1979

by Val McDermid

  He snorted. ‘Aye, right. And what’s going to happen to me then? Just say I had any beans to spill and I spilled them, how’s that going to go down? I like being able to walk, darling.’

  Danny pulled his chair forward, the legs scraping the floor tiles. He found a hard edge in his voice. ‘This is an insurance company, not the Mafia. Trust me, these guys are going down. We have the evidence. Your choice right now is whether you come out of this smelling of roses or chin deep in shite.’ He shrugged. ‘Up to you, pal.’

  ‘And by the way,’ Allie chipped in. ‘I might be here to save your sorry arse, but I’m not your darling. So what’s it to be, Wilson?’

  21

  Allie didn’t get as far as hanging up her coat. As she approached the newsdesk, Carlyle’s secretary caught her eye and said, ‘They’re all in the conference room. Typewriters set up and everything.’

  They were all there – Danny, worried frown; McGovern, leaning back in his chair, cigarillo on the go, filling the room with blue smoke; Carlyle, feet on the desk, deep in some copy; and Frazer the Razor in the corner, issuing instructions down the phone to remind everyone how important he was. Four pairs of eyes turned to her and Carlyle waved the thin sheaf of paper at her.

  ‘Gil did a fine job down in Southampton. He persuaded the Maclay lad if he spilled the lot, he’d get off more lightly.’

  ‘Works so often,’ McGovern said. ‘You’d think folk would have learned by now what a load of bollocks that line is.’

  Carlyle’s grin was evil. ‘Lucky for us they’re so gullible. Anyway, he told Gil how he met Gregor Menstrie at the Southampton Boat Show back in 1977, how they went on the piss together and Menstrie talked him into his little scheme. They’ve pulled it off a dozen times now. Maclay even showed Gil the list of names. It’s like a Who’s Who of dodgy Scottish businessmen. Who knew there was that much cash swilling round our poor benighted country?’

  ‘It’s the oil, isn’t it?’ McGovern said. ‘Half the names on that list are connected with the oil business one way or another. God, this country could be rich if we were cut loose from those bastards down south, always going on strike at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘Maybe so, but we’ll leave the politics out of this,’ Carlyle ruled. ‘This story’s strong enough on its own. Danny did the groundwork and now Gil’s nailed it down. He’s putting in a call to Conrad Jespersen in’ – he consulted his watch – ‘about an hour. It doesn’t matter if he blows us out, we’ve got more than enough to run with.’ He stood up and hoisted his trousers somewhere in the region of where his waist might once have been. ‘Danny, Peter – type up your interviews. Burns, bring yourself up to speed with Gil’s copy.’ He thrust the pages at her. ‘Soon as you’ve pulled all the interviews together, get writing. Two parts. First part, the scam and the set-up. Second part, we name the dirty dodgers. Then I’ll have my fight with the lawyers. We’ll hold back on running it till Friday and Saturday so we’ve got time to get the rewrites done so we give it a good show in Friday’s paper.’ He made for the door then paused, swinging round to turn the full beam of his most serious stare on Allie. ‘This is your big chance, Burns. Don’t let me down.’

  The news editor marched out, head thrust forward at a determined angle. Danny sat down behind one of the typewriters and rolled a copy pad on to the platen. McGovern pulled a sheaf of paper from his inside pocket. ‘I knocked my copy out on my portable as soon as I’d done the interview. They keep it behind the bar at the Printer’s Pie for me.’ He laid it down beside a vacant typewriter and gestured towards Allie.

  Her mouth was dry with apprehension at the scale of the task before her. She cleared her throat and tried to look as if this was just another routine story. ‘Danny, can you write up our interview with Wilson Brodie first?’ Allie asked, moving to the other typewriter. ‘I think we need that for today’s piece. We can put him front and centre as the main source for the way the system works. Points the finger away from Paragon a bit?’

  Danny nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘And has anybody got the original copy? From memory, I think we can stick with the opening pars.’

  The lawyer stirred. ‘I’ve got a set here.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers and proffered them, making no move to bring them to her. Before Allie could cross the room to him, Danny was on his feet, snatching the pages from the lawyer and taking them to her.

  What was it about guys and their games? Always jockeying for position, always establishing the pecking order. It must be exhausting, Allie thought. But as she inserted a fresh pad into the typewriter, it occurred to her that women did exactly the same thing. Only the style was different. She laid the first page of her draft next to her and began typing.

  ‘Not so fast, young lady.’ It was McGovern.

  She looked up, puzzled.

  ‘The byline. You’ve got it wrong. It should read “By Daniel Sullivan and Peter McGovern, with additional reporting by Gilbert Patterson and Alison Burns.”’

  This was too much. For once, she wasn’t going to defer to a senior reporter. ‘Are you kidding me? Whatever Danny offered you at the start, you only did one interview. I’ve done two interviews and I’m writing the copy.’

  McGovern shrugged. ‘Danny and I had an agreement. Without my advice, he’d never have put the story together. Just because Angus is giving you a chance to see whether you’re up to playing with the first team doesn’t mean you get the star billing.’ McGovern would probably have described his smile as ‘avuncular’. Allie’s word would have been, ‘condescending’.

  ‘Children, can you save this for the pub?’ Fraser Drummond butted in. ‘I need all the time I can get to go through this with a fine-tooth comb. The last thing we want is for us all to end up in the witness box because I had to rush to judgement. So can we just get the bloody story written?’

  McGovern headed for the door. ‘If you need me, I’ll be in the bar.’

  Allie let out a long sigh. She re-read her original story and decided the first six paragraphs were as good as they were going to get. Then she began hammering the keys.

  One of the men who turned down the approach of Paragon boss Gregor Menstrie has revealed the workings of the scheme to Clarion reporters.

  Menstrie offered amusement arcade king Wilson Brodie membership of an exclusive scheme to beat the taxman over dinner at Glasgow’s prestigious Ubiquitous Chip restaurant. The two men met at the exclusive Ashton Lane eatery last summer.

  Brodie said, ‘I thought we were meeting to talk about investment opportunities. I run a very successful business and I was looking for ways to make my money grow. I wasn’t expecting him to try to draw me into a conspiracy to defraud the taxman.

  ‘Some people might think the business I’m in isn’t as respectable as running a bank or a chain of shops. But I’m an honest man and I run a chain of honest businesses. I was shocked that a man like Gregor Menstrie would be running a crooked game like this. And even more shocked that he’d think I was the kind of man who would want to be part of it.’

  We asked Mr Brodie why he thought Menstrie might have invited him aboard. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said. ‘The only thing I can think of is that ours is a cash business. I declare my turnover and my profits to the taxman but if I was a crook, I could easily syphon off some of that cash and keep it for myself.

  ‘To be honest, I was insulted by his offer. I wish I’d walked out as soon as he started hinting at it, but I was curious. So I let him explain how the scheme works. He was adamant that it was foolproof. According to him, I could launder massive amounts of cash and end up with a big nest egg that the taxman couldn’t touch.’

  She was over the first fence and away. The words flowed, a flying carpet carrying Allie along, oblivious to everything except the bundles of other people’s copy that were the threads she had to draw together. And the flow would continue all the way to the presses the following night, ink
pouring on to newsprint, guillotines slicing the rolls into pages and binders folding those pages into the next day’s Clarion. Then, breaking into bundles like waves breaking against rocks, into liveried vans and trucks, train wagons and island ferries, carrying Allie’s words to millions of eyes, the Clarion went about its daily business.

  22

  By the time they made it to the Printer’s Pie late on Thursday, the first edition had landed and every journalist still at the bar knew Danny was the hero of the night, with Allie a surprising second. Their glasses had no chance to empty; for once, all the shades of the newsroom from mild disdain to contempt were set in abeyance and they were the toast of the place. Allie grinned at Danny, both flushed with delight.

  When last orders were called, a handful of the hardcore hacks were all for taking the celebration on to the Press Club. Allie shook her head. ‘I don’t want a sore head in the morning. There’s going to be fallout from this. And the editor’s still got to sign off on part two.’ She could see the bonhomie start to drain away; any minute, she’d be back to being a killjoy woman.

  Danny came to her rescue. ‘She’s right, boys,’ he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of regret. ‘There’ll be plenty chance to celebrate when the polis start hauling folk out of their big houses and into the cells.’ He drained his pint and shepherded Allie to the door, accompanied by wolf whistles from a couple of the drinkers and a V-sign from Danny.

  The cold hit them like a slap. Danny moved to the kerb, scanning the Clydeside for a passing taxi. They didn’t have long to wait. Danny opened the door for her and made to close it. ‘You not coming?’ Allie asked.

  ‘We’re going in opposite directions,’ he said, putting the door between them with a heavy thud.

  It was the truth. But Allie, still fizzing with the exhilaration of the night’s work, had let herself hope for a different ending. She scolded herself in the back of the cab for not being satisfied with her part in a job well done, and pulled out her copy of the paper to remind herself. She didn’t have the splash byline – that had been reserved to Danny and Peter, on the grounds of space. But there she was on the two-page spread on pages four and five – ‘Additional reporting by Gilbert Patterson and Alison Burns’. It was less than she deserved, she thought. But she’d set down a marker in the newsroom today. It would be hard to dismiss her and relegate her to miracle babies after this, surely?

  There was a residual buzz in the newsroom on Friday morning. It was always the same when an exclusive hit the streets. Everybody knew the opposition would be playing catch-up, trying to find their own angle on the story that had made the morning bulletins on the commercial radio stations as well as the BBC’s Good Morning, Scotland. And the other reporters would be scrambling through their contacts books in a bid to find something that would help them reclaim their place in the perceived hierarchy.

  Allie barely had the chance to acknowledge a couple of grudging congratulations before she was summoned back to the meeting room where she’d hammered out the story. Danny was there already, eyes faintly pink, face peaky. Fraser the Razor was sitting on the deep windowsill, smugly holding forth. Danny kept slumping down in his chair, then collecting himself with a start, legs and arms struggling to find a comfortable position.

  ‘Ah, Miss Burns,’ the Razor greeted her. ‘Nice of you to join us. I’ve been through your copy for part two, and there are one or two revisions you need to make. It’s important we don’t stray into potentially expensive speculation.’ He stood up and thrust a bundle of copy at her. ‘I’m off to hold Angus’s hand. The police are apparently on their way for a full and frank conversation with him. I suggest you get your copy sorted out asap. Angus may want to spirit you away out of the reach of the long arm of the law till we get part two out on the streets.’ He gave her a wolfish grin. ‘Get to it, Miss Burns.’

  Danny watched him leave with a jaundiced eye. ‘What an arse,’ he muttered.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Allie observed mildly, rolling a fresh copy pad into the typewriter. ‘I thought you were heading straight home last night?’

  He looked shifty. ‘Changed my mind.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you went to the Press Club with the professional drinkers?’ She typed the bylines as she spoke.

  Danny screwed up his face in disgust. ‘I’m not that stupid. I hooked up with a couple of pals in a wee club I know up the town. I made the mistake of telling them I was celebrating . . .‘ He groaned.

  Allie chuckled. ‘Serves you right.’ She read through the notes the Razor had scribbled on her copy. ‘Bastard’s taken out some of my best lines.’ Sighing, she started reworking the story. It wasn’t a quiet business. The keys clattered, the type bars hammered the paper, the bell rang at the end of each line and the carriage return ratcheted its noisy way back to the beginning.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Danny muttered. ‘You’d think, given how many hangovers journalists have to put up with that somebody would have invented a silent typewriter by now.’

  ‘Electric ones are a lot quieter,’ Allie said absently.

  Danny scoffed. ‘I don’t see the management springing for them any time soon. Plus, can you imagine the likes of Big Kenny Stone with an electric typewriter? He’d have it battered to death in a matter of days.’

  ‘Do something useful, then. Go and get me a coffee.’

  Danny looked momentarily disconcerted then managed a wry smile. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, hauling himself up like a bag of golf clubs straightening itself.

  Left to herself, Allie drilled down and focused on the lawyer’s demands. By the time Danny returned, she was on the home straight. He began to speak, but she cut across him. ‘Gimme a minute, I need to get the ending just right.’ She clattered her way to the end of the paragraph, pulled out the copy pad and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I managed to do all that the Razor wanted and still keep it buzzing along.’ She tossed the pads across to Danny. ‘Take a look, tell me if you see any problems.’

  Danny picked up the copy and read it with meticulous attention while Allie lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. She didn’t really want the coffee she’d sent Danny for, but she made a show of drinking from the thick white mug. She felt curiously deflated. The work was done; there would be repercussions, but they’d probably not be hers to handle. It had been a great ride, but now the horses were back in the stable and she’d have to find her next mount.

  He looked up from the last page. ‘Great job, Allie. I couldn’t have given it the spin like you do.’ He began to split the pads into their individual copies.

  She knew it was nothing less than the truth. ‘We’re a good team.’

  Danny opened the door and shouted, ‘Copy.’ He turned back to her. ‘Now we just need another belter to make sure nobody forgets we’re the top dogs.’

  ‘I might have a wee notion about that.’

  He raised his eyebrows in a question, but before he could say more, one of the elderly copy boys stuck his head round the door. Danny handed him the copies. ‘Take them round, Sammy.’ Before he could ask Allie what she had in mind, the phone on the table rang, startling them both.

  She was closest. Before she could speak, the newsdesk secretary said, ‘Call for Danny, I’m putting it through.’ Allie held the handset out to him.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  Danny’s smile had a whiff of anxiety about it. ‘Daniel Sullivan,’ he said, making it a question. Whatever the response was, it was clearly unwelcome. He flushed dark red from the neck up, then almost immediately paled again. Allie could hear a raised male voice but the words were indistinct.

  ‘I can’t discuss this now,’ Danny stammered. ‘Can we talk about this—’

  Whoever was on the line wasn’t in the mood to wait. And they had plenty to say. Danny kept trying to interject but his caller continued to overwhelm him. At last, he ran out of steam. ‘If
you’re that worried, you should get your side of the story in first.’ Danny gabbled, eyes wide and panicked, sweat greasing his forehead. ‘I’ve done my best to keep you out of it—’ Again the caller took off on a rant. But this time Danny was more insistent. ‘Play the innocent. You were just the messenger,’ he shouted. ‘For once, don’t act the big man.’ And he slammed down the phone.

  The silence that followed had an almost physical presence. Danny screwed his eyes tight shut and sank into a chair. ‘I’m guessing that was Joseph?’ Allie said, her voice soft.

  He nodded. ‘He’s raging. Well, what he actually is is shit scared, but he always hides it behind his temper. Always has.’

  ‘Surely he must realise you’ve done all you can to protect him?’

  Danny scoffed, shaking his head. ‘Not my brother. All he sees is his house of cards collapsing round his ears because of me. And what makes it worse, according to him, is that I didn’t give him any warning.’ He threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘I mean, what difference would that have made?’

  ‘None. His best defence is looking as stunned as everybody else. Unless he’s a better actor than Robert De Niro, he’d never have been able to pull it off if you’d marked his card. Did he say what’s happening at Paragon?’

  ‘Gregor Menstrie’s a no-show at the office. Everybody’s running around like headless chickens. Apparently almost nobody knew about the scheme, so they’re all freaking out.’ He groaned, head in hands. ‘What have I done, Allie?’

  ‘The right thing. And you’ve done your best to protect Joseph. Which, incidentally, I don’t think he deserves. But he’s your brother, and you needed to do what you could for him. And you’re still doing that, by the way. What you told him just now? That’s the best advice you could have given him.’