composed again when she raised it.
‘He ever speak about problems? Debts? Marital issues? Depression?’
I snorted. ‘The guy was an Ulster Prod, officer, nobody tell you that? They’re not big on confession.’
‘Never sounded off? Not about anything?’
I frowned. ‘Piss and moan a bit in the pub. Like everyone else. He had it pretty good, though. He didn’t have too much to complain about.’
‘Special treatment,’ she said. ‘The star turn. Lot of professional jealousy?’
‘You mean me?’ I smiled. ‘Was I jealous? Yeah, probably. Might take a little more than that, though, to drive a man to suicide.’
‘Right.’ She was looking through her notes again. ‘What was his actual job here: he was chief crime reporter?’
‘Yeah. He was Investigations Editor. He went after the big players.’ I paused. ‘Did a better job than your lot.’
‘Yeah, well.’ She smiled again. ‘Knowing who did it’s generally the easy bit, Mr Conway. Hard bit’s proving it in court. So Moir got results?’
‘Now and again.’
‘Piss people off?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s in the job spec.’
‘Someone in particular?’
‘What?’
‘He piss off any players? Southside? East End? The Walshes, Neils?’
There was something wrong here. I looked across at Lumsden.
‘Hold on. This was suicide, right?’
The cops exchanged glances.
‘We don’t know, Mr Conway.’ Gunn was looking at her papers again. ‘We haven’t determined that yet.’
‘But it might be murder?’
She nodded. I looked across at Lumsden again and back at Gunn.
‘What makes you think it was murder?’
‘We don’t think it was murder.’
‘But you think it might be.’
Gunn exchanged another glance with Lumsden. It was Lumsden who spoke.
‘He was tied to the wheel.’
‘What?’
Lumsden’s pen skittered onto the table. He held up his hands with the wrists turned out, like a man wearing handcuffs.
‘Ligatures round his wrists. His wrists were lashed to the steering wheel.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
The image came unbidden. The car smacking the surface, water surging in, the body thrashing and bucking, trying to wrench free.
‘Someone tied him to the wheel?’
‘We don’t know. He might have done it himself.’ Gunn stood up from the table. ‘It’s not uncommon. You keep the hands close together, tie the knots loosely. Pull them tight with your teeth.’
‘Oh Christ.’
She gathered her papers, slipped them in a folder. Lumsden stood up too and tucked his notebook into his inside pocket. In his bulky, shapeless jacket he looked like an upright bear.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Conway.’ Gunn put a business card on the table and slid it across. ‘If anything comes to you.’
‘Of course. Aye.’
The two of them left and I sat there for a minute, my hands flat on the table. Could Moir have been murdered? Could a Tribune reporter of fourteen years’ standing, the current Scottish Journalist of the Year, could a man like this have been taken out? I thought of the offices of the Sunday Citizen in Belfast, a narrow room down an alley in the Cathedral Quarter, a building with security doors and bullet-proof glass. Four years back I stood in an alcoholic haze while the editor – who’d been standing me drinks for most of the afternoon in the Duke of York – showed me the polished brass plaque on the wall. It bore the name of the Citz ’s Special Reporter, Brendan O’Dowd, a guy with three kiddies. He was shot in the head by Loyalist paramilitaries, murdered for writing the truth. That’s what happened in Belfast. Not here. Not on the mainland, things were different here.
I heard Maguire come in, close the door behind her.
‘You hear this?’ I said. ‘They’re saying it could be murder.’
‘I know.’
A look passed between us: Could be a bigger story than we thought. I looked down at the table. Maguire turned to the window, fiddled with the roller blind.
‘Let’s sit on this for the moment, Gerry.
‘He ever speak about problems? Debts? Marital issues? Depression?’
I snorted. ‘The guy was an Ulster Prod, officer, nobody tell you that? They’re not big on confession.’
‘Never sounded off? Not about anything?’
I frowned. ‘Piss and moan a bit in the pub. Like everyone else. He had it pretty good, though. He didn’t have too much to complain about.’
‘Special treatment,’ she said. ‘The star turn. Lot of professional jealousy?’
‘You mean me?’ I smiled. ‘Was I jealous? Yeah, probably. Might take a little more than that, though, to drive a man to suicide.’
‘Right.’ She was looking through her notes again. ‘What was his actual job here: he was chief crime reporter?’
‘Yeah. He was Investigations Editor. He went after the big players.’ I paused. ‘Did a better job than your lot.’
‘Yeah, well.’ She smiled again. ‘Knowing who did it’s generally the easy bit, Mr Conway. Hard bit’s proving it in court. So Moir got results?’
‘Now and again.’
‘Piss people off?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s in the job spec.’
‘Someone in particular?’
‘What?’
‘He piss off any players? Southside? East End? The Walshes, Neils?’
There was something wrong here. I looked across at Lumsden.
‘Hold on. This was suicide, right?’
The cops exchanged glances.
‘We don’t know, Mr Conway.’ Gunn was looking at her papers again. ‘We haven’t determined that yet.’
‘But it might be murder?’
She nodded. I looked across at Lumsden again and back at Gunn.
‘What makes you think it was murder?’
‘We don’t think it was murder.’
‘But you think it might be.’
Gunn exchanged another glance with Lumsden. It was Lumsden who spoke.
‘He was tied to the wheel.’
‘What?’
Lumsden’s pen skittered onto the table. He held up his hands with the wrists turned out, like a man wearing handcuffs.
‘Ligatures round his wrists. His wrists were lashed to the steering wheel.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
The image came unbidden. The car smacking the surface, water surging in, the body thrashing and bucking, trying to wrench free.
‘Someone tied him to the wheel?’
‘We don’t know. He might have done it himself.’ Gunn stood up from the table. ‘It’s not uncommon. You keep the hands close together, tie the knots loosely. Pull them tight with your teeth.’
‘Oh Christ.’
She gathered her papers, slipped them in a folder. Lumsden stood up too and tucked his notebook into his inside pocket. In his bulky, shapeless jacket he looked like an upright bear.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Conway.’ Gunn put a business card on the table and slid it across. ‘If anything comes to you.’
‘Of course. Aye.’
The two of them left and I sat there for a minute, my hands flat on the table. Could Moir have been murdered? Could a Tribune reporter of fourteen years’ standing, the current Scottish Journalist of the Year, could a man like this have been taken out? I thought of the offices of the Sunday Citizen in Belfast, a narrow room down an alley in the Cathedral Quarter, a building with security doors and bullet-proof glass. Four years back I stood in an alcoholic haze while the editor – who’d been standing me drinks for most of the afternoon in the Duke of York – showed me the polished brass plaque on the wall. It bore the name of the Citz ’s Special Reporter, Brendan O’Dowd, a guy with three kiddies. He was shot in the head by Loyalist paramilitaries, murdered for writing the truth. That’s what happened in Belfast. Not here. Not on the mainland, things were different here.
I heard Maguire come in, close the door behind her.
‘You hear this?’ I said. ‘They’re saying it could be murder.’
‘I know.’
A look passed between us: Could be a bigger story than we thought. I looked down at the table. Maguire turned to the window, fiddled with the roller blind.
‘Let’s sit on this for the moment, Gerry.
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