by Val McDermid
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know his name. I – I can’t explain. Look, I need you to go out there and find out who it is that’s sitting with Wee Gordon Beattie.’
‘Why? I don’t understand—’
‘Please, Allie. Just do it.’ Insistent and unnerved. It was a combination she couldn’t resist.
She slipped out of the door and looked across to the corner of the reporters’ area where Wee Gordon Beattie, the crime correspondent of the Clarion perched. He was a wizened little man of indeterminate years, invariably dressed in a tweed jacket over a black polo-neck sweater and narrow black trousers like the ones the Beatles used to wear when they first became successful. Allie thought he looked more like a retired jockey than a journalist, but he sounded more like a crook himself, talking out of the side of his mouth in a broad Glasgow accent. On the occasions when she’d been deputed to write up his copy, she’d struggled to penetrate what he’d been saying. But there was no denying he had the most remarkable contacts on every side of the law – criminals, cops, fiscals and sheriffs all seemed to confide in Wee Gordon Beattie.
The man sitting next to him appeared to be in his late twenties. His dark blond hair was neatly barbered and he had the kind of unremarkable appearance that would blur into commonplace within an hour of meeting him. At first sight, Allie had no idea why he’d provoked such a powerful reaction in Danny.
She crossed to her own desk and raked around in her drawer. She glanced at the man with Beattie and frowned. Turning to Big Kenny Stone, she said, ‘Who’s that with Wee Gordon? I know him from somewhere but I can’t think where.’
Kenny looked round. ‘I don’t know his name. All I know is he’s Gordie’s Special Branch guy. I’ve seen them together a few times.’
Allie shrugged. ‘I must be confusing him with somebody else.’ She fished an old notebook out of her drawer, as if that had been what she was looking for.
‘What are you and Danny up to?’ Kenny asked, almost as an afterthought.
‘Just following up from the Paragon story,’ she lied comfortably. ‘A couple of loose ends.’ Before he could say more, she moved away.
Back in Carlyle’s office, Danny was hunched up in his chair, like a child who’s been slapped. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded before she’d even shut the door.
‘I didn’t get a name, but he’s Gordie’s Special Branch source.’
What little colour remained in Danny’s face drained away. ‘Oh fuck,’ he breathed.
‘What is it? What the hell’s wrong, Danny?’
His eyes flicked around the room, searching out invisible predators. ‘I can’t tell you here, Allie. Let’s get this finished and deal with Angus and the editor. Then you can come back to mine and I’ll tell you everything. Promise.’
34
Allie parked her car as instructed on a piece of waste ground between a pair of blackened sandstone tenements. No sooner had she stepped out of her car than a strange lumpy figure loomed up out of the darkness. Her hand closed in a fist round her keys, their points standing proud of her fingers in a vicious knuckleduster. The figure came closer and she could see he was a man dressed in an apparently random collection of garments, from a woolly pompom hat to a distressed army surplus jacket whose original colour she suspected would still be questionable in bright sunlight. ‘A’ right?’ he demanded with a gust of stale tobacco and rancid cider that could have stripped the flesh from a dead creature.
‘Aye,’ Allie said, trying to sidestep him.
‘I’m Jimmy,’ he announced. ‘I’m the parking attendant.’
‘This is a car park?’ Danny hadn’t warned her about this.
He spread his arms to encompass the waste ground with its broken bricks, clumps of half-hearted vegetation and crumpled beer tins. And half a dozen cars dotted around. ‘That thing you just got out of? Is that a car, or am I seeing things again?’
‘It’s a car.’
‘And is the engine running?’
She smiled. He was playing the familiar Glasgow game of genial sarcasm. ‘Yes, OK, it’s parked.’
‘Now, I am responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of this facility. So that’ll be fifty pence, madam. If you want your wheels still to be on it when you get back.’
Allie dug into the jacket pocket where she always kept a handful of loose change for phone calls and parking meters. She picked her way through the coins, assembling the right amount.
While she was fiddling with the money, Jimmy said, ‘You visiting somebody?’
She handed over the money. ‘Why else would I be here? It’s not like the area’s teeming with attractions.’
‘True. Who are you here to see, then? I might know if they’re in. Save you a disappointing climb up to the third floor.’ He winked. ‘No extra charge, like.’
No harm in it, she supposed. It might even grant her an extra level of protection. ‘I work with Danny Sullivan.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘The Jimmy Olsen of the South Side. Aye, he’s in all right. Got back about ten minutes ago.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy.’
He stepped to one side and escorted her to the pavement. ‘You have a nice evening, now, hen.’
Danny’s flat was on the first floor of the tenement. The street door opened on to what Allie had learned to call a wally close – a hallway and staircase decorated chest-high with ceramic tiles, a marker of the more prosperous streets. In this case, the tiles were plain buttery yellow with a border of dark green, but they were spotless and in good condition. Danny was clearly doing well for himself.
He opened the door so swiftly she wondered whether he’d been hovering behind it, anxious for her arrival. ‘Come on in,’ he said, stepping back to let her pass.
The interior was not what she expected. The original features – cornices, dado rails, panelled doors – had all disappeared, replaced by clean, straight lines. The floorboards had been painted a dark glossy oxblood, and the walls were all white. It looked like it had been transplanted from a modern block. Before she could react, Danny said quickly, ‘I bought it off an artist. He was moving to New York, he’d been trying to sell it for ages but people looking for tenement flats, they want the traditional look. So I got it cheap.’
‘It’s amazing. The rooms look enormous.’ She followed him into the living room. He’d chosen furniture with the same clean lines. A white table in the bay window sporting a heavy black onyx ashtray and a trio of matching candlesticks, a pair of firm-looking black leather sofas, a big TV set and a black stereo. A black-and-white cowskin rug covered the floor between the sofas. On the walls were a series of framed black-and-white photographs of Hollywood icons. Danny waved Allie to a seat and she found herself staring at Marlene Dietrich in a top hat. There was something quite disconcerting about the star’s gaze.
‘Thanks for coming over.’ Danny sat opposite her on the edge of his seat, hands clenched between his knees.
They were past the point of small talk. Allie was there for a reason, and it wasn’t to discuss Danny’s décor. ‘I need you to tell me why you freaked out when you saw who Gordon Beattie was talking to.’
‘I recognised him.’
‘Obviously. But where from?’
Danny frowned and sighed. ‘It’s complicated. And when you told me who he is . . . it just got more complicated. I don’t even know where to start.’
‘At the risk of sounding flippant, why not start at the beginning?’
He blinked hard and gave her a piteous look. ‘I’m like you, Allie.’
Baffled, she said, ‘What do you mean, you’re like me?’
He stared at the floor. ‘I’m gay.’
It was so far from what she’d expected that all she could do was stare at him.
He looked up. ‘We’re two of a kind, stuck in the Clarion closet.’
‘What on earth makes you say t
hat? I’m not gay, Danny. I don’t have a problem with you being gay, but I’m not a lesbian. Why would you think that?’
Dismayed, he flushed a deep scarlet. ‘Because you and Rona Dunsyre. You hang about together.’
‘That doesn’t make us lesbians.’
Danny shook his head, puzzled. ‘But Rona is.’
The surprises were coming at her like arrows. ‘She is?’
‘Did you not know? Really?’
‘It never crossed my mind. How the hell do you know?’
‘I’ve seen her out and about. There’s a couple of gay bars in town . . .‘ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I’ve made such an arse of myself. I thought you would understand, I thought you were one of us.’
‘Danny, I’m still your friend. This doesn’t make any difference.’
He shook his head.
‘At the risk of sounding like a cliché . . . My best friend from the training scheme, Marcus? He’s a gay man. We swap letters most weeks. I won’t pretend it didn’t freak me out a bit when he told me. I’d never really known anybody gay before. But now? I hardly think about it.’ Allie jumped to her feet and crossed to sit beside him. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to judge you, Danny. I don’t care who you sleep with. Tell me what’s wrong. Until you tell me, there’s nothing I can do to help.’
He reached up and grasped her fingers. ‘I’ve never told anybody before. I mean, obviously the men I meet in bars, they know. But I’ve never said anything to my friends.’ He scoffed. ‘Or my family. And certainly not anybody at work. There’s too much to lose. It’s still against the fucking law for two men to have sex in this primitive bloody country.’
‘You can trust me, Danny.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I should have told you this before, but I was scared. When I walked into the Spaghetti Factory on Friday night and I saw Roddy Farquhar, I just about shat myself.’
‘You recognised him?’
‘Oh yeah, I recognised him.’ Danny got up and opened a white cabinet set against the wall. ‘I need a drink, Allie.’ He slopped a large whisky into a glass and took a swallow. ‘What about you?’
‘Got any vodka?’
He waved a bottle of Smirnoff at her. ‘You take Coke in it, right?’ She nodded. ‘Give me a minute.’ He reappeared with a can and topped up her glass. He flopped back on to the sofa and clinked her glass with an ironic smile.
‘I’ve seen Roddy a few times in town.’ He gave a dry little laugh. ‘Obviously I’m not his type because he didn’t show any signs of recognising me. I thought I’d got away with it. No comebacks. Just a moment of panic.’ He ground to a halt and drank more whisky.
‘So what changed? What’s any of it got to do with the Special Branch guy?’
‘I’ve seen him before too, Allie. The last time I saw Wee Gordon Beattie’s SB informer, he had his tongue halfway down Roddy Farquhar’s throat.’
35
It was an explosive revelation. Allie could barely begin to grasp the implications. For a long moment, she struggled to find words. She clutched her glass as if it were a lifebelt in a turbulent sea. Danny swallowed his whisky and got up to pour another. When he had his back to her, she said, ‘You mean . . . Beattie’s source is Farquhar’s, what – boyfriend?’
Danny sat on the far sofa, where Allie had started. ‘I don’t know whether it’s that kind of relationship. Maybe more casual?’
‘So is it just a sex thing? Or do you think he’s chasing the same thing we are? That he’s targeting Farquhar because the SB have got a sniff of their plans?’
Danny shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. But now Beattie’s brought him into the picture, now he’s using him as a confidential source . . . if he didn’t know before that he was having sex with a potential terrorist, he certainly knows now.’
‘I can’t believe he was on an assignment,’ Allie said slowly. ‘The Branch would never knowingly employ a gay man.’
‘They might. If they were running an undercover honeytrap.’
‘If they were doing that, surely they’d be much more likely to set a female officer on the other two? Besides, they wouldn’t need a honeytrap against Farquhar. If they’d had any suspicions of your guys and they knew he was homosexual, they’d just pull him in and use that for leverage. Like you said, it’s against the law. He could end up in court, he’d lose his job. From what I’ve seen of Farquhar, I think he’d cave.’ Allie tilted her head back and frowned in concentration. ‘So what does this mean for us? What’s the set-up between him and Beattie anyway? Is he some sort of official liaison?’
Danny spluttered with laughter. ‘Of course not. He’ll have an arrangement with Wee Gordon. He tips Gordon off on stories and payments make their way into somebody else’s bank account. His mum or his best pal. And if Gordon wants something copper-bottomed, he’ll ask Mr SB to do some digging for him. It’s not like he’s the only polis that Wee Gordon has on his payroll. It’s the main reason he’s in the masons – most of the senior officers in Strathclyde Police are in the same lodge. How do you think Wee Gordon gets all his exclusives?’
Embarrassed at her naivety, Allie said, ‘Will Beattie’s guy recognise you?’
Danny spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. If he fancies Farquhar, I’m definitely not his type.’
‘Are you serious? Gay men have a “type”?’ Allie hastily caught herself. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never had this kind of conversation with Marcus. Is it that simple? You only go for one kind of look?’
‘Some men do. A lot of men do. You remember the Village People video for “YMCA”? I’ve no idea what straight people made of it, but for gay men, it was a playful take on the kind of role-playing dress-up that some guys go for. That’s not my scene, by the way. But you see them out and about in the bars. The leather men. The uniform queens. The glitter guys.’
Allie was bemused. It had never occurred to her that she might have a type. Since her mid-teens she’d had a few boyfriends. A couple of them had almost been serious, but she’d cut loose because she didn’t think she loved them. Not deep down, not like the love songs said she should feel. The sex was fine, but it had never left her thinking, ‘I want to wake up with you every morning.’ She’d found them all attractive enough, but it had been their personalities – their intelligence, their sense of humour, their taste in music – that had drawn her to them. There was no template to their looks. The idea of choosing a potential partner based on their appearance seemed bizarre to her. She had no idea how to navigate Danny’s world. ‘So you think you won’t have registered on his radar?’
‘Probably not. But if he does recognise me . . . ‘
‘He’s not going to say anything, because if he does, he’ll expose himself. He’ll be just as nervous of you exposing him as you are of him exposing you.’
Danny drained his glass then wrapped his arms round himself. ‘I thought this week couldn’t get worse. This story was supposed to be the way to show my mum that the work I’m doing is valuable. To get me back into my family again. But if this comes out . . .‘ His voice tailed off and his eyes brightened with unshed tears.
‘It’s not going to come out, Danny. There’s no reason why it should. Farquhar hasn’t recognised you and he’s the only one who needs a bargaining chip. You and Beattie’s source, that’s kind of mutually assured destruction. Besides, we’ll find out soon enough what the score is with him. Beattie’s going to be asking him for background searches on all three of them. If Mr SB doesn’t mention Farquhar’s sexuality, I think it’s safe to say you’re going to be OK.’
‘You really think so?’ His pinched expression began to relax a little as hope crept in.
‘I do. We just have to wait and see and hope he’s as eager to stay in the closet as you are.’
Danny winced. ‘I don’t want to be in the closet. It’s not that I’m ashamed. I listen to Tom Robi
nson singing “Glad to be Gay” and I despise myself for hiding who I really am. But I love my family; even though I think I’ve already lost them, I know if I told them the truth about myself, I’d have no chance of ever being part of it again. I love my work too. Being a reporter, it’s what I always wanted. But can you imagine the dog’s life I’d have in the Clarion if they knew?’ He shook his head, his mouth a bitter line.
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Allie said. ‘It’s hard enough being a woman in there. It’d be a hundred times worse for you.’ Light dawned. ‘Is that the real reason you don’t want a picture byline? You’re afraid somebody you’ve been with will expose you?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘It crossed my mind early on. God knows, I’m so careful. I know guys who are completely wild. Totally reckless about who they have sex with. I’m not like that. But you can never be sure.’
Allie felt for him. She could barely imagine living a life that required hiding so much of herself from the people closest to her. ‘Do you have anybody you can talk to?’
He looked away. ‘I have . . . an arrangement. It’s not ideal but I trust him.’ He flashed her a quick look. ‘Don’t pity me, Allie. The world’s changing. There’s places I could move to and have a much more open life. London, Manchester. Maybe this story’s the springboard for me to be out and proud.’ He scoffed. ‘I mean, there’s got to be an upside to being the family black sheep, right?’ He straightened up and squared his shoulders.
Allie couldn’t help admiring his refusal to give in. Or feeling rueful that she’d wasted her emotional energy considering him as a romantic prospect. ‘Definitely.’ She put her glass down on the floor. ‘I guess I should be going. I thought Angus might have got back to us, but he’ll have gone home by now.’
‘Do you want to stick around? We could pick up a carry-out. There’s a pretty good Chinese on the main drag. If you’ve not had enough of me whining like a slapped puppy?’
She laughed. ‘You smooth-talking bastard. I love a good Chinese.’
