awful. What I mainly felt was relief. At not having to be right all the time, not having to pretend to know it all. Hands up. Mea culpa . I got it wrong.
‘If anyone knows anything,’ Maguire was saying, ‘now would be a good time.’
Her gaze rested on me for a moment and I stared her out. There was a general crossing of arms and sucking in of lips around the table. Maguire looked around the vacant faces.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But no surprises, people. If Martin was in trouble, if he was involved in something, it’s better we break it than somebody else. If there is an issue and it turns out that one of you knew—’ She flicked her wrist to indicate some swingeing repercussion further down the line.
By four o’clock that afternoon I was proofing the obit. I had gathered Moir’s cuttings for the past six months. I had phoned his former editor at the Belfast Telegraph and spoken to some of his colleagues there. I was trying to do him, I want to say ‘justice’, but where’s the justice in taking a man’s life and boiling it down into eight hundred words? I was on the final par when I raised my head to see a man pointing at me from Maguire’s office as Maguire and another woman followed the line of his finger. Then Maguire poked her head out and beckoned me over.
Jesus, that was quick , was my thought as I crossed the floor. Maguire passed me on the way in. There were two cops, a woman and a man. They were using Maguire’s office for their interviews. The woman was in charge.
She nodded at the door and I closed it. I eased into the vacant chair.
‘We’re sorry to take you away from your work,’ the woman said. She was leafing through papers. She didn’t look sorry.
‘That’s alright,’ I said. ‘I could use a break.’
‘Good.’ She clasped her hands on the desk. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gunn and this is Detective Constable Lumsden.’
Lumsden and I nodded at each other. He was big, prematurely bald, with an ugly prop-forward’s mug. He wore a rumpled lilac shirt and leather jacket. His silver and purple tie was ugly too. Gunn was neat and pretty, fair hair back in a scrunchie.
‘You’re the Political Editor, right?’
‘Yeah. On the Sunday.’
‘What are you working on?’
‘You mean right now?’
‘Right now. What are you writing?’
Maguire would have told her.
‘I’m doing the obit, Martin’s obituary.’
She looked young to be a sergeant. Certainly she was younger than I was, younger, too, than the gloomy Lumsden.
‘You knew him well, then?’
Lumsden had his biro out, elbows spread on the desk.
‘I don’t know. I thought I did.’
Her accent was hard to place. It wasn’t Highland but the vowels had a lightness and bounce. It might have been Canadian but it wasn’t that, either.
‘Your editor says he was closest to you. Out of all the employees.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s not saying much.’
‘You mean he didn’t have many friends among the staff?’
‘I mean he wasn’t here much. He worked from home a lot, when he wasn’t out on a story.’
She nodded, looked down at her notes. ‘When did you see him last? Outside the office, I mean.’
DC Lumsden looked stolidly on, the point of his biro pressing his pad. He looked like a waiter taking an order.
‘Two weeks ago. I took a present down for his daughter’s birthday.’ I paused. ‘She’s my god-daughter.’
‘You’re godfather to Martin Moir’s daughter?’
I nodded.
‘That sounds pretty close.’
I shrugged. ‘Yeah. Well it wasn’t close enough, was it?’
She smiled at the desk and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She enjoyed her job – you could see that. I don’t mean that she relished the power over others or that proximity to murder and calamity thrilled her – though that may have been true. She enjoyed the game, that’s all – the challenge, the pursuit. I almost wished I had something to hide, to give her the pleasure of teasing it out.
The face was
‘If anyone knows anything,’ Maguire was saying, ‘now would be a good time.’
Her gaze rested on me for a moment and I stared her out. There was a general crossing of arms and sucking in of lips around the table. Maguire looked around the vacant faces.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But no surprises, people. If Martin was in trouble, if he was involved in something, it’s better we break it than somebody else. If there is an issue and it turns out that one of you knew—’ She flicked her wrist to indicate some swingeing repercussion further down the line.
By four o’clock that afternoon I was proofing the obit. I had gathered Moir’s cuttings for the past six months. I had phoned his former editor at the Belfast Telegraph and spoken to some of his colleagues there. I was trying to do him, I want to say ‘justice’, but where’s the justice in taking a man’s life and boiling it down into eight hundred words? I was on the final par when I raised my head to see a man pointing at me from Maguire’s office as Maguire and another woman followed the line of his finger. Then Maguire poked her head out and beckoned me over.
Jesus, that was quick , was my thought as I crossed the floor. Maguire passed me on the way in. There were two cops, a woman and a man. They were using Maguire’s office for their interviews. The woman was in charge.
She nodded at the door and I closed it. I eased into the vacant chair.
‘We’re sorry to take you away from your work,’ the woman said. She was leafing through papers. She didn’t look sorry.
‘That’s alright,’ I said. ‘I could use a break.’
‘Good.’ She clasped her hands on the desk. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gunn and this is Detective Constable Lumsden.’
Lumsden and I nodded at each other. He was big, prematurely bald, with an ugly prop-forward’s mug. He wore a rumpled lilac shirt and leather jacket. His silver and purple tie was ugly too. Gunn was neat and pretty, fair hair back in a scrunchie.
‘You’re the Political Editor, right?’
‘Yeah. On the Sunday.’
‘What are you working on?’
‘You mean right now?’
‘Right now. What are you writing?’
Maguire would have told her.
‘I’m doing the obit, Martin’s obituary.’
She looked young to be a sergeant. Certainly she was younger than I was, younger, too, than the gloomy Lumsden.
‘You knew him well, then?’
Lumsden had his biro out, elbows spread on the desk.
‘I don’t know. I thought I did.’
Her accent was hard to place. It wasn’t Highland but the vowels had a lightness and bounce. It might have been Canadian but it wasn’t that, either.
‘Your editor says he was closest to you. Out of all the employees.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s not saying much.’
‘You mean he didn’t have many friends among the staff?’
‘I mean he wasn’t here much. He worked from home a lot, when he wasn’t out on a story.’
She nodded, looked down at her notes. ‘When did you see him last? Outside the office, I mean.’
DC Lumsden looked stolidly on, the point of his biro pressing his pad. He looked like a waiter taking an order.
‘Two weeks ago. I took a present down for his daughter’s birthday.’ I paused. ‘She’s my god-daughter.’
‘You’re godfather to Martin Moir’s daughter?’
I nodded.
‘That sounds pretty close.’
I shrugged. ‘Yeah. Well it wasn’t close enough, was it?’
She smiled at the desk and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She enjoyed her job – you could see that. I don’t mean that she relished the power over others or that proximity to murder and calamity thrilled her – though that may have been true. She enjoyed the game, that’s all – the challenge, the pursuit. I almost wished I had something to hide, to give her the pleasure of teasing it out.
The face was
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