Field of Blood

THIRTY-TWO . DON’T LIKE MONDAYS

I

She woke up more aware of the day ahead than the weekend that had passed. Terry was going in early to get out all the Dempsie clippings and stop anyone else’s using them. He was going to phone around the police stations and then try to speak to McVie and Billy, who was probably a less self-interested source of information, to find out if anything had happened overnight to Naismith. Then he was going to approach Farquarson and ask if they could write the story themselves. She hoped Terry would be enough of a draw. She certainly wasn’t on her own.

The family didn’t notice a difference in her as they ate breakfast. Trisha boiled her three eggs as an act of reconciliation, and Gerald passed her the milk for her coffee before she asked for it. She sat and ate among them, watching the toast rack pass from person to person and Trisha dishing out the porridge. She acted normally, her mind back in the weekend, thinking her way through Naismith’s van, the riot, and Terry Hewitt’s bed.

The frost gave everything in the world a sharp edge, and the weak sun couldn’t burn the morning off the land. Even Paddy’s breath was a cloud of sharp crystals as she hurried carefully across slippery pavements to the station.

She found a seat on the train and sat down heavily, wincing at the tenderness of the flesh between her legs. It gave her more of a thrill than the sex itself had. She thought of herself sitting in Terry’s passenger seat, watching him walk back from Naismith’s van, of the cold, damp rock on the windy brae. Sean could go out with other girls now if he wanted. He could hold their hands and kiss them and promise them a cozy future. In time she would just be someone he used to know.

When she saw Terry Hewitt standing outside the door of the Daily News building with his hands in his pockets, one leg bent and resting on the wall behind him, she knew somehow that he was hoping he looked like James Dean. He looked like a plump guy leaning on a wall.

She was still a long way away and, abandoning his pose, he glanced down the road to look for her, knowing she would be coming from the train station. When he spotted her outline in the distance, a duffel coat and ankle boots, scurrying towards him, he did a double take and self-consciously resumed his stance. She was standing just feet away before he looked up again. He looked angry.

“You’re wanted in the Beast Master’s office. Right away.”

Paddy glanced at her watch. “But the editorial meeting’s about to start.”

“Right away.”

He turned away, ready to lead her upstairs, but she caught the tail of his leather.

“Shit, Terry, what happened?”

He didn’t stop or even look back. He flapped his hand for her to follow, leading the way through the black marble lobby. The echo of Terry’s metal-capped shoes ricocheted off the cold ceiling and walls. The Two Alisons simultaneously turned their heads and watched them cross the floor. Paddy knew it was serious. Not only had Terry been sent to intercept her and take her straight to Farquarson, he was escorting her through the formal entrance, the entrance for strangers who didn’t belong to the paper.

He jogged up the stairs in front of her, and Paddy hit his leg. “Stop,” she pleaded, but he didn’t. He marched on, and she had no option but to follow him. “Terry, please?” He sped up as if he were trying to get away from her.

She was losing her breath as they arrived on the newsroom floor. She was about to start a fresh plea, but he crossed the landing in two steps and threw open the doors to the newsroom. Not a single face looked at them, not one head rose nor idle eye fell upon them as Terry led her across the hundred-foot stretch of carpet to Farquarson’s office. Even Keck kept his eyes lowered as she passed the bench, pretending not to hear her mumble a needy little “hiya.” Only Dub looked at her, a little sadly, and she had the distinct feeling that he was saying good-bye.

The black venetian blinds were drawn, the door shut. Terry rapped twice, rattling the loose glass, and pushed open the door, stepping back to let her in ahead of him. Paddy crossed the threshold.

Farquarson was alone, bent over his desk, alternately moving two cutout lead paragraphs back and forth over a page proof. He sat back, glancing blankly at Hewitt, completely ignoring Paddy. She still had her coat on and was suddenly very warm.

“Boss?”

She dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. She felt every eye in the newsroom watching her back, seeing the sweat pop on her neck, noting how fat she was.

“Thomas Dempsie.” Farquarson left it hanging in the air as if it was an order.

She was almost afraid to move. “How do you mean?”

“You were right. There was a tie-in with Brian Wilcox after all.”

Paddy looked back at Terry, gri

“So, here’s the plan,” continued Farquarson. “You’ll write up the Dempsie case as a history, straightforward, shouldn’t be too hard. If it isn’t complete shite we’ll use it as an insert next week.”

“Next week? Won’t we have to wait until the trial?”

Terry smiled triumphantly and kicked her gently on the ankle. “That’s the good news. There isn’t going to be a trial. Naismith confessed.”

“To what?”

“Everything. He confessed to murdering Thomas Dempsie, to taking Brian Wilcox and forcing the boys to kill him, to kidnapping Heather Allen and killing her- everything.”

She frowned. “Why would he confess to everything?”

“Well,” said Farquarson, “they found evidence in his van linking him to Heather and blood that matches Brian Wilcox’s.”

Paddy looked around at Terry, still gri

Farquarson shrugged. “Maybe he felt bad?”

Terry nodded encouragingly. “He had Jesus stickers all over his van. Maybe he wanted to come clean.”

“The Jesus stickers should make him stop killing people, not come clean after he was caught.” She wanted to believe it, but she just didn’t. “He was going to kill me to protect himself the other day, but suddenly he feels the need to unburden himself?”

Farquarson had little time for rumination on the dark interior of men’s souls. “Balls to that. The charges against the boys have been reduced to conspiracy to commit murder. They’ll fare much better, so it’s good news.”

She nodded, trying to convince herself that he was right: it was good news.

“We’ve arranged it with the relatives when we can finally get access to them, after Naismith’s convicted.”

“How does he know the boys?”

“They didn’t say.” Farquarson looked at Terry. “I think they live in the same area as him.”

Terry nodded. “They used to hang around the van, the neighbors told the police. James O’Co

“Absent?”

“Drunks.”

“Yeah, great,” said Farquarson, drawing them back to the moment. “So JT will interview the boys. Meehan, you can liaise with him, give him any tips about the background, that kind of thing.”

“I want Callum,” she said loudly. “I want the Ogilvy interview myself.”

Farquarson looked stu

“If JT interviews him he’ll be brutal. He’ll make Callum look like an evil wee shite, and he isn’t. I can get to meet the boy before anyone else, and Terry’ll help me write it up.”

They argued back and forth for twenty minutes. Farquarson wouldn’t be able to edit the piece forever, she’d have to submit something worth publishing. The real problem was getting the interview while anyone still cared about it. Paddy lied and said she’d already arranged to get in and see him this week. If Sean went in a huff, she’d be stuffed.