1979

by Val McDermid

When Jespersen Marine buys boats, like Maclays they take a 10 per cent commission.

  We asked how the proceeds from sales in Nassau are returned to the boat’s owner. He said, ‘We can do a bank transfer anywhere in the world. Or we can help set up a local account here if that’s what they want.’

  TO COME: Face to face showdowns with Gregor Menstrie, chief exec PII, Graeme Brown and Brian McGillivray.

  Phone showdowns with Bill Maclay and Conrad Jespersen.

  Quotes from Inland Revenue

  Quotes from Lothian Police

  SIDEBAR: Paragon’s chief executive, Gregor Menstrie, 39, is the son of a banker. He grew up in North Berwick and was privately educated at the exclusive Glenisla School which charges boarders ?x-a-year. He claims to have a degree from the London School of Economics but the LSE was unable to confirm that.

  After ten years working for a variety of investment companies, he set up PII five years ago. He lives in a five-bedroomed house in Cramond with his wife Venetia and their two young sons.

  Danny came to the end and let out a low whistle of approval. ‘Fucking nailed it, Burns. Where did you get that stuff on Menstrie?’

  ‘Most of it from the office library. But I rang the LSE and checked whether he actually did have a degree from there.’ Allie’s expression turned mischievous. ‘They were very forthcoming when I explained I was from the Lothian and Borders Fraud Squad.’

  Danny shook his head, admiring her nerve. ‘That took some brass neck.’

  ‘I’m from Fife, Danny. Gallus is my middle name.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll need to change the byline, though. It’ll need to be “By Daniel Sullivan and Peter McGovern, with additional reporting by Alison Burns”.’

  ‘How? McGovern hardly contributed anything, according to you.’

  Danny shrugged. ‘It was the deal.’ He flicked through the pages again. ‘There’s one wee thing bothering me, if I’m honest.’

  ‘“Our Clarion investigative reporter personally witnessed wads of cash,”’ Allie interrupted.

  ‘Yeah, it points the finger straight at Joseph, doesn’t it?’

  Allie sighed. ‘It’s the only piece of solid evidence we have, Danny. Without that, it’s hanging on a shoogly peg, unless one of the clients rolls over and spills the lot. If Joseph was the only person who touched the cash, then yes, it would point straight at him. Surely it must have come from somebody else?’

  ‘How?’

  Allie leaned forward in her chair, eager. She seemed to be energised by the very process of being questioned, of having to find a justification for what was in her text. It was the opposite of how these interrogations made Danny feel. ‘Well, somebody has to have passed the cash to Joseph. Or it could have been a secretary who saw something she wasn’t supposed to. Or it could have been one of the clients boasting to his pals. For all Menstrie knows, we could have had somebody undercover in his office.’

  ‘But that’s not what happened.’ Danny felt a cold current of worry in his stomach.

  ‘Danny, from everything you’ve told me about your brother, he’s capable of coming up with an explanation himself. More than capable.’ She frowned, then said, ‘Obviously, you can’t do the showdown with Menstrie.’

  ‘But it’s my story,’ he protested.

  ‘The showdowns will have to be simultaneous,’ she said. ‘Otherwise they’ll be on the phone to each other as soon as we front them up and we’ll never get another word out of any of them. It would make sense to get McGovern to front up Menstrie. It keeps you at a distance. Keeps your name out of Menstrie’s eyeline. Besides, it means McGovern actually has to do a bit of heavy lifting for his byline. Meanwhile you do the launderette king or the bookie.’

  Danny stared at the copy without seeing it. ‘I suppose,’ he said, aware he was sounding like a sulky wee boy. He sighed heavily, took a swig of his beer then said, ‘At least he’ll know the right questions to ask. The lawyers will take him more seriously than they’ll take me. OK, we’ll keep “the wads of cash” in.’ He met her eyes. ‘But I want you to do the third showdown.’

  Allie looked startled, and he couldn’t work out why. She had a stake in the story too now. ‘They’ll never go for it,’ she said. ‘There’s no miracle babies in it.’ Her smile was wry.

  ‘Tough,’ he said. ‘It comes as a package.’ He drained his beer then folded up the copy. ‘It’s the only way I can thank you for this.’ He shifted forward in his chair, on the verge of standing up.

  ‘Are you off?’ Allie sounded both surprised and disappointed.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to type this up on office copy pads.’ And I have someone to meet. He gave her his most apologetic smile. ‘I need to be ready to hit Angus with this first thing.’ He stood up.

  ‘Oh. OK.’ Allie tossed her copy of the story on to the coffee table and made for the hall. By the time Danny had caught up with her, she had his coat off the peg, holding it open for him to thrust his arms into the sleeves. ‘Thanks for the curry, it’ll keep me going for the whole of my long weekend.’

  Unsure how to respond, Danny struggled into his coat. ‘I really appreciate what you did.’

  ‘Sure, any time. Call me when Angus has finished slapping you on the back,’ Allie said, stepping back.

  Danny turned to face her and awkwardly shuffled forward. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved in on her, carefully planting a dry-lipped kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ He made for the door, turning at the last minute and giving her the full hundred-watt smile. ‘Promise.’

  16

  There was only enough milk for one mug of coffee. Allie made it last as long as she could; she didn’t dare leave the flat to go to the nearby shops in case she missed Danny’s call. However hard she tried to convince herself this was no big deal, she struggled to concentrate on the P.D. James novel she’d started the day before. Her eyes were drawn to her watch every few minutes. Eventually, she gave up and pulled Pictures on a Page from where it was waiting on the shelf. Since she’d started her traineeship, she’d been fascinated by the books that the great newspaperman Harold Evans had written about the craft of journalism. She’d not had time to devote much attention to his newly published tome about the power and practice of photojournalism. Even if she couldn’t focus on the words, at least she could appreciate the images.

  When the call came, it wasn’t from Danny. When Allie snatched up the receiver, she heard the familiar nasal tones of the newsdesk secretary. ‘‘Z’at you, Allie? He wants you in right now. I’ve sent a taxi to your flat on the account.’

  It clearly wasn’t a request. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ As she spoke, the blast of a car horn sounded from the street below. She dropped the handset on its rest and made for the door, grabbing her bag and coat on the way. Jeans and an unflattering Aran jumper would have to do. It was her day off, after all.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ the cabbie demanded as she got in. ‘I was told this was double urgent.’

  ‘You know what they’re like,’ Allie said. ‘Always a matter of life and death, and then it’s tomorrow’s chip paper.’

  Allie found Angus Carlyle in his office, sprawled in his executive leather chair, Danny’s story spread across the desk in front of him. ‘The third musketeer,’ he announced with the kind of flourish that created the impression of an invisible cavalier hat. Danny was hunched in a visitor’s chair in one corner with the air of a cowed child waiting for the next blow to fall. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. In contrast, Peter McGovern looked relaxed, one ankle on the opposite knee, a cigarillo burning between his fingers. Today’s shirt was as pink as the Financial Times, a fine white stripe running through it. The only touch of elegance in the room, she thought.

  ‘This is some tale,’ Carlyle boomed. ‘So, additional reporter Alison Burns, tell me what your part in all of this is?’r />
  She flicked a sideways glance at Danny, who was no help. ‘I did the background on Gregor Menstrie,’ she said. ‘I spoke to the London School of Economics. They said they had no record of him ever studying there. And I helped Danny knock the story into shape.’

  Carlyle smiled. It reminded her of a lion baring its teeth. ‘Ah, that explains why it reads like something a journalist might write. You might not be top of the pops when it comes to bringing the stories in but you’ve definitely got a knack for stringing a few pars together. Maybe you’re wasted as a reporter. Maybe you’d be better placed doing rewrites on the subs table.’ It was a typically back-handed compliment and it stung, as she knew it was meant to. Carlyle liked to keep his infantry on the back foot. Only the specialists like McGovern received the benefit of his good graces. They were the ones who might be tempted to jump ship and join the opposition, after all.

  Allie said nothing. There was no possible response that wouldn’t hand him more ammunition.

  Carlyle suddenly sat upright in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘It’s a great story. I want to run it big across two days. Obviously we’ll have to do the showdowns that the Boy Wonder here has outlined at the end. There’s only one problem, and it’s a three-hundred-and-twenty-seven-thousand-pound problem. Anybody here know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘The Sunday Mail judgement last week,’ McGovern said. ‘But that was different.’

  ‘How?’ Carlyle demanded, leaning across the desk, his big head looming like a predator sizing up dinner. ‘It looks pretty bloody similar to me.’

  McGovern drew in a mouthful of smoke and breathed it out as he responded. ‘The Mail said the insurance company were obtaining money by false pretences. That they were promising returns on investment that they knew couldn’t materialise. That turned out to be very hard to prove because the prospectus was carefully worded. The insurers were able to hide behind the excuse that they were hard-working but incompetent rather than criminal. This is entirely different, Angus. We’re accusing Paragon of knowingly conniving at defrauding the taxman.’

  ‘And we can take the readers through every simple step,’ Danny chipped in.

  Carlyle ignored him and harrumphed. ‘It makes me nervous,’ he said. ‘Very bloody nervous. And if it makes me nervous, you can bet it’ll have the editor shitting his breeks.’

  McGovern chuckled. Allie couldn’t quite believe her ears. She turned to see his face; his expression was equally amused. ‘Calm down, Angus. That’s what the night lawyer is for.’

  ‘The Mail has lawyers and they still ended up in the shit.’ Carlyle slumped back in his seat again. ‘OK. I’ll talk to the lawyer when he comes in. If he gives us the green light, we’ll do the showdowns next week.’ He gazed up at the ceiling, clearly thinking. ‘Wednesday, so we can run it Thursday and Friday. Class dismissed.’ He waggled his fingers, waving them off. ‘Don’t go far, Danny. I’m confident the lawyer will have some questions for you.’

  On the far side of the door, McGovern patted Danny on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  Danny took a step away. ‘He just put me through the wringer.’

  ‘That’s what he’s paid for,’ McGovern said. ‘If you can’t stand up to Angus, how can the paper expect you to stand up to a lawyer if it ever comes to court?’ He strode off towards the bank of lifts, insouciant as a flâneur on a Paris boulevard.

  ‘He’s got a point,’ Allie said. ‘You shouldn’t let him bully you. It’s a great story. You can stand it up, even if nobody caves in the showdowns.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Danny said. ‘You’d better get back to your day off. Sorry about you getting dragged in. I’ll let you know how I get on with the lawyer.’ He turned away and slouched back to his desk, apparently discouraged.

  Allie watched him, wondering. In his shoes, with a story like this under her belt, she’d be irrepressible. She really liked Danny. Really liked him. But he was going to have to dig deep and find some assertiveness if it was going to go any further than that. It was a fine line to walk, she knew that. Simon, who she’d gone out with for most of her second year at Cambridge, had let her walk all over him in his desire to please. The affair had died of boredom. But Matthew, a brief fling in her final year, had been determined to be in charge of every aspect of their relationship, even its end. After she’d dumped him, he’d gone round every one of her friends he’d ever met telling them what a bitch she was. She hadn’t chosen well in the past, it was apparent.

  This time, she really hoped it could be different.

  It was so cold her cheekbones hurt. But for the first time in days the low grey Glasgow skies had lifted, giving way to the kind of bright blue day Allie had grown up with on the east coast. It was a clear light she missed, and seeing it lifted her spirits. She decided to walk home. Up past the motorway that slashed a wound through the city, then down the fag end of Sauchiehall Street towards Kelvingrove. There were still piles of frozen gritty slush by the roadsides but pedestrians had worn a path along the pavements; walking no longer felt like a life-threatening activity.

  The sunshine brought out the rich red sandstone of the Kelvingrove Gallery and the Kelvin Hall opposite, its garish circus posters shouting their promises across the street. Beyond them, the grim charcoal outlines of the Western Infirmary and the Gothic spire of the university reminded her that this was a city of contrasts; beauty and ugliness, extreme poverty and extreme wealth, drugged depression and savage humour.

  Allie turned up Byres Road towards home. Her savings had been growing significantly every month; after years of making every penny count, first as a student then as a trainee, her Clarion salary felt like riches beyond dreams of avarice. Her expenses alone were only slightly less than her previous wage. She reckoned she was close to having enough for the deposit on a flat. The only drawback was that the mortgage company would demand six months of payslips. But she’d cross that line next month; it was time to start checking out the market.

  Byres Road was where the estate agents had pitched their tents and Allie spent the rest of the morning browsing their windows. She knew exactly what she wanted – a tenement flat with two or three bedrooms, a short walk from the shops and the bus routes into town. A quiet street, ideally. Thankfully, there appeared to be several options, and a few of them were within her price range. She didn’t care if they needed work; her father loved DIY and she knew he’d happily spend his weekends helping her knock it into shape. The grinding discomfort of conversations about nothing would be worth it.

  By the time she got home, it was mid-afternoon. Her answering machine was clear of messages. She wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Had the lawyer given the story the kiss of death? Or was he telling Danny what needed to be in place before they could consider running it? Were they working out how to conduct the showdowns? Or had it simply been put on the back burner, subsumed by the live news stories of the day? Whatever it was, why hadn’t Danny called her? Had she become irrelevant now that she’d given him what he needed? Surely he wasn’t that kind of man? Had she misjudged him so badly?

  Allie sighed. She missed not having a close friend in Glasgow. She hoped Rona Dunsyre might fill that slot, but there was still a long way to go there. She needed a distraction. Then she spotted the leaflet she’d dumped next to the phone. She’d picked it up at the SNP meeting. One of the men in suits had been about to toss it in the bin but she’d rescued it. no to devo, yes to indy, it was headlined. She scanned it swiftly, noticing it announced a meeting scheduled for that evening.

  Friday evening TV held no appeal for her. She hadn’t given up on life yet, Allie told herself. OK, some might not agree with that judgement, since she was seriously considering a political fringe meeting as an appealing alternative.

  What the hell, Allie thought. Stories lurked everywhere. So did potential friends.

  17

  The meeting room was tucked away in an obscure pas
sageway off the East Quad of the university. Allie arrived in good time and asked for directions at the main gate. She found it at the second attempt then, because she didn’t want to be first to arrive, she prowled around the double quadrangle at the heart of the university. Five years before, she’d have been overawed by the elaborate outsized Gothic architecture, its turrets and pinnacles blackened sinister by years of industrial pollution. But she’d spent three years in Cambridge surrounded by the real thing rather than its Victorian reincarnation. There was nothing here that could intimidate her now.

  Allie arrived seven minutes after the advertised starting time, which probably meant she’d have missed nothing. More importantly, she could slip in at the back without attracting too much attention. Better to stay under the radar to start with till she sussed out the lie of the land.

  The room was untidily arranged as if for a seminar. More than half of the chairs were occupied, and some had clearly been moved to allow people to sit closer to their friends. A couple of heads turned as Allie slipped in and found an empty seat near the door. Nobody seemed very interested in a new arrival.

  She studied the room. Fifteen men, nine women. About half of them looked somewhere between her age and their mid-thirties, though it was hard to tell when people were dressed for the weather outside and the room wasn’t much warmer. The others were older and a couple of them had that air of dishevelled entitlement Allie had come to associate with academics. There was a low murmur of conversation from a trio of young men over to her left. She thought she recognised a few faces from the SNP meeting earlier in the week.

  One of the women disengaged herself from her two companions, shrugged out of a duffel coat and moved to the front of the room, perching casually on the edge of the desk. She wore a figure-hugging dark blue jumper over jeans tucked into knee-length low-heeled boots that looked as if they hadn’t seen polish since they’d left the shop. Allie clocked that detail automatically and read it as a marker of middle-class affluence. People like her had grown up with the habit of making things last. They knew that boots and shoes lasted longer if they were given care and attention. You could only indulge in deliberate shabbiness if you were sure new shoes would be forthcoming when you needed them.