1979

by Val McDermid

  ‘If you’d let me do the other stuff, you’d see I was good at that too.’ Chin up, shoulders back, she stalked off. She knew when she was beaten.

  ‘Nil illegitimi carborundum,’ Big Kenny Stone said with a grin as she dropped into her chair next to him. She always felt like a wee lassie beside him; Big Kenny was built like a rugby prop forward, all shoulders and thighs, and ears that looked like they’d been modelled by a child whose natural bent did not lie with Play-Doh. His shirt seams always looked on the point of bursting. Coupled with his shock of dark hair, the comparison with the Incredible Hulk was irresistible.

  ‘I’ve survived bigger bastards than Carlyle trying to grind me down,’ she muttered, reminding herself that she was Big Kenny’s equal, not his junior. ‘Have you seen this pile of shite?’ She tossed the flimsy sheet of paper in front of him.

  He read it and laughed out loud. ‘A nude beach promised for Ayrshire. That’s some story to run in the middle of the coldest January for fifteen years.’

  Allie snatched it back and read it again. In a survey of every local authority in the UK by a naturist organisation, the only council who had responded were in Ayrshire, and they’d indicated they were open to discussion. ‘I brought in a perfectly good story and Carlyle gave it away.’

  ‘So if you can’t join them, beat them.’

  She gave him a sharp look. ‘How?’

  And he told her.

  Two hours later, Allie and her favourite photographer, Bobby Gibson, were walking through the dunes above the beach in question. There was a scrappy dusting of snow on the sand and every step broke a thin crust of ice. The narrow blades of the marram grass that maintained the dunes’ integrity were silvered with frost but still sharp enough to cut any naked flesh that might brush against them. That wasn’t an issue for Allie or Bobby, wrapped up like polar explorers.

  But it might yet prove to be for Sandie McAllister. The Page Three Clarion model wore only a pair of wellies and a thin satin robe as she picked her way down to the beach. The tide was high and there was only a narrow strip of sand between the dunes and the battleship grey sea. A northerly wind whipped streaks of white foam along the tops of the waves. There wasn’t another creature with a pulse in sight.

  ‘Fucking hell, are you paying me danger money for this? If I get pneumonia, I’m going to fucking sue you, Bobby G.’ Sandie shivered and tucked her hands under her armpits, doing a little dance on the spot in a bid to generate some body heat.

  Bobby quickly prepped his cameras. ‘Sooner you do it, the sooner you’ll have done it,’ he said cheerily. ‘OK. Allie, grab the wellies, I don’t want them in shot. Sandie, as soon as Allie gets out the road, I want you to chuck your robe on the sand and run into the water.’

  ‘You bastard,’ the model said through chattering teeth.

  ‘And once you’re in to your waist, I want you to turn round and wave your arms in the air with a big grin.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Sandie muttered. ‘At least you’ll not need the ice cubes for my nips today.’ She took a deep breath and stepped forward. The motor drive on Bobby’s camera started whirring and clicking and with professional aplomb, Sandie shrugged out of her wrap and started running, shouting ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ with every step. She barely paused at the water’s edge and plunged onwards, leaping the wavelets then pushing against the incoming swell.

  ‘I hope we’re paying her well for this,’ Allie said.

  ‘She knows she’ll get a good show in the paper,’ Bobby replied cheerily, snapping away as Sandie turned to face them, breasts pert, nipples stiff as wine corks, hair flying in the wind, a practised grin on her face. She threw up her arms in the top half of a star jump, then folded them over her chest and stumbled back to shore. Allie ran down the beach to meet her with the fluffy bath sheet she’d bought on expenses on the way there.

  Sandie practically fell into her arms, her skin changing from white to scarlet as the blood rushed to the surface. Allie rubbed her vigorously, steering her up the beach and through the dunes. Back at the deserted car park, she helped the model dress. ‘I can’t feel my fucking fingers or my fucking feet,’ Sandie swore. Bobby poured a cup of coffee from a Thermos, and Sandie clutched it like a lifeline. Two swallows in, Bobby added a slug of whisky from his hip flask. Sandie swigged, shuddered and smiled. ‘I might live.’

  They drove up the coast to a hotel Bobby knew. ‘Swear to God they do the best fish pie in the west,’ he promised. Allie found no reason to quibble. While the photographer and the model sat with their whiskies by the spluttering log fire in the bar, Allie settled at a quiet table in a far corner to write her copy. Clarion style demanded a story like this be larded with obvious humour; no pun could be too heavy-handed. She lit a cigarette and scribbled down some possibilities.

  Allie stared unseeing at the bar, letting her ideas churn. At last, she stubbed out her cigarette and began to write.

  Today the Clarion exclusively reveals the naked truth. Following a nationwide survey, only one council in the UK is willing to strip for action and provide a nudist beach.

  Some might have the bare-faced cheek to say Ayrshire is too cold to keep abreast of fashion.

  But model Sandie McAllister has proved them wrong. There might have been snow on the ground but it didn’t stop her streaking down the beach and into the scudding waves of the chilly sea.

  Afterwards, she said, ‘Once I got over the shock, I felt amazing! It was so liberating to feel the waves against my skin. I hope the plan goes ahead – it will be fantastic on a summer’s day!’

  The council’s Leisure Services committee agreed in principle yesterday to provide Scotland’s first public nude bathing beach.

  They’ve not yet chosen where people will be able to strip off, but committee chairman Adam McGurk said, ‘There’s no shortage of secluded beaches on the wonderful Ayrshire coast. They have fine sands and beautiful views. And Ayrshire is an area that already provides many facilities for visitors.’

  The survey was conducted by the UK Naturism Association. Their chairman, Colette Hannigan, said, ‘This is a very happy outcome for us. We wrote to every council in the UK and this has been the only positive response. If this goes ahead, our members will flock to Scotland.’

  The only remaining question is what will the councillors wear for the opening ceremony. Steady the Buffs!

  She returned to Bobby and Sandie and checked she was OK with the quote, then persuaded the hotel receptionist to let her make a phone call from the office. ‘I’ll get them to call straight back,’ she promised before ringing the Clarion copytakers. She identified herself, read out the hotel’s number and replaced the handset. Within a couple of minutes, she was dictating the story down the line. At the end, the copytaker transferred her to the newsdesk.

  ‘I’ve filed my copy,’ she told the assistant news editor. ‘Bobby G has pix. We’re heading back now, but we’ve got to drop off the model in Paisley on the way.’

  ‘Aye, right. Anything to make sure you get back too late to be sent out on another story,’ came the grumble in return.

  ‘I didn’t make the weather,’ Allie said.

  ‘Check back in half an hour, there might be queries.’ The line went dead. It was hard to imagine what those might be. She had quotes from all the relevant people. She might even have exceeded her daily pun quotient. But she did as she was told, and as expected, there were no queries.

  There was no sign of Danny when she got back to the office. She was handed a bundle of copy – Press Association, a couple of freelances and one of the Edinburgh office staffers – about the picketing of salt depots and the resulting threats to road users and bus services. ‘Eight pars, keep it tight, Burns,’ the assistant news editor said, already distracted by the next item on his schedule.

  The flat was freezing when Allie got home. She drew the heavy curtains and turned on the gas fire in the living room
and closed the door behind her when she went through to the kitchen. There were the remains of a pot of chilli on the stove and while it heated, she made a couple of slices of cheese on toast to serve with it. She poured a glass of Sicilian red wine and sat at the table in what had once been a bed recess, poring over Danny’s notes as she ate. There was no getting away from it. In spite of Danny’s dull and, frankly, clumsy prose, this was a cracking story. There was nothing the Clarion’s readers liked more than seeing white-collar crooks get their comeuppance. Allie supposed it gave them hope that the world might one day be a fairer place.

  The reactions of the perpetrators of the tax fraud were obviously still missing, but there was enough here to produce a draft that would make the newsdesk sit up and pay attention. That was all she’d promised Danny, but looking at the material in front of her, she knew it wasn’t going to be easy to convey the complexity of the story. Still, she’d made that promise and she had to stick to it.

  She finished her dinner and washed up, her mind on the words she needed to find. By the time she returned to the living room, the temperature was bearable. She sat down at the big table in the bay window and stared at a blank sheet of paper. The intro was always the key. You knew you’d cracked it because, once that was right, the rest fell into place almost without thinking. But to get the intro right, you had to be in command of your material and she wasn’t confident of that yet.

  Allie read through Danny’s notes once more, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then she began. Her fourth attempt was almost there. Next time, she thought she’d cracked it.

  An illegal scheme to rob the taxman is making a group of wealthy Scottish businessmen even richer.

  It was a start. She knew it would flow from there.

  15

  The working day seemed to last forever. Danny spent most of it talking to an assortment of retail managers about the staggering news that prices in the shops had literally doubled in the past five years of the Labour government. But at last his copy was written and the newsdesk gave the nod to the early day shift reporters. Before he left the office, Danny phoned through his takeaway order for an extravagant selection of Indian food. Anything to get to Allie’s flat a few minutes sooner, not to mention impressing her with his generosity. When she opened the door, he brandished the two bulging carrier bags that were filling the close with the rich aroma of curry spices. ‘Ta-da!’ he greeted her with a grin.

  ‘Did you invite the whole day shift?’ Allie giggled, ushering him in.

  She looked pleased to see him, he thought. She hadn’t dressed up like someone who was going out for the evening, but he thought she’d taken a bit of trouble with her hair, and the polo-neck jumper she was wearing made the most of her in a way her office clothes never quite managed. ‘You can stick what’s left in the fridge and heat it up tomorrow.’

  She led the way through. ‘Are you trying to win me over with garlic naans? Stick the bags down on the table next to the plates and get your coat off.’

  Danny did as he was told. ‘It’s good to see you, Allie. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’ His lean face crinkled in a smile that reached his eyes, making them sparkle in the bright kitchen lights.

  She took his coat, shaking the melting snow off the heavy sheepskin that seemed obligatory wear among male reporters in the winter months. ‘There’s beer in the fridge. Get a couple out while I hang up the dead baby lambs.’

  When she returned, Allie went straight to the cutlery drawer and grabbed a handful of spoons and a pair of forks. ‘Food first, then we’ll get down to business.’ Seeing his expression, she added, ‘Don’t look at me like that. If we start on the copy, we’ll be so caught up in it the food’ll be stone cold before we get to it. And I hate to see a good curry go to waste.’

  Danny groaned. ‘You’re a hard woman, Burns.’

  ‘Always keep them waiting, that’s my motto,’ she said archly, flashing him a quick glance before she set about opening up the tinfoil containers. She inhaled the smell and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Bloody hell, Danny, this is a feast.’

  ‘So get stuck in. The sooner you’ve filled your boots, the sooner I get to hear what you’ve made of the story.’

  Neither had much to say while they made impressive inroads into their lavish dinner. Finally, Allie gave her plate a final wipe with a scrap of naan and pushed it away. Danny, who’d been first to finish, drained his beer. ‘You can’t put it off any longer.’

  Allie looked anxious for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘I’m kind of nervous about what you’ll think.’

  ‘It’ll be better than anything I could have managed. The way you write, it’s like you’ve got an instinct for how to tell a story. I’ve watched you. You knock out great copy in half the time anybody else in the newsroom manages.’

  ‘Flattery,’ she muttered. ‘Come through to the living room.’

  Armed with a fresh can of beer, he followed her through, liking what he saw. A ferociously fashionable three-piece suite of brown corduroy and tubular steel was arranged round the gas fire, a low glass and chrome coffee table between them. In the bay window, an elderly gate-leg table held a portable typewriter and a stack of fresh paper. Bookshelves ran along most of the back wall, and an alcove by the fireplace contained a music centre surrounded by an extensive collection of vinyl and tapes. ‘You like your music,’ Danny said, stepping over to examine her stash. ‘I haven’t heard of half of these.’ He pulled out a couple at random. ‘Andy Roberts. Silly Sisters . . . oh, Pink Floyd, that’s more my thing. Wish You Were Here, that’s pure genius.’

  ‘I thought you were desperate to see my deathless prose?’ Allie teased, picking up a few sheets of paper from one of the shelves.

  Danny stepped away from the music and held out his hand. ‘Maybe I’m kind of nervous too.’

  She handed him her work and waved him to a seat, settling in the chair opposite with the carbon copy of what she’d given him. A quick glance took in the tight line of her mouth and the faint furrow between her brows before he focused on the words. ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve fucked it up,’ she muttered.

  Within the first couple of sentences, Danny knew she had no cause for nerves.

  By Daniel Sullivan

  Additional reporting by Peter McGovern and Alison Burns

  An illegal scheme to rob the taxman is making a group of wealthy Scottish businessmen even richer.

  The money laundering scam involves luxury yachts and secret accounts in private banks in the Caribbean. Hundreds of thousands of pounds are laundered every month for their clients by a small cabal of crooks.

  Today the Clarion can exclusively lift the lid on the dodgy deals organised by a top Edinburgh insurance and investment company.

  Our investigation reveals a world where shoeboxes filled with undeclared cash are swapped for expensive ocean-going craft which in turn are sold on in countries where the taxman can’t get his hands on the proceeds.

  The fraud is the brainchild of Edinburgh company Paragon Investment Insurance whose HQ on the city’s prestigious George Street hides a shabby secret. Clients bring their untraceable cash to Paragon’s offices.

  Our Clarion investigative reporter personally witnessed wads of cash that were destined for a yacht brokerage on the south coast of England.

  Among the businessmen who have invested in Paragon’s scheme are Graeme Brown, whose Spin ‘n’ Top launderette chain has branches throughout Scotland, and bookie Brian McGillivray, whose WestBet betting shops are a common sight on Scottish high streets.

  According to documents seen by our reporter, Graeme Brown paid £125,000 for a boat called Snagglecat 2 in December last year. And only this month, Brian McGillivray handed over £100,000, the minimum amount allowed by the scheme, for a yacht called Meridian Flyer.

  We tracked the money to Maclays, a boatyard in Hythe, on Southampton Water who
se slogan is ‘The high life on the ocean wave’.

  Boatyard boss Bill Maclay claimed his role in the enterprise was solely to sell boats to clients who chose to pay in cash. ‘There’s nothing wrong in what we’re doing,’ he told our reporter. ‘It’s my job to buy and sell boats. Our clients are successful businessmen, not criminals. We check their bona fides with Paragon Investment Insurance.’

  We asked why all the boats bought by Paragon clients end up in the Caribbean – in the well-known tax haven of Nassau in the Bahamas. Maclay said, ‘Where would you rather sail? In the wind and rain of the English Channel or in the warm waters of the Caribbean? Our customers are the kind of men who can afford to fly out for a week or two on their boats somewhere the sun shines and the winds are gentle.’

  Maclay admitted he recruited the crews who sail the boats across the Atlantic. ‘Like I said, our clients don’t want to be sailing rough seas in gale-force winds. So taking the boats to where they do want to sail is part of the service.’ The clients pay the wages of the crew, and Maclays take a 10 per cent slice of the purchase price as their commission.

  ‘What our customers do with their boats once they get to the Caribbean is up to them.’

  But once the sleek sailboats arrive in Nassau, they’re not berthed in any of the luxury marinas or private moorings on the island. Instead, the brand-new craft are delivered to Jespersen Marine on Frog Cay.

  Boss Conrad Jespersen told us, ‘Buying and selling boats is what we do.’ And that’s exactly what they do with the expensive yachts that have been delivered from Southampton. The owners never see their boats, never mind sail them.