The Dead Hour

by Denise Mina

  “For goodness’ sake,” Paddy tutted, as if it were a misplaced table mat, “who put that there?”

  III

  The clock said four and it was dark outside. Paddy sat up with a start, thinking for a moment that it was four a.m. and she’d been asleep at work. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up before her legs were awake, staggering off to the side, and heard a giggle from her sister’s bed. Mary Ann was sitting in the dark, holding a set of plastic pearl rosary beads. She watched Paddy stagger back to the bed and kneel on it before carrying on with her prayers.

  “It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”

  Mary Ann smiled as her fingers automatically clicked onto the next bead.

  Unreasonably angered at the sight, Paddy climbed across the beds and took hold of her sister’s feet, lifting them up and down and whistling “Strangers in the Night” because their granny told them that when nice girls whistled Our Lady cried. Her sister smiled a little, looked down at her rosary beads, and carried on.

  Paddy bounced to a stop on the bed and watched her sister repeating the ancient prayers by rote. “Don’t shut your eyes, Mary Ann, look up.”

  But Mary Ann ignored her.

  Since they were children Trisha had prayed every night that one of them would find a vocation and join a religious order. She’d set her heart on her eldest son, Marty, being a priest, but Marty wasn’t very nice or religiously inclined and Gerald wasn’t smart enough.

  Mary Ann’s side of the bedroom didn’t have posters of heartthrobs anymore and the chest of drawers at the end of her bed no longer had makeup on it, but holy books and novenas. It started when Pope John Paul II gave a mass at Bellahouston Park.

  Even Paddy was impressed by the spectacle and the pomp. They were an immigrant minority and the generation of young people at the open-air mass had grown up ashamed of their primitive Catholicism. But John Paul II dignified religious defiance. He had remained Catholic under a brutal Communist regime, openly proclaiming himself and ministering to anyone courageous enough to follow him. Young Catholic Scotland suddenly rewrote the meaning of their journey and felt proud that they had kept the faith despite being denied work and houses and being marched against by the Orange Order.

  When the pope took the stage they stood shoulder to shoulder with two hundred thousand fellow faithful, the hot June sun warming their backs, applauding until their hands were scorched, clapping themselves as much as their priest.

  Paddy went on the parish bus to please her mum but drifted off as soon as she could, standing at the back with the loose crowd of skeptics. She felt something in the summer air, a power maybe, the energy of conviction. The thrill caught the back of even her unbelieving throat. She could share in the pride of her people even if she didn’t share their faith. She never went to mass anymore but did her parents the courtesy of pretending she might by always being out on Saturday evenings during the hour of the teatime mass when the Sunday obligation could be fulfilled.

  Mary Ann left the park deeply changed. She became a devout daily communicant and spent her days praying at home or passively engaged in the business of the church. She had tried the Charismatic Renewal, a highly emotive movement within the church that invited the Holy Spirit to manifest itself by making them behave in faintly ridiculous ways, like falling over, talking rubbish, or crying in public, but she was too giggly and shy for it.

  A priest with a twitch at St. Columbkille’s was trying to get Mary Ann a place at Taizi, an ecumenical camp for young Christians, so she could try out the religious life and see how it suited her.

  Paddy sat in the dim light at the foot of the bed, watching Mary Ann’s lips tremble in the dark as her finger found its mark on the row of beads. The light seemed to leave the room as she looked at her. She loved Mary Ann more than anyone alive and she didn’t want her life to consist of prayers in gray halls or being nice to people in trouble, an awful, humble half-life. She wanted Mary Ann to have great dangerous adventures in wild sunshine, trips to America, a passionate love affair that ended in tears on a bridge in Paris.

  Mary Ann bowed her head to the gray beads, her fingers moving on to the next obligation. The toilet out on the landing flushed and their mother’s soft step padded back downstairs to the kitchen.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said.

  “Leave me alone, Paddy,” Mary Ann answered quietly. “I let you be how you are.”

  Paddy stepped down from the bed and snapped on the light, pulling her nightie over her head, walking bare-breasted to the chair, and facing into the room as she pulled her sweater and trousers on. Mary Ann ignored her. Paddy shuffled past the tightly fitted beds and sidled by the wardrobe blocking the door, sliding into the hallway and down the stairs.

  TEN

  THE BRIGATE MORGUE

  I

  The house was full: Trisha was scrubbing the oven angrily, sweating and flushed but pretending she wasn’t. The boys were slumped in the living room, watching television.

  Paddy made a plate of toast, took a mug of tea from the ever-full pot, and lifted the Daily News she had brought home with her. Out in the hallway she sat the plate and cup on the stairs as she pulled on her outdoor shoes, a pair of gloves, and a coat. She opened the front door and walked down the path. A lone car, parked at the end of the street, made her stop.

  It was a red Ford Capri, quite new and very clean, the roof glinting from a recent wax. She couldn’t say why it caught her attention, other than she’d never seen it before. The Eastfield Star was a dead end; it wasn’t a place drivers passed through by mistake. She shivered lightly and stopped herself. She had been followed by a van during the Callum Ogilvy case and strange cars still frightened her sometimes, when she thought she’d seen them before or suspected the drivers of looking at her. It was the private space that scared her, the dark five feet square inside where passersby wouldn’t interrupt a man beating a woman to death.

  As she looked she saw a shadow shifting in the Capri. The engine suddenly fired to life, headlights coming on as the car hurried backward, reversing left and then shooting forward, taking the roundabout the wrong way.

  Paddy stood on the path and watched the car drive away. It left because she’d seen it, she knew it had. It wouldn’t be a burglar, there was no money here. It might be Sullivan, sitting in his own car; he’d insisted on dropping her home, after all, and knew where she stayed.

  Worrying about it and wondering if she was right to, she crossed the garden and lifted the key out from under a brick, unlocking the garage side door and opening it, stirring up the musky smell of rotting paper. A damp fug hung in the air.

  She knew before she flicked the light on that the neighbors hadn’t been to take their stuff out. Still, the pile of rotting cardboard boxes by the door made her feel a lethargic spark of annoyance.

  She lifted the plate of buttery toast off her mug, sat it among the pencils and pens lying on the wooden box by the damp armchair, and fell in the chair, pulling the shelf of wood that fitted across the arms. She put her plate of toast and her mug of tea on it and began to eat, looking around the room.

  She had set the garage as a study, to finally get down to writing her book about Patrick Meehan’s wrongful conviction. She kept every scene of his story in her head, after all, from the night the old lady was battered to death in Ayr to his release on a royal pardon. She even knew the details of his time in Communist East Germany as a young man, of his trip to Moscow, and about his family life and his background.

  It should have been an easy book to write, but at first she couldn’t get going because the garage was too cold.

  Her father found a wood burner on one of his long walks around the old industrial wastelands. He fitted it on a slab of concrete and fed a snake of aluminum tubing out of the window for a chimney.

  Then she was uncomfortable at the wooden chair. Con found her an old armchair and made her a wooden shelf that sat over the arms for a table.

  Having resolved the major
impediments to writing the book she sat there afternoon after afternoon, winter light dying outside the small window, surrounded by research and fresh stationery lifted from work, still as a corpse, alone with her own resounding shortcomings. She spent a lot of time there, wishing she could write the book, but the pet project had turned into a monster. It felt like trying to swallow an elephant with a gulp.

  Paddy chewed her toast and knew today would be no more productive than all the other days past. She tried to fire her interest by imagining Meehan in a scene from his life: his interview with MI5 in West Berlin, when he explained his brilliant method of springing spies from British prisons, the riot outside Ayr High Court when he was brought there to be charged with murder, the afternoon in gray Peterhead Prison when he broke the seal on the vellum letter that contained his royal pardon. Still, flat images all. All the characters in her mind struck cardboard poses, no one moved or spoke. If she couldn’t write this she couldn’t write anything.

  Her dejected eyes strayed to the copy of the Daily News on the floor next to her. She lifted it onto the table. The Bearsden Bird was on the front page again; this time they were poring over her family history and a picture of her old school. She’d been engaged once, to Mark Thillingly, but was single now.

  Paddy considered the engineering feat of pulling the teeth out of someone who was wide awake and not consenting. It would take two people: one to hold her and the other one to pull. That would explain the two cars parked around the back of the house. He must have already pulled one or two teeth out by the time Paddy spoke to him at the door. Vhari must have been in agony.

  Paddy saw her face in the mirror again, sliding back into the living room. Vhari could have walked away. She could have pushed past the man at the door and climbed into a safe police car. Women stayed with men who hit them, she knew that. Leaving a husband was much more complicated than picking up a coat and walking, but the man wasn’t Vhari’s husband. His name didn’t seem to have come up in the police investigation yet, so he probably wasn’t even her boyfriend. She must have had a bloody good reason.

  The police were useless. Most had set their heart on Thillingly and neither Dan nor Tam were admitting that Mark Thillingly wasn’t the man at the door, and they weren’t talking about the BMWs parked around the back, either. They had taken money and they knew the guy, she felt sure they did.

  She was sitting back, wondering, when her eye fell on a page-two story. It was a picture of Patrick Meehan in a small living room, grinning bitterly and holding up a letter. His skin had a heavy smoker’s yellow tinge, dying from the outside in. The criminal injuries board had paid him a lump sum of compensation for his wrongful conviction. Meehan said he was accepting the money because he owed a lot of people and wanted to do the right thing by them, but fifty thousand pounds wasn’t enough.

  He didn’t look anything like the one-dimensional Meehan in her weak imagination. She looked at his watery eyes and saw traces of bitterness, impotent anger, a tinge of self-disgust. She had heard gossip about the damage the case had done to his children. He was holding the letter too tightly: his fingernails were white at the tips. He must have been holding it for a while, the photographer probably had trouble with his lights.

  Meehan had always been part of her life but he never seemed like a real person before.

  II

  Paddy hesitated at the mouth of the dark cobbled alleyway. Brigate lanes could be used for a lot of things, and being mugged for her monthly Transcard, the only thing of value she owned, was the least of her worries. A few of the lanes had mattresses in them, put there by forward-thinking prostitutes who still had the sense to attend to their own comfort.

  She took a step into the lane and felt herself swallowed by the darkness. She could smell a wet mattress on the cobbles and imagined the sickly scent of formaldehyde. Cardboard melted slowly into the stone. It smelled like the neighbors’ debris in her garage.

  She was ten yards into the inky dark when she saw his shadow. Sullivan was waiting for her at the side door to the morgue, just as he said he would be. He had asked her to come about six thirty or quarter to seven. He couldn’t say it but she understood the implication: police shifts changed at that time and most officers would be getting briefed for their shift; they wouldn’t be coming past the morgue on routine business.

  Sullivan nodded at her and kicked his heel back, pushing the usually locked door open into the bright white tiled corridor. Paddy shut the door behind her.

  Wordlessly he led the way along the corridor. Glassy Victorian tiles covered the walls and floor. The overhead strip lights glinted yellow off the glaze. She could smell bleach.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this wee visit.”

  “You’re sticking your neck out here, aren’t you?”

  Sullivan shrugged, reluctant to voice his suspicions. Paddy touched his back, telling him to lead on, that she would follow. He was a brave man.

  They came through a reception area with a vacant desk, a gray school cardigan slung over the back of the office chair. Behind stood a stack of oak boxes of index drawers, each fronted by a letter of the alphabet written in gothic script. Sullivan stopped at a set of double oak doors and looked back at Paddy.

  “You been in here before?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t offer her words of comfort or warning and she appreciated it. He took a deep breath, rolling his finger to warn her to do the same, and then pushed the door open.

  The sharp compost smell was tempered by the cold, but not enough. Across the tiled floor, a steel wall of big drawers splintered the overhead light and standing in front of it was a man in a white coat, facing the door expectantly. He was young but bearded, his mustache grown down over his top lip, wet at the tips. He smiled shyly, trying to be welcoming, but his teeth were stained and broken. Sullivan looked away and Paddy saw the sadness in the man’s eyes.

  “All right, Keano? Here’s the wee lady I was telling ye about.”

  Shamed, Keano pressed his lips together and nodded at Paddy. “Don’t get many birds in here.” He tapped a fingernail against the metal drawer behind him. “Don’t mean in here. Birds die just the same as us, eh?” He looked to Sullivan for confirmation that women couldn’t cheat death.

  “Oh, aye, they die just the same.”

  Keano cringed, aware that he sounded stupid. “Die just the same.”

  They were looking at Paddy, expecting a response. She gave Keano an unthreatening smile. “Good,” she said, wanting it to be all right for him.

  Sullivan leaned in confidentially. “Is our guy handy then?”

  Keano took two steps across the steel wall and took hold of the handle. The drawer slid open easily, a narrow seven-foot-long tray. Mark Thillingly’s corpse was wrapped tight in a crisp white linen sheet, patches of the material translucent where water had dampened it. The earthy smell of river water rose as soft as mist.

  Keano flipped the sheets open left and right. Thillingly was naked, his skin waxy and luminous. Paddy tried not to look further down than the nipples but she could see Keano’s hand reach out and pull the sheet back over the genitals.

  A raw Y-incision across the chest and stomach had been sewn back up with big stitches and thick thread. The rip on his cheek had been sewn more carefully but still puckered around the heavy thread. Thillingly was fat. Paddy looked at his sagging stomach and slight breasts and felt for him, imagined all the times he had avoided taking his top off in front of others, how, like her, he dreaded hot weather and never went swimming.

  She knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t the man at Vhari Burnett’s front door on the night of the murder. She looked up to speak but Sullivan was shaking his head softly.

  “Keano, my man,” he said cheerfully, stepping away from the tray. “Thanks, pal.”

  “You owe me a drink then, eh?” Keano forgot himself and grinned again.

  “Sure do.” Sullivan backed off out of the room, tak
ing Paddy with him. “Sure do, my man.”

  “Aye.” Keano watched them leave. “We don’t get many women visiting, is what I mean.”

  “Right enough,” called Paddy, as the door swung shut behind them. “Sullivan, that’s not him.”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  She tried not to sound excited. “This is a big story. This is going to be massive.”

  “Okay.” He led her farther down the corridor and when he turned back she could see how troubled he was. No policeman wanted to take a stand against another. “The board of inquiry into the Burnett call are meeting next week. They’re calling witnesses. You’ll get a letter but they’ve got you penciled in for Tuesday afternoon. You’ll have to tell them about the fifty quid then. I can’t guarantee word won’t get out after that.”

  He was reminding her that she had a lot to lose too. “Fair enough. I’m going to need this story, then. I’ll wait for it but I really need it.”

  Sullivan nodded. “Pet, if the story is what I think it is, I’m going to need you. Do you know what I mean?”

  They looked at each other, neither of them favored by colleagues, both in need of a boost and someone at their back.

  “Hundred percent.”

  II

  It was still dark outside the car but Kate had been awake for ten minutes. She smoked a breakfast cigarette and looked out of the window at the car park. She had slept in the driver’s seat, arms folded, her chin on her chest, secure in the bad area as long as the doors were locked. She’d taken a small sniff too, just to give the cigarette a nice morning edge.

  She shook her right hand again, irritated, banging her fingertips off the steering wheel. A sharpened pencil through a drum of paper; she could feel it in her fingers, the sensation of resistance followed by a snap and give. She blinked hard when she saw the man on the floor with the shoe heel in his eye. Her coke-widened eyes shut tight and opened again, hoping the image burned onto the back of her retinas would change. She couldn’t take the image in, it felt like two distinct pictures overlapping. A shoe and a man. Not a shoe in a man. A shoe and a man. Even through a fog of drugs and tiredness she sensed the world moving beyond her capacity to grasp it. She had killed a man.