty but she drank it down like medicine for thirst. It was good but not what she needed. Even knowing that she was about to give in made her shoulders relax away from her ears, her face soften, her outlook calm.

She put the jug down carefully and took a flat silver box from her handbag. It had a secret compartment in the side and she stroked it with her thumb, reminding herself of all the good times. Looking around for somewhere to sit, she chose the big orange plastic box they kept the life jackets in. She sat down, wiggling backward one buttock at a time, imagining how pretty she looked while she did it. She smiled as she opened the box.

“Fucking hell almighty fucking shit god.”

It was all gone. Every grain. Even the corners were empty and she couldn’t get in there with her spoon. She must have hoovered it up with a note. She didn’t like that. The spoon was the mark of a lady. Sad addicts used notes. She tried to think who else had been there so that she could blame it on them but she had been alone for days and days.

Angry and disappointed at her lapse in manners, she wiggled off the orange chest, the heels of her pumps landing on the wooden deck with an emphatic clack-click. All sense of danger was lost now that she had promised herself relief and been denied it. She walked quickly along to the door and pulled it open without even listening for cars or people outside, her heart skipping a beat when she realized what she had done. She paused and heard exactly nothing. The water lapped against the shore outside. Wind ruffled the trees. Stupid.

Hurrying and breathless, heart racing, Kate scuffled sideways down the steep incline to her car parked at the water’s edge. She fitted the keys in and opened the boot in a single, graceful motion. She smiled down at it.

The bag of coke was as big and full and welcoming as a freshly plumped pillow.

Working carefully, her hands suddenly steady as a surgeon’s, she unpeeled the tape from the top seam of the bag and dipped her snuffbox into it, scooping, overfilling it so that the gritty powder spilled over the sides. She was being anxious and greedy about it. That was very sad addict. She poured a third of the powder back into the pillow and snapped the snuffbox shut again, reapplying the tape to the open wound, smoothing the edges down. She couldn’t stand the thought of the pillow coming open during a drive and her not knowing until it was all blowing out of the back and gone.

He had left a lot of tools in there, heavy-duty things for heavy work. She wondered what he needed such things for and why he needed to hide them in her car before the familiar trap door shut in her head. He did a lot of odd things. Men who made money like he did couldn’t go about explaining themselves all the time, silly girl. None of my business.

She shut the boot, holding her snuffbox tightly as she tiptoed back up the muddy slope and along to the boathouse. She sat the snuffbox on the orange box and opened it, pulling the spoon out of the little compartment on the side, scooping a single portion for one nostril and breathing it in like powdered oxygen.

Her head rolled back on her slim neck, her eyes tickled. The first spoon took the edge off the world, restarted her heart so that she could hear it pounding and nothing else. The second spoon would give her the buzz and bring the noises and colors of the world alive again, but she lingered between the cold of the deep water and the ragged heat of the dry shore for a moment, thinking of nothing, remembering nothing, imagining herself nowhere but here, present in the moment and content to be there.

She didn’t even need to open her eyes to fill the second spoon and find it with her nostril. The cocaine fired her up, making the blood too warm, lubricating it so that her brain slipped its moorings and slid sideways, crashing into the wall of her skull. She collapsed onto her side, her blond hair fanning out around her head, her legs bent and to the side, perfectly parallel with one another in a symmetry she would have found pleasing. A trickle of dark blood ran from her left nostril, crossing a white cheek and disappearing into her yellow hair.

The sun had been down a long time and the night had plummeted into a bitter, bone-cracking cold. No one lingered in the streets or bared any part of themselves to the elements that weren’t essential for navigation. Orange-lit taxis were hunting for fares in the city center, crawling past bus stops and slowing to tempt the few walkers. It was early evening and everyone in Glasgow had decided to stay indoors.

The station at Partick Marine would have been one of the stops they called at on their rounds anyway, trawling all the city police stations for the latest stories, so Paddy told Billy to make it the first of the night. She didn’t see why she should go and see the police on her own time. It was News business anyway.

It occurred to her that they might want to talk to Billy as well, he’d been there after all. If anyone had seen the money change hands it would be him.

“By the way,” she said, trying to be kind, hoping he would be if they asked him about it, “I told McVie about young Willie and the Partick Thistle tryout.”

“Oh, right, yeah. What did he say?”

“Said the Jags are shite.”

Billy smiled fondly at the road and looked at her in the mirror. “I like that.”

“I think he misses you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we’ll get engaged.”

They were traveling west, passing the gothic university perched high on the hill. They took Dumbarton Road, a broad thoroughfare that cut through the west of the city. At one point the fast road became Partick high street. Billy called it the shooting gallery because the pedestrians would throw themselves across the road, defying buses and cars. It was deserted tonight, the only bright shop light from a chip shop window.

Billy pulled into a side street and drew up outside Partick Marine. The building looked like a mock-Georgian office block. The pale blue door was wide and rounded at the top, with a row of matching windows to the left. On the right side of the door, a blank wall was topped by a stone balustrade interspersed with wild shrubs and stringy tufts of grass. Behind, visible only now because it was so dark in the street, tired yellow lights leaked from tiny barred windows.

The Marine was once the busiest police station in Glasgow. It was a base for policing the river back when Partick and next door Anderston were stop-offs for fishermen from the north and the world community of sailors. Immigrants from the highlands and islands had settled in Partick. The older policemen tended to be from among them because, in the not too distant past, it had been an important skill for a Partick officer to be able to break up a fight between Gaelic-speaking sailors and immigrants.

Now the river had died and the Marine was separated from it by a motorway. The shipyards lay empty, rotting back into the river they had grown out of. The Partick Marine was a landlocked anomaly, a drunk tank for students from Glasgow University.

It looked quiet tonight. Lights from the tall arched windows glinted on the wet street.

Paddy opened her door. “Come and get me if anything comes over the radio, eh?”

“Sure thing.”

Paddy held her leather coat closed against the rain and ran across the deserted street to the door of the police station. She pushed it open and found herself in a noisy bacchanalian crowd of drunks in shiny suits and best dresses. She looked around, bewildered by the press of people waiting to be booked by the three uniformed officers working the wooden front desk. Then she saw the carnations in the buttonholes.

She pushed her way to the front of the queue and caught the attention of Murdo McCloud, a neat white-haired man with a soft highland accent. The rostrum he sat on night after night was a long wooden desk on a three-foot-high platform, built so that the officers could oversee the waiting room. Behind the desk the platform developed into a series of glassless windows. A corridor ran behind it, where efficient ghosts scuttled along on their nightly journeys. On a quiet night Paddy could hear footsteps and wooden creaks in the waiting room.

“Good evening.”

“Miss Meehan, how are you this very fine evening?” He burred his r’s in a way that made the tip of Paddy’s tongue tingle.

“Is this someone’s wedding?”

He nodded solemnly. “The Curse of the Free Bar.”

Next to her a drunk man in gray pleated trousers, skinny leather tie, and wedge haircut was swaying wildly in the arms of a small, elderly woman, possibly his mother. She hoped it was his mother.

“Someone from this station phoned the paper and asked me to come in. It’s about the thing in Bearsden.”

Murdo gave her a look, as if the home team were under attack, and stood up, opening the door into a corridor behind the desk. He leaned through, leaving his feet in the waiting room, and called to someone that she was here about the Bearsden Bird. The name sounded like a character from a children’s TV show. Paddy had noticed an inverse relationship between the silliness of names and the brutality of the cases. “The Razor Attacks” was a spate of knife fights between drunks in pubs which usually resulted in cuts to hands and fingers. “The Bunhouse Guy” was a vicious rapist who operated in or around the waste ground on Bunhouse Lane and bit his victims until they bled.

Murdo came back to the desk and smiled at her, thumbing over his shoulder. “In you go, Sullivan’s waiting on you.”

Paddy took the steep steps up at the side of the desk, feeling as if she was climbing onto a stage, and opened the door behind Murdo.

Behind the partition wall was a rickety wooden corridor running parallel to the desk. The wooden walls had been painted white, giving a nautical impression. The floor was painted black, peeling and chipped so that the splinters of bare wood were visible below. There were three windowed doors in the facing wall. She guessed which one Murdo could have leaned into without leaving reception and, pushing it open, she peered into a small office.

Down three steps, the small, gray office had a large window looking straight out onto a wet brick wall. At a desk in front of the window sat two men in loosened ties and shirtsleeves, smoking and staring perplexed at a form. They looked up when she came in.

“I’m Paddy Meehan.”

“Ah.” The younger man stood up, smearing his short brown hair back with the flat of his hand. He had blotchy skin and a square face with hands and body to match. His partner was tall, white haired with sun-leathered brown skin. He had been slender once, before middle age. His frame was slim but odd pockets of fat sat on his chin, his belly, and the tops of his legs. He still moved like a young man, leading with his hips as he stood up to greet her.

“Here, sit down.” The younger man pointed at a chair on the other side of the table and the older man tipped his chair back, leaving the group, giving his colleague room to do the questioning.

Paddy sat down and shed her coat carefully over the back support. “Paddy Meehan.” She leaned across the table to shake hands, to make them introduce themselves and look her in the eye. It was a trick she had learned from long experience. No one would look her in the eye unless she made them: she was short and looked younger than her twenty-one years. She reached toward the older man first, making him right his chair.

“Gordon Sullivan,” he said, letting his eyes disengage from hers as soon as he could.

The geometric younger man held her gaze for longer. “Andy Reid.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m from the Daily News.”