Slip of the Knife Read Online Free PDF Page A

unemployment and a lack of counseling. The boys said it was the medication, Mary Ann said pain. But when Paddy looked into his eyes she saw a great roar of regret. Con was a timid man. He had spent his life avoiding conflict, let everyone through the door before him, waiting in a holding position, and then, suddenly, his time was over.
    She gave up trying to get her head around the fact of death. She developed the mental trick of pretending that Con had gone away on a long, happy trip, that she would see him again one day and everything would be better, he’d be tumor free, the regret and all the space between them gone. It was later that she realized her mother used exactly the same mental trick but called the destination heaven.
    Blane glanced nervously out at the misty Green and cursed under his breath as he pressed the hissing intercom again. Kilburnie looked at Paddy, blank faced until her training kicked in: her face softened and she reached supportively for Paddy’s arm, retreating when she saw the snarl on her face.
    Paddy thought she was coming over too hard. “Did he leave a note?”
    Blane looked puzzled. “Who?”
    “Terry. Did he leave a note saying why?”
    Blane’s jaw dropped in realization. “No, no, sorry. He didn’t do it to himself.”
    Kilburnie stole a pinch of Paddy’s elbow. “He was murdered.”
    “You’re shitting me?”
    “Oh yes, definitely. There were tire marks at the side of the road but no car around and we haven’t found the weapon. He was naked and we never found his clothes. He was murdered.”
    “Terry was naked?”
    Blane nodded. “Stark, bollock naked.”
    She knew it had to be murder: even if the gun wasn’t missing, Terry wouldn’t want to be found naked. He was a bit pudgy, had some fat around his arse, and was ashamed. He wanted the lights off before he would undress in front of her. It was one of the things she’d liked about him. “But who’d want to kill Terry Hewitt?”
    Blane leaned in confidentially. “They said it looks like an IRA assassination.”
    Paddy reeled on her heels. “Get fucked!”
    He nodded, excited, knowing the implications. “‘All the hallmarks.’ That’s what they said.”
    “No one’d authorize that in Scotland. We’re neutral. And Terry had nothing to do with Ireland.”
    “Well,” he said, “I’m sure they’ll tell us in the press statement. They usually do that, don’t they?”
    Kilburnie leaned back, getting between them, pointedly clearing her throat, reminding Blane of the need for discretion. Chastened, he turned back to the door, his shoulder met by Kilburnie’s, forming a wall against Paddy. He pressed the buzzer a third time. “Well, that’s what they told us,” he said, defending himself to Kilburnie.
    “It can’t be.” Paddy addressed their backs. “He was a journalist. Even the Americans wouldn’t stand for that.”
    The intercom crackled: “Yeah?”
    Blane leaned in. “PCs Blane and Kilburnie from Pitt Street. Expected here for an ID.”
    The door buzzed and fell open an inch, letting out a jab of sharp lemon. Paddy had visited the city mortuary several times and the smell didn’t get any less alarming. She took a deep breath before stepping into the dark hall.
    Blane made sure the door was shut tight behind them.
    Inside, the lobby was softly lit. A bleary-eyed security guard sat stiffly at the desk, the appointments book in front of him suspiciously flattened. As Blane and Kilburnie showed him their warrant cards and signed in, Paddy moved to the side and spotted the edge of a pillow on his lap.
    Blane smiled at the guard, saying his name twice in the course of a bland hello. Police officers liked to say people’s names. Made them feel connected. He introduced Paddy but the security guard didn’t react to her name. Not a Daily News reader.
    Blane gave up trying to chat and nodded Kilburnie and Paddy down the corridor to a set of doors with ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY painted on them. Through the doors,