He moved closer to her, sliding in, shoulder on. “Meehan, Paddy, if I can call you that.” He was standing so close to her and his voice was so low she thought for a moment he was going to try and kiss her. “That picture.” He shook his head and stopped, staring hard at the bins. He stepped away from her and raised a hand. “This is my office, ye know. This bar, this filthy yard. This is where I do all my business. I got quite a thrill when you came to see me the other day. I don’t know who told you I was the man to talk to, but they were wrong.” His face laughed but his eyes didn’t. “I used to be the man, but now…”
Donaldson was a bit pissed, she realized. It made him more animated than he had been the other day, loose, and it suited him.
“What are you doing in Scotland?”
“Oh, I’m out. They sent me away. I used to be the king of the Sweetie Bottle Bar. Drank with all of them, gave orders from there. If a woman was worried about her boy she’d come and see me, ask me…” He stopped, looked back at her, staring at her chest, taking that male, every-seven-seconds moment.
She circled her sore stomach with her hand, finding it helped. “Sweetie Bottle Bar?”
His face warmed in remembrance of a better time, when he mattered. “Ye know the Sweetie Bottle?”
“No, just… good name. I read about your son in the clippings. I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“Aye.” He didn’t react. He must have heard it a hundred times.
They stared at each other across the gloom of the evening, both fat and out of shape, both sick thinking about their sons.
“What should I do with the picture?”
He answered quickly. “Burn it.”
“Or one of you’ll kill me?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not us.”
“McBree came to my house. He threatened me. I was lucky. My son was out and someone else was there or I don’t know what he’d have done.”
“But we don’t kill journalists.”
“Ye bombed the Stock Exchange a month ago.”
“We gave fourteen different coded warnings half an hour before it went off.”
“Are you telling me McBree’s working alone?”
He shrugged.
“Why won’t the police touch him then?”
He looked surprised at that, gave her a warning look, and glanced back at the door to the bar. “Won’t they?”
“I got warned off by a DCS, no less.”
Donaldson looked at the door, at her, at the ground, fitting bits of something together in his head, something that made him angry and upset. Whatever it was, he shook his head, glanced at the bar door and back to her. His eyes were wet.
“They won’t listen to me.”
“Who?”
But he just shook his head again. His voice sounded strained when he spoke. “You know, Miss Meehan, if I was a journalist with a death wish I’d be asking who that other fella in the photograph was.” He nodded at the door. “McBree’ll know that you came here. He’ll see it as a provocation, wonder what you’re telling me. Someone could be on the phone to him right now. He hears everything.”
He turned away, took a deep breath, blinked his sadness away, and pushed the door open, walking back into the light and the noise. The door banged shut behind him.
She stood in the dark, rank yard, heard a bus rumble past beyond the wall, a dog bark a long way away, and thought about what he’d said for a moment. McBree was acting alone because he had something to hide and whatever his secret was, Kevin had captured it in the photograph. The fat man in the suit.
Her lung was still aching but she felt freshly fired up as she scouted the yard for a back way out, but the wall around the yard was solid and the gate was locked.
She had to knock on the fire exit and wait for the Mountain to come and let her back in. The tracksuit was gone and Donaldson was back at the bar, ignoring her as the Mountain escorted her to the main door, apologizing over and over, barely audible through the wall of catcalls and whistles from the other men.
TWENTY-SIX. GET AWAY, MUTLEY
I
Dub waited in the car, listening patiently to a comedy show on the radio, saying he didn’t mind.
Paddy checked her notes again, read the door numbers on the gates opposite, and turned back, certain that this was number eight. Dub always said that house envy was the one sure symptom of middle age. The sight of it made her mouth water.
It was everything she would have wanted Eriskay House to be: in the city, gloriously well kept and absolutely massive. A trellis arch from the street was hung with roses, the flowers faded and dropping onto the pavement, littering the path to the house.
The asymmetric facade had Arts and Crafts decoration on every finial and doorknob, small, perfect details that spoke of class and taste, oak leaves and acorns worked into the carving on the architraves, faces easing out of the stones, a lizard frozen midscamper across the door frame. To the right of the building was a glass conservatory, leaves of lush plants pressed hard against the greening windows. She paused to look in through the glass and saw trays of seedlings and flowering potted plants on a bench.
The doorbell was ceramic and chimed a timeworn gong into the hallway. She waited, looking back out into the street to see Dub alone in the car, laughing.
Suddenly the door was opened by a young girl with blond hair pulled up in a ponytail, her face fresh and welcoming, making Paddy feel shabby and fat and old.
“Paddy Meehan?”
“Hi.”
“Come in, come in.” She almost giggled with delight as Paddy shuffled in. “Mum’s still working, believe it or not.”
A square stairwell filled the hallway, carved in warm red wood, Gothic details elaborate enough for a church pew, with coats hung irreverently on delicate finials. A spindly jardiniere held a chunky black Bakelite phone. The stone floor was littered with welly boots, sandals, leashes and mauled tennis balls. It smelled of dog.
The girl led her through a passageway to the left of the door, a narrow servants’ corridor that ran between the rooms, into a back office covered in papers and poster-sized book covers. French windows gave onto a garden and a golden Labrador was dozing outside in the early evening sunshine, tail dreamily batting the ground.
Smiling, Joan Forsyth stood up to meet her. She was a mannish version of the pretty girl, in her forties but still vigorous. She was dressed in a white tailored shirt with the collar standing up in the manner of rugby players. Her hair was carefully unkempt, thick and blond with traces of white around the temples. She wore expensively cut green slacks with a thin yellow check through them.
“Hello.” She leaned on top of her desk with one hand and took Paddy’s hand with the other, pumped firmly once and let go. “Do sit down.”
She let Paddy settle, flashing her another smile and offering tea.
“Oh, lovely, thanks.”
“ Darjeeling?”
“Fine.”
“Tippy.” She addressed her daughter. “Pot of Darj and two cups, please.”
