1979

by Val McDermid

  Danny glanced up momentarily. ‘I could hardly tell him nothing but the truth. I’d have been pulling the rug out from under my own feet.’

  ‘But you had keys. It’s not like you broke in. And you didn’t steal anything.’

  Danny shrugged. ‘I had no right to be there, though. It makes us look like the bad guys.’

  Allie wasn’t comfortable with the deception, but accepted it wasn’t her decision. ‘How are we going to set up the showdowns? I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  Danny smiled. ‘I’ve got a wee idea about how we do that.’

  19

  Wednesday morning at quarter to ten found Allie walking past the sandstone facade of the County Buildings in Ayr, plastered with sleet by a vicious east wind. When she’d called to make her appointment with Brian McGillivray, the receptionist at WestBet had told her, ‘It’s just past the county offices on the opposite side of Wellington Street, you can’t miss it.’ If Allie had realised how long the County Buildings were, she wouldn’t have parked so close to the seafront. By the time she spotted the handsome double-fronted stuccoed building with its garish WestBet sign, she felt nothing like a tough investigative reporter ready to confront a criminal.

  A heavy wooden front door stood open, leading to a small vestibule and a half-glazed door beyond, its brass fittings buffed and polished. Allie tried the handle, but it was locked. She pressed a bell push on the jamb and heard a distant peal. Through the glass, she saw approaching a compact middle-aged woman with a tight perm, a tweed skirt and a pale pink twinset. The woman peered at her, then opened the door. ‘You’ll be Alison Burns,’ she said. ‘Come away in, you must be perishing.’

  Allie followed her inside, conscious of melted sleet dripping from her short dark hair. ‘I look like a drowned rat,’ she said, apologetic.

  The woman glanced at her wristwatch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes before His Nibs is expecting you.’ She pointed down the hall. ‘There’s a ladies lavatory down there, away and give your hair a rub with a towel.’

  Seven minutes later, Allie returned, hair still damp but less like an orphan of the storm. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Nae bother. You don’t want to make a bad first impression. Follow me.’

  Allie obeyed and they climbed a flight of stairs, the bannisters and treads gleaming with polish. The woman showed Allie into the middle room facing the street, its walls decorated with photographs of horse races, jockeys’ silks garish. ‘Mr M, it’s the lady from the paper,’ she said, closing the door behind her and leaving Allie facing a dapper middle-aged man sitting behind a massive mahogany desk. His suit was the height of fashion with wide lapels and shoulder pads, but the shade of blue was too startling, and he’d have looked better in the next size up. His mousy hair curled over his collar and was carefully arranged to disguise how far it was receding from his temples. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Alison. Take a seat.’

  There were two visitors’ chairs, both lower than McGillivray’s. It was a pathetic ploy, she thought. It made her feel less bad about employing Danny’s suggestion for how to persuade him to agree to an interview. ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,’ she said, her smile stopping a fraction short of a simper.

  ‘I’m very flattered that you’re here on a day when there’s such important news.’

  Allie panicked momentarily. What had she missed? ‘Important news?’

  ‘The Abba divorce. Goodnight, Vienna for Agnetha and Bjorn.’ He looked smug.

  ‘Oh.’ Eejit. ‘I don’t cover showbiz, so it’s not a burden on my shoulders.’

  ‘That’s a pity, I was hoping for some inside gossip. I’ll just have to settle for feeling proud that you consider me one of Scotland’s leading entrepreneurs.’ He delivered the word with a flourish.

  ‘Well, you can hardly walk down a High Street without seeing a WestBet shopfront. And we’re eager to hear what business leaders think of the upcoming referendum.’ Allie rummaged in her bag and took out the little Sony Pressman she’d treated herself to when she’d got the Clarion job. ‘Do you mind if I record this? I’d hate to misquote you.’ She waved it at him.

  ‘That’s a neat wee thing,’ he said. ‘Sure, be my guest.’ An expansive gesture. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  Allie pressed ‘record’ as he opened a wooden cigarette box on his desk and offered it to her. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Sensible lassie,’ he said, lighting his own. ‘Makes your breath smell. Nobody wants to kiss a lassie who smells like an ashtray.’

  Or a man, she thought. ‘Mr McGillivray—’

  ‘Brian,’ he interrupted. ‘We’re all friends here, Alison.’

  Another smile. ‘Brian. Can I ask which way you’ll be voting in the referendum?’

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘I make no secret of that, Alison. It’s a big thumbs-down from me.’ He delivered his verdict as if it were unassailable.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s pretty obvious if you’re a businessman like me. MPs’ salaries and expenses, new buildings, secretaries and security men. And how’s that going to be paid for? The likes of you and me, Alison. We’re the ones that are going to be paying for somebody else to do the job the British government are already doing.’ He waved the hand holding his cigarette so the smoke swirled around his head.

  ‘You don’t think Scotland deserves a bigger say in its own affairs?’

  McGillivray snorted. ‘Have you ever actually met any of our MPs? I wouldnae trust them to back the winner in a one-horse race. Noses in the trough, the lot of them. And the state of the country? Unions holding us to ransom, fish and fruit rotting at the docks, supermarket shelves empty? No, we’ve got enough government in this country as it is.’ He was warming to his theme. ‘The Labour Party couldnae run a raffle, and none of the others are any better. Give us a parliament with one hand and take more taxes with the other. As if they don’t rob us enough now.’

  He was almost making this too easy. ‘It sounds like you don’t agree with this government’s tax regime?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how much tax we pay in this country? We’ve got a top rate of 83 per cent. Every pound I earn above a certain amount, I get to keep 17p. Big fat hairy deal. It’s like they’re saying to guys like me, “Don’t get above yourself.”’ He shook his head. ‘So, no. I don’t want to spend more money on politicians.’

  ‘Do your accountants not help you to save money?’

  He scoffed. ‘Pennies. It’s daylight robbery, I tell you.’

  Allie took a deep breath. ‘Is that why you sought advice from Paragon Investment Insurance?’

  McGillvray’s face closed tight as if a shutter had been pulled down. He crushed out his cigarette savagely. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Is that why you decided to take part in Paragon’s money laundering scheme? The one that helps you evade your tax responsibilities?’

  He sat still as a statue, his eyes glittering as they watched her.

  Allie persisted. ‘We know you paid a hundred thousand pounds in cash to a boatyard on Southampton Water. Maclays boatyard. That money bought a boat called Meridian Flyer. It was sailed across the Atlantic to a boat brokerage in Nassau, where it was bought for cash. Nassau has a famously secretive banking regime. No tax either, on funds like that.’

  He inhaled sharply then gave a tight bark of laughter. ‘I thought you were a journalist, not a fairy story writer.’

  ‘We’re running the story tomorrow. This is your chance to put your side of it. ‘

  ‘This is a steaming pile of shite. You’ll get the arse sued off you if you print a word of this.’

  ‘It might be hard for you to manage that from a prison cell,’ she said, sounding infinitely more calm than she felt. ‘What you’ve participated in, it’s fraud. It’s tax evasion. Al Capone was the biggest gangster in America, but they never got him for ma
sterminding murder or robbery or gun-running. He went to jail for fiddling his taxes. And knowing what we know, I’d say that’s where you’re headed.’ She wasn’t quite sure where her nerve was coming from but it wasn’t deserting her.

  ‘You’ve got no evidence. You’ve got no evidence because this is a pack of lies.’

  ‘We know you’re a client of Paragon. We know Paragon brokers the deals and we know they handed over a hundred grand of your money to Maclays just the other week. I don’t know if your boat’s in Nassau yet, but you’d better hope it is before the Royal Navy seize it on the high seas and confiscate it.’

  ‘Get out,’ he said, his voice low and dark. ‘Get the fuck out of my office, you lying little bitch.’

  Allie refused to back down in spite of a shiver of apprehension. ‘If I was you, I’d seriously consider talking to me. Maybe you didn’t know what Paragon were up to. Maybe you’re the kind of innocent who trusts an investment firm even when the deal they’re offering sounds too good to be true. Me, I’d rather people thought I was stupid than crooked.’

  McGillivray’s face had turned dark red. ‘You’ve got nothing on me. This is just a daft wee lassie’s fishing trip.’

  Allie grinned. ‘Stupid and crooked. I hadn’t considered that possibility. In that case, there’s probably nothing I can do for you, Brian.’ She got to her feet. ‘Enjoy tomorrow’s Clarion.’ She stood up and turned for the door.

  ‘You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with here, do you?’ His voice was thick and angry. She suspected he’d forgotten about the tape recorder. ‘I know people that’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

  Allie looked over her shoulder and what she saw sent a frisson of real fear through her. He was on his feet, the veneer of affable civility wiped away. She saw the street fighter beneath, the man who had clawed his way to the top of a cut-throat business. ‘Thanks for your time,’ she said, getting out while the going was good. She hurried down the stairs and out the front door. Then she broke into a run and didn’t stop until she was safely behind the wheel of her car with the door locked.

  Then Allie let the fear in, her hands trembling and her teeth chattering, her legs too weak to drive. She felt the opposite of heroic. There had been genuine menace in McGillivray. For the first time since she’d started in journalism, Allie understood the power of a threat. Nobody had ever raised a hand to her in anger. Her vulnerability had always been in her imagination; footsteps behind her on a dark street, the unexplained noises of an old building late at night, the drunken leering of an idiot at a party. This, though – this was different. This felt real.

  She turned off her tape recorder and wondered how Danny was faring. Part of her hoped he was celebrating forcing an admission from Graeme Brown; but the part of her she was ashamed of hoped he was sitting in his car shaking as hard as she was.

  20

  They met in a half-empty pub in Dunoon that smelled of wet dog, cigarette smoke and sour beer. Danny was frowning into a half-empty pint glass of flat lager when Allie arrived. ‘How did it go?’ she greeted him, collapsing on to the ancient chair opposite.

  He raised his eyes and shrugged. ‘Water off a duck’s back. He basically said nothing at all. Referred me to his lawyer and showed me the door. Did you do any better?’

  ‘He got angry. And then he threatened me.’ She took out her tape recorder and waved it in front of Danny. ‘I’ve got it all on tape. He denied it, but he lost the heid and said the kind of things you don’t say if you’re whiter than white.’

  Danny brightened. ‘That’s a start. Here, let me get you a drink. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Vodka and tomato juice. That’s the only kind of lunch I’m going to be able to keep down after that ferry crossing.’

  Danny grinned. ‘A bit rough for you, was it?’

  ‘Not so much rough as wallowing like a big fat hippo in a muddy pond. And the state of the toilets?’ Allie pulled a face and made a retching sound. She watched him cross to the bar, thinking again that there was something about him she really liked. It wasn’t only that he was probably the most attractive man in the newsroom. It was more to do with his refusal to play the macho game; he wasn’t ashamed to let her see his nerves come close to getting the better of him. And he was willing to ask for help when he needed it. Even help from a woman.

  Danny came back with her drink. ‘I wonder how Peter got on?’

  ‘I asked when I phoned the newsdesk to bring the boss up to speed. But he’d not been in touch. Let’s hope he managed to get Menstrie to cave in. I get the feeling he knows the right buttons to press when it comes to dealing with bent businessmen like him.’ She took a swig of her drink and checked her watch. ‘Did you say two o’clock to Brodie?’

  ‘Yeah. I checked out his address. The office is above his amusement arcade on Argyll Street. About three minutes’ walk.’

  They took their time finishing their drinks and going through their strategy one more time then set off through the gloomy afternoon. The door to Wilson Brodie’s office was tucked away unobtrusively between a hardware store and the garish lights of the amusement arcade with its neon promises. There was no brass plate, just the number on the door. ‘You sure this is right?’ Allie asked, finger poised over the bell.

  ‘This is the address he gave me.’

  Allie rang the bell, wincing as a drip fell from the gutter above and slithered down the side of her neck. ‘I hate winter,’ she muttered.

  The door was opened by a skinny youth in flared jeans and a grubby Aran jumper. ‘Youse here for Wilson?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s right. Mr Brodie’s expecting us.’

  ‘Right. You’re the reporters, right? How come there’s two of you? And not a photographer?’

  Another drip assaulted Allie. ‘We’re like the polis. We go around in pairs. Now, can we come inside or will we just keep Mr Brodie waiting a bit longer?’

  The lad stepped aside and waved them in as elaborately as a bewigged flunkey. ‘Up youse go.’ His tone was nippier than his gesture.

  ‘We’ll get a photographer along another day.’ Danny’s tone was diplomatic as he followed Allie upstairs.

  As they rounded the final flight, they came face to face with a baby-faced man in his mid-thirties. His halo of permed hair wouldn’t have looked out of place on a celebrity footballer. Dark tailored slacks, open-necked pink shirt under a mauve V-necked sweater in fine wool. ‘I’m Wilson Brodie. Sorry about wee Ednie,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to train him up, but honest to God, I sometimes think a monkey would be easier.’

  The young man growled behind Allie’s back.

  ‘Away down the stairs and make sure Big Sandra’s not cheating me on the bingo.’ Brodie turned into the only open door on the landing. The desk sat over in one corner. Filing cabinets lined one side wall and a garish 1950s pinball machine dominated the room with its primary colours and flashing lights. They followed him in and he pointed to a couple of folding chairs propped in the corner. ‘Grab a seat.’ He dropped into his own luxurious leather chair and lounged casually in its embrace.

  They did as they were told and perched on the narrow wooden seats. ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Allie said, taking out her recorder. ‘Do you mind if I record this? In the interests of accuracy?’

  ‘You’re worried you might misquote me on the referendum? That’s not a hanging offence, darling.’ His sardonic smile turned his cherubic looks sinister.

  ‘I like to think of it as an archive of my interviews,’ she said. ‘In case I decide to write a memoir one day.’

  Brodie guffawed. ‘I like you. You’re smart.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so.’ Allie made a show of hesitating. ‘Look, I need to level with you, Mr Brodie. We’re here under false pretences.’

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘What? You’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, here to tell me about Jesus? That’s some lengt
h to go to.’

  Danny took over. ‘We’re here because we’re about to run a story about a money laundering scheme.’

  At his words, Brodie straightened up, his face stripped of all bonhomie. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. It breaks my heart, but I bend over like a good girl and let the taxman screw me over.’

  Allie smiled and found her most reassuring tone. ‘We know, Mr Brodie. That’s why we want to talk to you. Our sources tell us that you were one of the leading businessmen approached by Paragon Investment Insurance and invited to join their tax evasion scheme. But you said no.’

  A long silence. Nobody moved. Nobody even blinked. Then Brodie waved his hand dismissively. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong guy.’ He cleared his throat, his eyes flicking back and forth between the pair of them.

  Danny sighed and shook his head. ‘Your name’s on a list. Alongside a six-figure sum. Round about the same amount Celtic paid Kilmarnock for Davie Provan last year, in fact.’

  Brodie seemed to hunch into himself.

  Danny continued. ‘Only you’re not in the football transfer market, Wilson. You were headed for a different kind of transfer market. One where your money turned into a luxury yacht and then magically turned back into a pile of money in a bank in the Bahamas.’

  ‘I never did anything wrong,’ Brodie bleated.

  ‘No, but you were going to,’ Allie said, keeping her tone conversational. ‘In legal terms, that’s what’s called a conspiracy. Not many people know this but when it comes to jail time, you can actually get more for a conspiracy than for the offence you were conspiring to commit. That would be a killer, wouldn’t it? Gregor Menstrie gets five years and you go down for ten.’

  Brodie’s forehead gleamed under a sheen of sweat. His dark blond curls seemed to wilt before their eyes. ‘You’re trying to scare me,’ he said, lips tight against his teeth.

  Allie scoffed. ‘You’ve got us all wrong. We’re here to help you. We know you’re in this up to your oxters, but right now, you’re still in the clear. You haven’t handed over the money yet. You can come out of this ahead, Wilson. You tell us everything, and we paint you as the good guy. The one who did the right thing.’