by Val McDermid
The chase was well and truly on.
41
Being bundled into the back of a black taxi with a bag over his head was no easier for Danny the second time around. Nor was there any reassurance in the knowledge that Allie and the others had his back. It would only take one mistake by any of the team tailing him for the evening to end very badly indeed. He didn’t want to contemplate how the Irishmen might respond if they sensed betrayal. But he’d heard too many stories of what happened to informers to be able to put them from the front of his mind. He rolled around on the floor of the cab, smelling his own fear. Not even the anticipated roar of Willie Suttie’s motorbike overtaking the cab eased his terror.
The format was identical. The cab ride, the indoor stumble, the wrenching revelation of somebody else’s living room. Not-Declan sitting in state on the sofa in his balaclava, this time wearing a 1967 European Cup Winners replica Celtic shirt. ‘Good to see youse again, boys,’ he greeted them. ‘Have youse the rest of the money?’
Danny took a tight roll of notes from his coat pocket and tossed it to Not-Declan. The Irishman stripped off the rubber band holding it together and let the notes fan out. With a grunt of effort, he leaned forward and summoned one of his sidekicks. ‘Check it,’ he said, then leaned back, his eyes sizing them up again. He lazily scratched his groin. ‘Got your targets worked out?’
‘We’ve got a shortlist,’ Bell said. ‘We’ve not made our final decision.’
‘Don’t fuck it up. I don’t want my colleagues ripping the piss out of me for associating with wankers.’
‘You’ve no worries on that score,’ Danny said, wondering what Not-Declan would have to deal with when it all went arse over tit for him and his Active Service Unit.
‘It’s all there, boss,’ the cash-counter confirmed. ‘Used notes, non-consecutive.’
‘Well done. We’ll make freedom fighters of you yet.’ The Irishman shifted in his seat, forcing his hand into the front pocket of his ridiculously tight jeans. His fingers squirmed visibly, then closed around something. He wrenched his hand free and threw the object at Bell’s face. He fumbled it but Danny caught it on the rebound. It was a small key with a serial number stamped on it.
‘So where does it fit?’ he asked.
Not-Declan showed his teeth. It might have been a grin or a snarl. ‘Central station left luggage lockers. Locker number 129. In case you can’t remember, that’s the number of goals Jinky Johnstone scored for the finest football club in the world. Now fuck off and don’t let me hear from you again. You’ve had your free shot at goal.’
‘Quite the price for a free shot,’ Danny said.
Not-Declan surprised him by bouncing to his feet without any apparent effort. He brought his face so close Danny could unravel the toxic mix of Old Spice, old cigarettes and tooth decay.
‘Don’t make me charge you extra for your smart mouth, you little fucker.’ He gave Danny a sharp little slap, a scary reminder of who held the power in the room, then stepped back and gestured to his sidekicks. ‘Get them out of my sight before I do something they’ll regret.’
They were bundled back into the sacks and out to the cab. For a brief moment, Danny wondered if they were going to end up in the Clyde. Not-Declan probably thought he could behave with impunity. He had their money now and nobody knew where they’d been. The same wave of fear that had engulfed him earlier broke over him again. It combined with the diesel fumes from the cab’s dodgy exhaust to provoke a nausea he prayed wouldn’t overtake him, trapped as he was inside a sack. If this was what being an investigative reporter involved, maybe he wasn’t cut out for it after all?
This time, when they were thrown out of the cab, the ground felt softer. Danny wrestled his way free from the sack to find he was kneeling on wet grass, head down, body convulsing with the shock of fresh air. He raised his head and thought he was hallucinating. An Italianate palazzo rose before him, a frontage that would have been perfectly at home canalside in Venice. He shook his head to clear it, just as Bell said, ‘Templetons,’ and the tumblers clicked into place in Danny’s head. The carpet factory on Glasgow Green, modelled on some Venetian palace or other. He’d only ever seen it from a distance, across the wide expanse of the Green.
Bell was already on his feet, raring to go. ‘That was wild,’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of that guy.’ Danny pushed himself off the ground, still feeling wobbly. ‘We need to phone the guys, they’ll be chewing their fingernails to the knuckle.’
Bell started walking towards the lights of the city centre. ‘Soon as we find a phone box, we’ll bell them. They can meet us at Central station. Can you believe they stashed it in the same place we settled on?’
‘It’s not like there’s that many safe options. It’s basically there or Queen Street station, when you think about it.’
‘It feels like it was meant to be, Paul!’ Bell’s voice thrilled with excitement. To him, it was still nothing more than an adventure.
Not for much longer, Danny thought. He couldn’t wait to tear their playhouse down.
Allie had been the driver on the tail when the taxi had stopped on a quiet residential street west of Anniesland Cross. Rows of the familiar four-flat blocks that looked like 1930s semis, curtained windows dim with lights. She could just make out the sign for Garscadden train station in the distance. Nothing but her car was stirring. Already in the grip of an adrenaline buzz, hands sweating on the steering wheel, her breath began coming in short gasps. She slowed as she approached the taxi, signalling her intention to overtake. They were clearly waiting for her to pass before they moved their passengers. She risked a quick sideways glance to clock the house number, or some distinguishing feature then stared resolutely ahead as she passed the cab. At the end of the street, she turned left, not a clue where she was.
Five minutes of jinking through side streets brought her on to Dumbarton Road. Relieved to be back on known territory, she decided it would take less time to make straight for the office than to seek out a working phone box and call in. Carlyle was in his office, pacing the floor, tumbler of whisky clamped in his fist. He turned swiftly as she entered, his expression a demand.
‘Thirty-Seven Dykeswood Avenue. Since Danny didn’t remember going upstairs, I assume the ground-floor flat.’
‘Did you see them go in?’
She shook her head. ‘They were too canny for that. The cab just sat there while I drove past. It looked like two guys sitting in the back, which fits with what Danny reported about them being chucked on the floor in the back. Willie Suttie was next in line after me, maybe he saw them go in?’
Carlyle gave a grudging smile. She didn’t hold the ‘grudging’ part against him. She had an idea how much pressure a story like this put on a news editor and she had no desire to be in his shoes tonight. ‘Good job, Burns. Away down to the library and check the voters’ roll. See who’s registered at that address.’
The night librarian was working his way through the previous day’s papers with a pair of scissors and a date stamp, adding clippings to a pile thicker than a phone book. In the morning, it would be the day shift’s job to file them in the appropriate manila envelopes. The photocopier hummed softly at one side, ready for the next story that had to be filed in more than one place because it had multiple reference points. He looked pleased to see her; she suspected any break in the lonely routine of the dark hours would be welcome.
She explained what she needed and he quickly found the relevant volume. Allie thumbed through till she reached the page for Dykeswood Close, Dykeswood Avenue, and Dykeswood Crescent. She ran her finger down the list, stopping at 37: Desmond O’Loughlin, Mary O’Loughlin, Padraig O’Loughlin. ‘Ya beauty,’ she muttered softly, copying the names into her notebook. She sat back and stared out the window where the sodium glow of the city lights diffused the darkness. Somewhere out there, thanks to her,
Danny was confronting a different kind of darkness. She hoped he’d make it back to the light. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Not for him, or for her.
42
As arranged, the four men met just after eleven o’clock under the Highlandman’s Umbrella – the railway bridge that carries ten tracks across the Clyde from Glasgow Central station. It had provided a meeting place out of the elements for those living in exile in the city for almost eighty years; so it proved for the four conspirators that night. Danny and Bell found Malloch and Farquhar huddled in the doorway of a pawn shop, wreathed in smoke, coat collars turned up. The three friends clapped each other on the shoulders, then, almost as an afterthought, Malloch did the same to Danny. Excitement radiated from him. He was like a small child waiting for his birthday party to start.
‘How did it go? What happened? Are we on? Or what?’ Malloch demanded, words tumbling over each other.
Bell laughed and playfully punched his friend’s arm. ‘Thunderbirds are go, pal!’ He pulled the locker key and dangled it in front of their eyes.
‘Time to visit the left luggage office,’ Danny said.
‘Aye, let’s go and see what the leprechauns have left us,’ Farquhar said, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer.
The quartet made their way up Hope Street to the main entrance and swaggered on to the concourse. There were a surprising number of people around, facing the dregs of an evening out on the last train home to the deserted streets of the suburbs or some sleeping Ayrshire town. A few of the men were in full Highland dress, kilted and sporranned, obvious stragglers from Burns suppers. Anyone whose eye had been caught by the brio of four strangers would have put it down to drink. Or possibly poetry. Terrorism would never have crossed their minds.
Farquhar went ahead into the array of lockers and made a quick circuit. ‘Nobody there,’ he reported. ‘I’ll stay here and keep watch,’ he added.
They filed in, Bell in the lead. ‘Hey, Deke, do you know how many goals Jinky Johnstone scored for Celtic?’
‘What?’ Bewilderment from Malloch.
‘The Wizard of the Wing.’ Bell stopped at locker 129 and pointed. ‘There’s your answer.’ He inserted the key and turned it. The door creaked open, Bell stepped back and with a flourish, said, ‘Ta-da!’
An anonymous black nylon holdall sat innocuous on the shelf. Nobody would have looked twice at it. Gingerly, Malloch lifted it out and unzipped it. There were four blocks wrapped in grease-stained brown paper. Bell reached in and picked one up, hefting it in his hand. ‘About a pound,’ he said softly. He unwrapped one end of the paper and they all stared at it.
‘Looks like orange plasticine,’ Danny said.
‘It better not be,’ Malloch muttered.
‘What about detonators?’ Danny asked.
Malloch raked around under the blocks of Semtex and came up with a handful of bundles of thin yellow and orange electric cable with a slender metal cylinder at one end. ‘That’s a detonator, right enough. You stick the metal bit into the Semtex and send a charge down the wires, and bingo. Big bang.’
Hastily, Bell re-wrapped it and put it back in the bag. ‘Fuck,’ he breathed. He looked up and grinned. ‘This is really happening, boys.’
Danny pulled out his camera. ‘I want a photo. You three and the gear.’
Bell recoiled. ‘Are you mad? Are you trying to get us all put away?’
‘This history in the making, man! We won’t show what’s inside the bag, just us. It’s not like I’m going to pass them round in the pub. It’s just for us.’
‘He’s right,’ Malloch exclaimed. ‘We cannae be heroes of the revolution without the proof.’
‘If you’re worried about me selling youse out, Ding-dong, first I’ll do you three, then one of you can take one with me in it.’
Bell shook his head. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, but we all need to cover our backs. You’re going to be the one with the negatives, after all. Why don’t we all take turns with you? Three photos, you in all of them?’
‘Good idea,’ Malloch said.
Danny shrugged. ‘Sure. It makes no odds to me.’ He turned towards the entrance. ‘Roddy, we need you here.’
Farquhar edged back in, his face suspicious. ‘I thought I was keeping a lookout?’
‘Time for photos,’ Malloch said. ‘You take the first one, Roddy. Me and Ding-dong and Paul.’
‘Who said anything about photos?’
‘For the historical record, ya numpty,’ Malloch replied. ‘Paul, give him the camera.’
Danny broke open the pack of flashes and twisted one block on to the camera. He wound on the film and handed it over. ‘You look through the viewfinder and press the button,’ he explained.
‘I’m not stupid, I’ve taken pictures before,’ Farquhar grumbled. He stepped back and put the Instamatic to his face. The other three huddled together, mugging at the camera.
Banking on the flash temporarily blinding them all, at the last moment, Danny sneakily shifted the open zip down a little, in the hope the camera would catch something of the contents. As soon as the flash went off, he moved out of shot, pulling Farquhar into the line-up and handing the camera to Malloch. Two more flashes and they were done.
Bell zipped up the bag and looked around the locker area. There were plenty of vacant lockers to choose from. ‘What about seventy-nine?’ he said. ‘A year to remember, right?’
Nobody disagreed. He shoved the bag in the locker, put a coin in the slot, turned the key and removed it. He tucked it into the watch pocket of his jeans and grinned. He held out his hand, and at once, they all shook with each other in a confused muddle. ‘Now we just need to sit down and plan our campaign.’ They strolled back out on to the station concourse. Even in the short time they’d been away, the numbers on the concourse had diminished.
‘I can’t do tomorrow night,’ Malloch said. ‘It’s my dad’s birthday. And Saturday, I’ve got tickets for the coach for the away game, so I’ll be bevvied up. What about Sunday? My flat? High noon?’
Bell nodded. ‘Works for me.’
‘Me too,’ Danny lied.
And Farquhar nodded. ‘Fine by me.’
On that note, they separated. Bell and Farquhar shared a taxi since they were heading in the same direction. Malloch waited till Danny was aboard a taxi, giving completely false instructions to the driver, before he set off up Renfield Street to catch a bus. As soon as they cleared the immediate vicinity of the station, Danny told the driver he’d changed his mind. ‘Take me to the Clarion building.’
‘You’re kidding? It’s hardly worth me starting the engine for that. I’ve been sitting on the rank for half an hour, and all for next to nothing?’
‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ Danny said wearily. ‘Just so long as you give me a receipt. I want something to remember tonight by.’
Allie hadn’t realised how tightly she’d been holding herself until Danny walked into the room and her body physically relaxed. Without a moment’s forethought, she gave him a delighted clap of the hands. Judging by the expressions on their faces, most of her colleagues were surprised into joining in the smatter of applause. ‘You made it,’ Allie exclaimed.
Danny shrugged with an air of bravado. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He took the Instamatic from his pocket at tossed it to Willie Suttie. ‘Better get that down to the darkroom, Willie. Exclusive pics of a terrorist cell collecting their explosives. Mind, you’ll have to smudge me out of the shots, last thing I want is the IRA coming after me.’
He was, she thought, still high on adrenaline. And no wonder. Danny had walked into the lion’s den and lived to tell the tale.
‘Full memo, Danny,’ Carlyle said. ‘Every cough and fart. The rest of you – anything new you’ve got from tonight, get it typed up and passed on to Burns.’ He gave her his widest smile. ‘It’s going to be a l
ong night, Burns.’
The door burst open and Tony Visocchi stood framed in the doorway, splendid in a kilt of some bright tartan Allie had never seen before and a ghillie shirt, tufts of grey hair sprouting at the neck. The picture editor held up two bulging carrier bags. ‘And it needs to get off to a good start.’ He dumped the bags on the table. One clinked; the other gave off a rich smell of meat and spice. ‘It’s Burns Night, Angus.’ He winked at Allie. ‘In more ways than one.’ Two bottles of Glenmorangie appeared as if by magic, and the other bag revealed half a dozen tinfoil containers of haggis pakora. ‘I was at a supper at Bashir Singh’s restaurant and when he heard I was coming back to the office, he wouldn’t let me out the door empty-handed. Wire in, everybody.’
Carlyle threw his hands in the air, but he kept smiling. He knew when he was beaten. Within minutes, there was a party atmosphere that lasted as long as the whisky. Reporters drifted off to their desks to find some words that would give them a toehold in the finished copy. Danny sat staring glumly at a blank copy pad before starting a laborious two-fingered hammering of the keys.
Allie looked around at the detritus of the impromptu celebration and caught her boss’s eye. ‘Gonnae—’ he began, then saw her expression.
‘I’ll get the copy boy to clear up,’ she said firmly, crossing to the door and calling, ‘Copy,’ at the top of her voice. Then she rolled a fresh pad into her machine and began.
A plot to terrorise Scotland with a wave of bomb attacks lies in tatters today thanks to a fearless Daily Clarion undercover investigation.
A ruthless gang of maverick nationalists conspired with the IRA to bring horror to the streets of Scotland in a bid to force independence to the top of the agenda.
Carlyle loomed over her shoulder. ‘“Force independence to the top of the agenda?” It’s not the Guardian you’re writing for, Burns. Full point after “Scotland”. Then, “Their goal? To free the country from Westminster rule.” Keep it simple. You know how to do this, Burns. Don’t lose the plot on me tonight.’ He patted her on the shoulder and moved round to see what Danny was writing.
