‘Fancy comin’ tae London?’
‘Aye. Why no’, eh? When?’ said Jimmy.
‘A couple ae weeks yet.’
‘Aw’right.’
‘Would you drive … an’ take the van?’ Archie ventured.
‘Sure,’ said Mr Positivity, his new devil-may-care attitude to life ignoring the pragmatic restrictions of his probationary freedom.
24
October 1976
The Circle didn’t conform to many of society’s accepted norms. It existed in a mahogany-lined plutocratic environment predicated on the anonymity of the Chatham House Rule. Freedom was its application – of opinion, expression and – most attractive to The Circle’s members – predilection. Those who were granted entry to The Circle required three forms of personal recommendation, including testimonials from at least two existing members. The other criterion? Vast and immediately accessible wealth. In the early days of the secret organisation, location played a part. The founding members owned real estate in central London. They attended Eton or Oxford. They endured initiations and character-building humiliations to create the masters of men that they were.
Then the seventies broke, and the wealth shifted. Northerners infiltrated politics, culture and civil society. The Circle’s founders resisted the trend but the tide swamped their leather Chesterfields. Even King Canute adapted once. And besides, uncouth new wealth had access. Better drugs. Higher thresholds. Rougher trades. Protection.
Scandals had skirted the edges of The Circle before, threatening exposure; even to destroy the clandestine activities. But the fear – such as it became – added to the excitement. The current investigation into the private life of The Dandy was intoxicating and frightening in equal measure. The Dandy was a founder member. Now leader of a major British political party, he was an exhibitionist and opportunist, who led parallel lives as a happily married family man and a closet homosexual. Characteristics shared with most of The Circle’s fraternity. A botched attempt to shoot the man claiming to be his lover had resulted in the killing of the man’s dog; a far worse crime in the eyes of News of the World readers. The Circle provided understanding, support and the highest level of connection. Up to a point. The Dandy was in danger of going beyond that point. He was too open. Too outré for the old guard. He’d been cast adrift. A fate that might well now await Heady Hendricks.
An extraordinary meeting of the Senate had been called. Its subject matter was far from extraordinary, however.
‘Gentlemen, can we call to order please?’ There were ten such ‘gentle’ men in attendance. More than adequate for a quorum. No strangers here. Still, real names were never used. Heady Hendricks, The Entertainer, was standing beside the fire. He swilled brandy in a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. Rotating the glass. Cupped it in the palm of a tense left hand. Hiding a barely detectable tremble. The Fixer, Vince Hillcock, stood on the other side of the fireplace.
A bell sounded. Double doors opened, and two young women entered the smoking room. Tight blouses. Fishnets and spiked heels. Short skirts. Painted smiles. All in black. All as instructed. They topped up glasses. Lit cigars. Dimmed lights. They had their bottoms patted or felt by almost everyone in the room. All habitual routine. It was 3 a.m. Time to address the purpose of the midweek gathering.
Eight dinner-suited members sat in their high-backed burgundy leather armchairs, adjusting their cummerbunds. They’d been called to the Mayfair eyrie from various parts of this sceptred isle. They were The Circle, in a circle. Clockwise from Vince, the others were The Scotsman, The Judge, The Inspector, The DJ, The Surgeon, The Magnate, The Actor and finally The Cleric. Two were serving members of Her Majesty’s government. One had won a Best Actor Oscar. One had operated on several members of the royal family. Another had raised substantial funds for the hospitals in his region by running marathons. One had advanced stages of multiple sclerosis. And one had promoted an idea to eradicate homelessness in his home town by the end of the decade; a laudable idea for a socialist.
No minutes were taken. No notes written in code or confirmed agreements or decisions for absent members to inspect. A file rested on the glass table. The file was the problem. Its very existence had broken a central tenet.
‘A difficulty has manifested itself,’ said The Entertainer.
‘…That affects us all?’ asked The DJ. His carelessness had risked exposure on many occasions. He enjoyed the Schadenfreude.
‘Not necessarily,’ said The Fixer.
‘So why the worried faces, hmm?’ The Surgeon had a way of making a question seem simultaneously reassuring and threatening. The Surgeon was the oldest present. Only The Fixer was yet to reach fifty. The Surgeon had seen it all before. Stiff upper-lipped calmness personified.
‘It’s a blackmail proposition,’ admitted The Entertainer. Expressions remained impassive. Few hadn’t faced a similar awkwardness at one time or another.
‘Well,’ said The Surgeon. ‘Take care of it then, hmm?’
‘It’s a little more complicated than normal,’ said The Fixer.
‘Explain,’ invited The Surgeon.
The Fixer inhaled deeply. The Entertainer looked down. The Scotsman sunk deeper into the luxurious folds of his armchair.
‘Photos and notes were taken,’ said The Fixer, before adding, ‘Stolen.’ He paused. ‘Private photos.’
‘Yes. Hmm.’
‘Incriminating photos, taken from the Northern Initiative file.’ The Fixer looked at The Entertainer and then at The Scotsman. ‘The ginger boy, the one we talked about before … he’s in the pictures.’ There was no physical evidence of it, but the collective mood had cooled. As if the fire had suddenly gone out and chilled air was being forced through the Dickensian floor vents.
‘Do we have proof that these people actually have them, hmm?’
‘No,’ replied The Fixer. ‘Not as of yet, but the caller described the content quite accurately.’ He shot a brief glance at The Scotsman, desperate to drop the fat, useless bastard right in it.
‘And how did they get … loose, hmm?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said The Fixer. ‘A break-in, perhaps.’ He was trying to shield The Scotsman’s stupidity from the others, although he still wasn’t sure why.
‘Well, that does change things a bit, hmm?’ The Surgeon was containing his anger. They were gentlemen, after all, not football hooligans reacting to a wrongful sending-off. ‘And is the situation with the ginger boy now contained?’
‘Yes,’ said The Fixer. ‘My men dealt with it. They picked him in front of a hospital. No one else saw him. We sent a message … via the driver. He won’t be driving anywhere soon, that’s for sure.’
‘If he goes to the police, we’ll intercept him.’ The Inspector’s calmness relaxed everyone.
‘Dispose … just in case, hmm?’
‘Already in play. He’s gone to ground but I’ve got ways to flush him out.’
It was wrongly assumed that the meeting had been called to discuss progress on the Northern Initiative. Possibly with appeals to inject yet more cash. Most knew from their own fields of expertise that initial estimates rarely proved accurate.
The Northern Initiative had initially divided opinion within The Circle. It was The Scotsman’s concept. And it was an intriguing one. He had prophesied that social deprivation caused by the government reaction to the 1973 banking crisis would see more and more people on the streets. Bleeding-heart liberals were making reputations with more documentaries like Cathy Come Home. The Scotsman had hypothesised that any ventures proposing to address this issue would be universally lauded. And thus he had drafted the Northern Initiative: a revolutionary plan to lift young, destitute men up from the mean streets of Glasgow, feed and clothe them in a refurbished building known as the Great Eastern Hotel and then have the members of The Circle and their acolytes use them for sex. The members who had once lambasted the entry of the crude northerners into their comfortable English Gentlemen’s club, now saw this idea as going
some way to addressing the decline in standards. The Scotsman’s argument acknowledged the poor light in which politicians were viewed. Light-entertainment figures, on the other hand, were untouchable. A national children’s television personality had recently been caught naked in the basement of a house belonging to an adult film star. His face was covered in so much white powder that he looked like Marcel Marceau. The public refused to believe that the hand that operated the country’s best-loved puppet had also been knuckle-deep in Penis DeMilo’s arsehole. The Fixer buried it. The Puppeteer survived. If the Northern Initiative was fronted by a public figure like Hank Hendricks, then The Circle could abuse, fuck and even exterminate the roughest of local trade with total freedom. The Circle had come to view it as an enlightened proposition.
‘Who has the material now, hmm?’
‘We’re not sure, but local word suggests it’s the man who provided us with security in Glasgow. A small-time bookie.’ said The Fixer.
‘That wasn’t the cleverest of appointments, hmm?’
‘These things are always a risk. You all know that.’
‘I think a question has to be asked,’ said The Magnate. ‘Why were these photos taken from the safe-deposit box in the first place?’
The Scotsman knew this was coming. Beyond his own ego-driven hubris, he had no acceptable answer. Those private discussions held with the potential investor in The Scotsman’s inner sanctum could easily have progressed without his compulsive desire to show off. He could well be blackballed for such a breach.
Providing photos such as these were a key requirement for any member of The Circle. They agreed to be captured on film in situations that would lead to criminal charges if discovered. This maintained the trust and equilibrium in the group. It was a form of mutually assured destruction that all involved understood. The Scotsman had abused a privilege and disclosed them to an outsider along with the Northern Initiative files. It was his failure, not that of The Entertainer.
‘We’ll return to that later, hmm?’ The Surgeon’s stern tone withered The Scotsman, making him feel childish and foolish. ‘Meantime, what do they want? The usual, hmm?’
‘No. Surprisingly,’ said The Fixer. ‘They seem to want fame.’ He was still bemused by a demand that did not appear to be motivated by substantial financial gain.
‘Don’t we all, darling,’ said The Cleric.
Titters filtered through the smoke.
‘Well ah think we should hold out. This isn’t our mess. Fuck ’em, ah say.’ The DJ’s rough cackle irritated those present.
No surprise, there. Many times, The Fixer had fixed it for The DJ to escape the front pages. His lack of affinity concerned all in the room. If they had no shared respect, no trust and understanding between them, then what was The Circle for?
‘Is anyone else involved?’
‘We think someone may have stolen the material,’ said The Entertainer. It seemed such an obvious conclusion, but confirming it outright would’ve merely cemented the incompetence and culpability of those who were there when it was lost.
‘There’s also a young journalist. Scottish, a female,’ The Scotsman injected. He had spotted an opportunity to mop up a few recurring annoyances with the one broom. The Entertainer glared at The Scotsman. Maintaining clarity for the assembly was proving to be hard enough.
‘Specifics please, hmm…’
‘The manager of those five young boys…’ Puzzled looks. The Entertainer started again. ‘There’s an act … rough young boys, five of them as a singing group … on The Heady Heights,’ he said. ‘Their manager may have taken the material.’
Eyebrows were raised at this. None of the southerners had watched the programme, and Heady had to explain its premise regularly. ‘They want to get to the Palladium show,’ he added, to widespread apathy.
‘Then let them,’ said The Surgeon. ‘But then you fix them, hmm? And not a re-run of that absolute fucking shambles with the unfortunate Mr Scott, hmm?’ The Fixer bowed his head. ‘No more family pets sanctioned, please … hmm?’
‘No sir,’ said The Fixer. ‘We have a new contractor.’
‘One that can shoot straight this time,’ said The DJ, sarcastically.
The Fixer imagined fixing this long-white-haired Yorkshire bastard to an upside-down burning cross. And then pissing on him as his blackening flesh stripped from the bone. It was a dream he was having more regularly.
‘I can take care of it,’ said The Fixer, glaring at the DJ. ‘We just wanted everyone to be fully aware of the current situation.’
‘Get the photos and the papers back, hmm? We don’t care how you do it, hmm … but do it. Properly, hmm?’ No further words on the subject were solicited. ‘How is the Northern Initiative coming along, hmm?’
‘Adequate progress,’ said The Scotsman. ‘Praise an’ support from the media, thanks to The Magnate … an’ strong protection being provided by The Inspector. Ultimately, when all’s said an’ done, nobody really cares about these poor spunks. They want them off the streets an’ we’re doin’ that,’ he said, to a round of hya-hya’s; it was as if a favourable Budget was being delivered. ‘An’ the ones that surface further down the Clyde … well, folks probably think that’s just the saps that didn’t get intae the Heady Heights Hotel.’
‘A special report in the papers last week called for even greater investment … for more Heady Heights Hotels to open up,’ said The Fixer.
The assembled tipped their foreheads in the direction of The Magnate. If you could control the media, the police and the judiciary and make them compliant, what vices couldn’t be satisfied? What then would be beyond the reach of The Circle?
‘OK, enough of the business, can we get down to the entertainment, hmm?’
‘Yes, let’s,’ said The Cleric.
A bell was rung. The Cleric disrobed, and the others removed their jackets. As they did so, The Scotsman prompted The Surgeon, who then drew The Fixer closer and whispered to the hidden side of his face. The briefest of nods was noticed by The Entertainer, whose left hand began to twitch ever so slightly. It felt like he was being excluded.
A troupe of naked young men from the Piccadilly main drag were marched in. They carried silver salvers bearing long lines of cocaine. They were blindfolded. The Circle chanted their oath.
25
October 1976
She had been very lucky. An ambulance on its way to the new Monklands Hospital had approached the bend ten minutes after the crash. The Mini was on its side, and the coach driver and several passengers had righted the small car with Gail still seat-belted into it. The ambulance crew admonished them for this, but thankfully no spinal damage appeared to have occurred. Astonishingly, given the speed the Mini was going when Gail lost control of it, a fractured ankle was the most serious damage she suffered. She also had painful facial bruising and a twisted wrist and was kept in hospital for four days. The car was written off, and with it Gail Proctor’s resolve to pursue Big Jamesie Campbell further. It was utterly pointless going to the police with the bigger story, especially as the coach driver confirmed to them that no other vehicle was involved in the accident. She’d simply taken a notoriously dangerous bend a bit too aggressively. But if being run off the road was a pointed message, it was one Gail fully intended to heed.
She’d kept her head down and barely left the flat for a month after the cast had been cut off. She felt her novel was progressing well. With the working title Songs for a Funeral, it was an intense study of a professional man who had turned himself in to the police having killed a controversial right-wing politician, leaving the body to be found in the boot of his car. Not so much a whodunnit, as a whydunnit, she’d told an impressed Mrs Hubbard. The old woman regularly pleaded with Gail to get in touch with her mother, just to let her know she was fine. But Gail thought Mrs Hubbard was the only confidante she needed now. Gail rehearsed with the old woman her novel’s shifts in direction, in tension and in emerging plot. Mrs Hubbard adored Agatha Christie’s books.
Gail booked out audio-cassettes of the crime writer’s work and they spent evenings listening to them, Mrs Hubbard’s ginger cat curled up at Gail’s feet.
Gail descended the stairs carefully. She still walked with a limp. Still required the cane she’d brought home from the hospital. She was supposed to visit her doctor, but she wasn’t registered with one.
Out in the Sunday morning sunlight, people strolled along the road to the big church at the end. Its bell rang, summoning them, and irritating any agnostics in the tenements who were trying to get some extra hours in bed. A pub and a newsagent bookended the church. Gail went into the shop, picking up the Sunday papers for her and Mrs Hubbard. Gail also selected some chocolate for herself. It would be a reward for completing a particularly difficult chapter. The central tenet of her book – the protagonist’s motivation for the crime – had been tough work. But she’d cracked it, and last night it passed the old woman’s scrutiny. Gail could see the rest of the book panning out more easily. The corrupt politician’s ruthless pursuit of personal gain and his attempts to silence those who probed too closely was simply a way for Gail to express her personal frustrations. She knew this. It was pointless denying it to herself. But it made more sense to pursue a fictional prey than a dominant, protected, real-life one. The ‘accident’ had highlighted the foolishness of facing down an advancing tank, armed only with a whistle and a pea-shooter.
She walked home against the flow of the God-fearing, well-dressed worshippers, low-lying sunshine casting a long shadow behind her. The bells rang. She clambered awkwardly up the stone stairs and chided herself for having left the close door open. Trying to shut the door behind her, she dropped her cane. With the door closed, the sound of the bells outside was replaced by weeping coming from above her. It grew louder as she rose. It was Mrs Hubbard. She was at Gail’s door.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 16
