1979

by Val McDermid

  A few minutes later, Bell said, ‘I hear footsteps. I think we’ve got company.’ His voice was tentative.

  ‘Good,’ Danny said firmly. ‘We’re supposed to have company, right?’

  They walked on, turning as directed into a narrow lane whose streetlights appeared to have been turned down several notches. ‘It only feels darker, right?’ Bell asked.

  Before Danny could reply, a small hell broke loose. Two burly men cannoned into them from behind as a black taxi drew up alongside. Caught unawares, the two were easily huckled into the back of the cab, sacks that smelled of some sort of grain pulled over their heads and shoulders. They were hurled to the floor, each pinned down by heavy feet planted in their chests.

  ‘Shut the fuck up and you’ll be fine.’ A Northern Irish voice, unmistakable.

  Danny did as he was told. It never occurred to him to do otherwise. What mattered now was not to let fear overcome him. There had been an arrangement, he reminded himself. It had been short on details, but he had to believe this was part of it. The cab hurtled through the streets of Glasgow, cornering sharply at times, slowing at others, presumably for traffic lights. It was beyond Danny to form any idea of where they were going.

  Time passed. Impossible to know how much. Inside the sacks, his breathing grew tighter as dust clogged his lungs and fear built in his chest. Then, without warning, the cab shuddered to a halt, engine still running. The quality of sound changed when the door opened. Danny was shoved out of the cab and yanked to his feet, the sacks hauled down to trap his arms at his sides. The sounds of effort around him led him to believe Bell was having the same experience.

  A door creaked open, they were pushed through, stumbling against each other. Down a hallway, the door slamming behind them, cutting outside noises dead. Another door, and warmth hit suddenly. The sacks were dragged off and they stood, blinking and bemused, in somebody’s living room.

  The man sitting on the well-worn brown sofa was a familiar type. Hard muscles, tight little beer belly, jeans taut over heavy thighs. Celtic football shirt and sentimental tattoos on his forearms. What was less familiar but not unexpected was that his head and face were covered with a black balaclava. His eyes never left the two visitors. He looked them up and down and one corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been scorn.

  ‘So, youse are the boys,’ he said mildly.

  Danny glanced around. Three other masked men; the two who had presumably abducted them and a third sitting on a dining chair, a sawn-off shotgun in his lap. ‘And you must be the man,’ he replied.

  Sofa man chuckled. ‘Call me Declan. It’s not my name, you understand, but it’ll do.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Declan. I assume you know why we’re here?’

  Not-Declan nodded. ‘You’d like to make a purchase.’

  Now Bell chipped in. ‘We’re like you. We’re fighting for a cause. But we don’t have an organisation as well-established as yours. We don’t have support from across the Atlantic so we thought it made sense to look closer to home.’

  ‘Across the Irish Sea,’ Danny added.

  ‘And why should we accept your custom?’ Not-Declan asked, leaning back in his seat and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Because our goal is the same as yours,’ Bell said, hitting his stride. ‘Independence from the English state. We’re tired of talking. It’s time to take action. Just like your lot, our politicians are soft as shite. The SNP can’t even decide if they want independence or if they’ll settle for a devolved parliament.’

  ‘One thing they are clear about,’ Not-Declan said. ‘Catholics not welcome here.’

  Grown bold now, Danny shrugged. ‘Show me a Scottish institution that doesn’t have sectarianism somewhere in its bones. That’s one of the things that’s going to change in an independent Scotland. Look, we know we need to change, and when we get where we want to be, we’ll remember who our friends are, make no mistake about that.’

  Not-Declan said nothing.

  ‘We’re not asking for a handout here,’ Bell said. ‘We’re willing to pay. We just need some help.’

  ‘How do we know you’re not trying to trap us? For all we know, youse could be working for the RUC or the Special Branch or MI5.’ Not-Declan’s voice had discovered a hard edge.

  Bell shrugged. ‘I’m spoken for by one of your own.’

  Danny joined in. ‘But you’re right. You don’t know. That’s why you brought us here the way you did. We couldn’t describe you and we don’t have any idea where we are. We couldn’t expose you even if we wanted to.’

  ‘Look, all we want is to do a deal.’ It was almost a plea from Bell.

  Not-Declan’s face covering expanded sideways as he grinned. ‘Fair enough. What are youse after?’

  Bell took a deep breath. ‘Enough Semtex for four decent-sized explosions. Detonators and fuses.’

  ‘Not much, then.’ The sarcasm obvious. ‘No guns?’

  Bell shook his head. ‘No guns. Just four bombs.’

  ‘We don’t deliver. You’d have to pick them up yourselves.’

  The two Scots exchanged looks. ‘We can do that. Just tell us when and where,’ Danny said.

  The Irishman nodded. ‘And money up front. You were told, a grand in cash, used notes, I believe?’

  Danny pulled a fat envelope out of his waistband and passed it to Not-Declan. In turn, he tossed it to one of the abductors, who began to count the bundle of notes. ‘There’s only two hundred there,’ Danny said hastily. ‘We only got confirmation yesterday morning and my bank won’t let me withdraw more than that in a day unless I give advance notice. I can have the rest of it on Thursday.’

  Not-Declan guffawed. ‘Did youse ever hear the like of this, lads? They keep their money in the bank, so they do. You can tell they don’t live in a police state like we do. Sonny, you don’t keep your fighting fund in the bank, where the peelers can track its movements. You ever heard of a safe? Or even a cashbox under the floorboards.’ He shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ amateur city.’ Disgust and contempt mingled. ‘No wonder youse had to come to the professionals.’

  ‘Two hundred, boss,’ the cash counter confirmed.

  ‘Nothing happens now till we get the balance. In cash. We’ll be in touch about the arrangements,’ Not-Declan said.

  ‘How can we be sure?’ Danny couldn’t help himself.

  There was no mirth in Not-Declan’s laugh. ‘Ye can’t, sonny. That’s just the way it goes. Now be good lads and put the sacks on again. And next time – don’t fuck about with us.’

  The abduction was played out in reverse. The two men were rolled out of the back of the cab on the south side of the river, at the edge of one of the empty blocks where the slum tenements of the Gorbals had once stood. They struggled out of their sacks and looked around at the scrubby grass littered with empty bottles and cans, chip papers and dog shit, trying to work out where they were. At the same moment, they both caught sight of the unmistakable frontage of the Citizens’ Theatre, its banner advertising all seats 50p and a poster for Cocteau’s Orpheus, Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Goldoni’s Country Life. That was enough to orientate them and they hurried off into the night. Danny was gripped with anxiety and uncertainty, and he suspected Bell felt the same. So much could yet go wrong, even if the Irish came good.

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  33

  Angus Carlyle looked Danny and Allie up and down, perplexed. Neither was dressed for work; neither was scheduled to be in the office that morning. His eyes slid across to the shift rota to double-check. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, belligerence his default.

  ‘We need to talk to you,’ Allie said.

  ‘I kind of assumed that was why you were standing there on your day off, Burns. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Can we do this in your office?’ Danny said.

  ‘If you’r
e looking for a raise after the Paragon story, you’re out of luck. The kitty’s empty. The bosses have raided the piggy bank to keep the printers from striking like every other bugger that feels hard done by.’ He turned back to the copy in his fist, well aware that the attention of the entire newsroom was on him.

  Frustrated, Allie said, ‘I’ve got more sense than to give up my day off for something that pointless. We need to talk to you because we’ve got something you can do something about, boss.’

  He gave her a comedy frown. ‘That doesn’t narrow it down much, Burns. I hope you’re not leading this boy astray, I’ve barely got him trained up.’ He grimaced for the gallery.

  Allie rolled her eyes. ‘We need to talk to you confidentially about another story.’

  Carlyle sighed theatrically and gestured at his desk. ‘Will this not wait till after conference? Can you not see I’ve got today’s schedule to worry about? You’re not the only ones with a story.’

  Allie and Danny exchanged looks. ‘We thought you’d like to get moving on this as soon as possible,’ Danny said.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ He looked at the clock. ‘You can have fifteen minutes. My office, now.’

  They trailed behind him. Carlyle held the door open ostentatiously and welcomed them in with a flourish. So much for keeping under the radar, Allie thought.

  The news editor threw himself into his chair and loosened his tie. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’ve been building up my contacts,’ Allie began.

  ‘Give the girl a gold star,’ Carlyle interrupted. ‘That’s what you’re paid for.’

  ‘I’ve been going to political meetings,’ Allie battled on, ‘because the kind of people who go to them often have stories to tell. I was at a fringe meeting supporting independence the other week and I overheard three young men talking radical, insurrectionary tactics. They were invoking the IRA, saying that’s what was needed to make the Scots rise up against Westminster.’

  Carlyle snorted. ‘The usual big talk. Scotland isn’t going to rise up any time soon, not unless the revolution comes with a promise of free whisky and fish suppers.’ He shifted his bulk, ready to rise.

  ‘There’s more,’ Danny said. ‘Allie brought me on board because she knew that they’d never let a woman in on their plans. I managed to get alongside them. Cutting a long story short, I’m slap bang in the middle of buying explosives from the IRA to blow up targets in Scotland.’

  Shock froze Carlyle’s face. But he recovered quickly. ‘When you say, “slap bang in the middle”, what exactly do you mean?’ He enunciated each word carefully, as if they might themselves explode.

  Danny gave Allie a quick look. ‘I went to a meeting with an IRA Active Service Unit cell and handed over a down payment for enough Semtex and detonators for four bombs.’

  ‘You personally handed over cash? For bomb-making equipment?’ Carlyle’s look of horror finally brought home to Allie the recklessness of what they’d done. Yes, she’d argued to Danny that it would be possible for others to paint them as members of the terrorist group. But she’d only been using that as leverage to get him to come inside the tent with her. The reaction of her boss stripped away all the self-justification she’d been hiding behind.

  ‘Christ,’ Carlyle muttered. ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘Just us,’ Danny said. ‘The other men, they’ve got no clue I’m a journalist. They trust me.’

  Carlyle gave a bitter laugh. ‘They trust you because you’re funding their attempt at bringing terrorism to Scotland.’ His hands curled into fists on the desk. He looked at Danny as if he’d cheerfully make him their target. ‘You are so far over the fucking line here.’

  ‘I couldn’t think of another way to stop them except by standing the story up,’ Allie said, defiant. ‘And I couldn’t think of another way to stand the story up except by going undercover. And Danny’s already proved he can handle that.’

  Carlyle squeezed his eyes shut in a frown. He shook his massive head like a tormented bull, then his eyes snapped open. He glared at Allie. ‘You didn’t think to bring it to me? To establish right at the start that this was an investigation? Not a bloody provocation?’

  Allie stared at the floor. ‘I thought you wouldn’t take me seriously. Or, if you did, that you’d take it off me and give it to somebody else.’ She looked up and met his gaze. ‘I wanted to keep what was mine, Angus.’

  A long, hard look. Then he almost smiled. ‘Fair point.’ But a change in the weather followed immediately. ‘It doesn’t mean you’re not a pair of fucking idiots.’ He stood up. ‘I need to talk to the editor. We need to figure out how we nail this down without the pair of you ending up behind bars. Don’t fucking move.’ He left the room, muttering under his breath.

  Allie gave a weak laugh. ‘Well, that went well.’

  ‘He didn’t give us the sack. And he didn’t throw the typewriter out of the window.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘When Raymond Blackwood admitted screwing a gangster’s wife to get the inside track, Angus was so enraged he threw Raymond’s typewriter out of the window. Missed a pensioner’s dog by inches.’

  Allie giggled. ‘That’s not funny, Danny.’

  ‘I know. The old woman fainted. The paper had to buy her off to stop her going to the Daily Record with the story. So right now, we’re ahead.’

  Neither of them could think of anything to say. Time crawled by. The longer they waited, the more convinced Allie became that she was sitting in the waiting room of the end of her career. Eventually, she caved and lit up a cigarette. Danny took that as a signal to jump up and start pacing.

  Almost half an hour passed before the door burst open and Carlyle returned. He closed it carefully behind him and returned to his seat. ‘First things first. You’re both still employed. Which was not a given when I walked out of here, let me tell you. However, the editor, being a Unionist by breeding and by disposition, is delighted at the idea of a big story that puts the SNP’s gas at a peep.’

  ‘It’s not the SNP—’ Allie attempted.

  Carlyle held up a meaty hand. ‘I know that. But the editor thinks anything that paints nationalism in a bad light knocks the SNP by association. So he’s got a hard-on for this. And he’s already sounding the trumpet for our bold journalism. You’re in the good books for now, but you’ve got to deliver. So here’s the game plan. You’re coming off the shift rota, both of you. You’re going to sit down and write full memos. I want every cough, spit and fart so far. Who, where, when and what. And meanwhile, we’re going to work up full backgrounders on your guys. With total discretion, of course. Obviously Wee Gordon Beattie has the police contacts, but even better, he’s got a Special Branch guy in his back pocket. If these guys have been caught so much as peeing up a wall after closing time, we’ll know all about it. Unofficially. That goes without saying. We’ll not bring the police in till your boys have got their hands on the kit. Now, when’s the next step in this glorious crusade?’

  ‘Danny’s supposed to meet the IRA contacts with the balance of the money on Thursday night.’

  Carlyle sucked in his breath through his teeth. ‘That’s tight, but we’ll have to manage. I need a full outline of the arrangements, so we can work out how to cover it and still protect you. And we’ll need to arrange for snatch pics of both sets of villains, the Irish and the Scots. Now, did you actually use your own money to make the deposit on these explosives?’

  Danny nodded, and Carlyle threw a pen across the desk in exasperation. ‘See the pair of you, you shouldn’t be allowed out without a fucking nanny and toddler reins. OK, so here’s what you have to do, Danny Boy. Make out an expenses claim for the money you donated to the IRA. And backdate it to the day before the handover. I will sign it and stick it in the bundle of this week’s expenses. So it looks like this whole carry-on has been an authorised adventure.’ He st
ood up and pointed to the desk. ‘Bring another typewriter in here and the pair of you get to work. I want everything you’ve got before the end of the morning.’

  He paused on his way out, his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head and glared at Allie. ‘You’re going to give me a heart attack, Burns, but you’ve got what it takes.’ Then he was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

  ‘So what am I? Chopped liver?’ Danny muttered. ‘I’m the one who brought in the Paragon story.’

  ‘He knows that. But you’ve been here long enough to be part of the team. He’s just making sure I know I belong too.’ Allie got to her feet. ‘I’m going to get another typewriter.’

  Danny jumped up. ‘I’ll go.’

  Allie tutted. ‘I’m not made of china, I’ve been lugging typewriters around for years. Sit down and get to work.’

  By the time she staggered back in with one of the heavy Remingtons, Danny was hammering the keys with his two-fingers-and-a-thumb approach. They exchanged a grin and Allie rolled a fresh copy pad on to the platen. For half an hour, the only sounds were the tap and click and ding of words forming on paper. Then Danny sat back and linked his hands behind his head. ‘I need a break. I’m going down to get a cup of tea. Do you want anything?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Allie muttered without looking up from the page. She carried on writing her memo. She’d finished the outline of events and moved on to descriptions of the three men and what she remembered of their conversation.

  When Danny returned, his eyes were wide and his hands were shaking, tea and coffee spilling over the rims of the mugs. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it as if to prevent anyone entering. His eyebrows were gathered in a tight frown. ‘What’s wrong?’ Allie said, unnerved by his appearance.

  ‘I saw somebody I didn’t expect to see in here,’ he stammered.