1979

by Val McDermid

  Torrance put the car in gear and drove off. ‘And you would have been if Malloch and Bell had kept their big mouths shut. One of the women at your meeting was a plant. Another Clarion hack. She thought the three of you were just a bunch of big mouths, but she was intrigued enough to follow you to the Spaghetti Factory. She overheard your plans.’ He tried to keep his anger in check but it spilled out. ‘For fuck’s sake, Roddy. How could you be so careless?’

  ‘It wasn’t me. Like you said, it was Deke and Ding-dong.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who it was, it screwed the whole game. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it turns out this fucking reporter is gay. Did you not recognise him? As soon as I saw him in the newspaper office, I knew where I’d seen him before. He’s a regular at Dominoes. Keeps to the shadows, doesn’t strut his stuff on the dance floor, but he’s one of us all right. So not only is he going to piss all over you in tomorrow’s paper, he’s got something on me as well.’ Torrance drove with a calm assurance at odds with his words.

  Roddy’s face was screwed up with the effort of processing so much information. ‘But if he tells on you, he’s exposing himself too. He’s not going to do that. The Clarion fucking hates gays.’

  ‘Maybe so. I’ll deal with that in my own time. But what matters right now is saving your sorry arse.’ He grinned. ‘No, I mean, your sweet arse.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, this isn’t the time,’ Roddy whined. ‘How can you save me now?’

  ‘Simple. You’re going to disappear.’

  Roddy recoiled. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ It came out as a shriek.

  Torrance glanced at him, grinning. ‘Christ, Roddy, what kind of films have you been watching? Of course I’m not going to kill you, I’m going to save you.’

  The traffic was growing heavier as they neared Roddy’s flat. He stared bleakly out of the window. ‘How? Are you going to tell them the truth? That when I told you my mates were spewing dangerous nonsense about independence, you told me not to report it? To let it play out? I wanted you to give them a friendly warning, to scare them off the idea. But you said no, wait and see, they could lead me to serious players.’ He scoffed. ‘It was all about you and your career, not about protecting me.’

  ‘Things got out of hand when that bastard Clarion reporter upped the stakes, throwing money around like confetti. Neither of us could have factored that in. But I promise, I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘Just not the truth.’ Roddy’s voice was flat.

  Torrance shook his head. ‘It’s too complicated. Everybody from the police to other journalists will start investigating you and that will lead to me and then we’re both screwed. Roddy, we’re going back to your flat right now and you’re going to pack a bag. You’re going to walk away from your life tonight and start again.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How can I “start again”? I don’t want to walk away from my life. You’re my life, Thomas. You said you loved me.’

  Torrance’s throat tightened. ‘I do. And we can be together, in a while. Properly. In England. Where it’s not against the law.’

  Roddy’s eyes were full with tears. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Torrance turned into Roddy’s street and pulled up a few doors down from his flat. ‘I’ll explain inside. Come on.’

  ‘You’re making me scared.’ His face was piteous.

  Torrance wanted to hold him tight and never let him go, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Maybe one day, but not now. ‘Please, Roddy.’

  Inside the neat little flat, Torrance went straight to the bedroom and took down the suitcase that sat on top of the wardrobe. ‘You’ve got to pack, Roddy. You’ve got to do this. If not for yourself, then for me.’ His voice cracked. He sat down on the bed. ‘Here’s how it’s going to be. You’re getting on a train tonight. To Manchester. I’ve booked you in to a B&B near the station for two weeks under my name. I’ll sort you out a new ID with a new name—’

  ‘What do you mean? A new ID? How is that even possible?’

  Torrance sighed. ‘It’s a thing we do to set up undercover operations. We find a kid that died young and basically steal their identity. You’ll get a National Insurance number and a birth certificate. You can resit your driving test and get a licence. You can get a passport.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to live? This is crazy, Thomas.’

  ‘I’ll sort you out some fake references. You can get a job at a private school, they’re a lot less fussy, believe me. We’ve done this before. We’ll get you somewhere nice to live. And I’ll come and see you as often as I can. I’ll get a transfer to Manchester. They’ve got a big Irish community, they need all the Branch officers they can get.’ His words were tumbling out now. He pulled Roddy into his arms and breathed in his familiar smell. ‘It’ll be tough at first, but I’m doing this to save you. I’m doing this for us. Please, Roddy. Pack your bag.’

  ‘Why Manchester? Why not London? It’s bigger. If I’ve got to go, why not London?’ His words were muffled by Torrance’s embrace, but they were clear enough.

  ‘Because every halfwit who goes on the run goes to London, and we’re not halfwits. The police will assume that’s where you’ve gone and they’ll alert the Met to be on the lookout for you. Manchester won’t even occur to them. And because Manchester has a gay community. People don’t have to hide themselves down there.’

  ‘What about my family? My mum and dad? My sisters?’ He pushed himself free of his lover’s embrace.

  Torrance gave a dry laugh. ‘It’ll be just as if you came out to them. You’ll be dead to them. You can’t contact them, Roddy. I’m sorry, but it’s got to be a clean break.’

  Roddy burst into tears. ‘I can’t do this. I’ll take what’s coming to me. I won’t betray you, Thomas.’

  Torrance grabbed him again and held him tight. ‘I know that,’ he said softly. ‘But your life would go under a microscope. We’d both sink.’

  ‘If I just disappear, will that not happen anyway? They’ll turn over every stone in my life.’

  Torrance stroked his back. ‘The difference is that I can control it. If you’re still a suspect in this case, I can argue it’s a matter for the Branch, and I’m already working on it. You say you want us to be together – I can make that happen. I can protect us both if you go. I can’t help either of us if you stay, Roddy.’ He willed his lover to capitulate. Once he’d got Roddy to safety, that only left Danny Sullivan as a threat to his future. Fortunately, Torrance had both the means and the training to neutralise that threat.

  Later that evening, as Allie was making her first call to the SNP’s press officer, a train heading south pulled out of Central station. In the buffet car, Roddy Farquhar sat nursing a can of Tennent’s lager, his face a mask of misery. In his pocket, he had two hundred pounds and the address of a bed and breakfast hotel. In his head, he had no idea of what his future might hold. A couple of weeks ago, he’d been an insignificant maths teacher with a passionate belief that his country deserved to control its own destiny. Now he was truly a nobody. A nobody whose best friends would be under arrest by morning.

  How had it come to this? In his head, the terrible mockery of 10cc’s ‘The Things We Do For Love’ refused to be silenced. He looked at his face reflected in the rain-streaked window and wished he’d never met Thomas Torrance.

  45

  Allie stood in the gallery overlooking the three-storey-high press hall, waiting for the vast machinery to rumble into action. She still got a kick from watching the process, the stream of paper rolling out from the five-mile-long reels, print a blur as it raced past on its way to be sliced into pages, folded into newspapers and bound into stacks, ready for distribution. Even before the ancient machines that had been printing the Clarion for nearly fifty years started up, the air was redolent with the promise of newspapers. Allie loved the familiar combined smell of molten lead and ink. She was fascinated by the ease with
which the printers fitted the stereo plates to the rollers, handling fifty-two pounds of lead as if it was nothing more than a carry-out curry. Of course she knew that the printers’ union was a tight closed shop, controlling their empire with ruthless corruption, holding the management to ransom in ways that the journalists could only envy. But that didn’t stop her feeling the romance of the print.

  There was a hum and a groan, then the gradual movement of the row of presses as they got up to speed. The floor beneath her feet thrummed with the energy being expended below. Knowing her story was leading the paper tonight was the best feeling in the world for any journalist; it forced into submission any doubts about how they’d nailed it.

  Allie sensed another presence and turned to see Danny slipping in. ‘Look at that,’ he marvelled. ‘Never fails to stir the blood.’

  ‘Has Angus passed on the names and addresses to the polis?’

  ‘Should be all done and dusted now. The head printer was to phone upstairs as soon as he pressed the button.’

  They watched in silence for a few minutes. Danny cleared his throat. ‘I’ve to talk to the police in the morning. They want to interview me about what happened.’

  ‘Just you?’ Allie couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘Apparently. Because I was the one actually in the conversations. Angus says if they decide to press charges, they’ll likely want to talk to you too, for corroboration of what you overheard in the restaurant. But for now, it’s just me.’

  A small laugh, without mirth. ‘Sent to the sidelines, as usual.’

  ‘Everybody knows it’s your story, Allie. First name on the byline. In your shoes, I’d be grateful not to be spending tomorrow morning cooped up with a pair of polis in an interview room.’

  Truly, she didn’t mind missing out on that. What she minded was being ignored. ‘At least you should get some news about who’s been arrested.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.’

  She lit a cigarette and stared down at the presses, telling herself not to be so bloody sensitive. ‘We should celebrate,’ she said brightly.

  ‘The guys are meeting up in the Press Club. I said we’d hook up with them there.’

  ‘Sure. But I meant you and me. We’ll be too knackered tomorrow, but what about Sunday?’

  Danny brightened visibly. ‘I’d like that. We can plan our next campaign. Tell you what, come over to my place. I’ll cook. I do a mean roast chicken dinner. Roast tatties, carrots and peas and gravy, the works. A few glasses of red biddy, we’ll be all set.’

  ‘It’s a deal. I don’t know about the next campaign, but I’m definitely up for Sunday dinner.’

  ‘It’s a date. I’ll get my pinnie on and have dinner on the table at one. But for now, let’s go down the back door and grab a handful of first editions and take ourselves off to the Press Club to show off.’

  Allie grinned. ‘Some kind of heroes, eh?’

  He laughed and did a camp flop of the wrist. ‘Aye, but who will be queen?’

  ‘I’ll fight you for it.’ She pretended to square up to him and he backed off, hands over his face.

  ‘Don’t mark my face, bitch,’ he giggled.

  Arm in arm, they left the building, drunk without a drop of alcohol. This was the life, Allie thought. She was definitely on her way up.

  Not so Gary Bell. He’d endured almost half an hour of Christian on STV but he’d finally cracked. ‘I can sing better than this guy,’ he’d complained, getting to his feet. ‘Plus he dances like he’s got itching powder down his pants.’

  ‘He’s got lovely eyes,’ his mother said.

  His father muttered something inaudible. Bell suspected it had something to do with the colour of the singer’s skin. It usually was when anyone on the screen was darker than milk-bottle white.

  ‘I’m away up the stairs,’ Bell said. ‘One of the lads at work lent me this book, The Day of the Jackal. Some guy trying to assassinate De Gaulle.’

  ‘Shame he didn’t manage it,’ his father grumbled.

  Bell shut himself in his bedroom and pressed ‘play’ on his cassette player. Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town sprang into life with the driving beat of ‘Badlands’. Bell kicked off his shoes, stretched out on his bed and eased the locker key out of his trouser pocket. He had to keep checking it. He still couldn’t believe what they’d done. From a mad idea, they were within touching distance of making something massive happen. Something that might change the course of history.

  He chuckled to himself and put the key away. He picked up the book but compared to what was happening in his own life, it felt tame. He wished he’d arranged to meet up with the lads that night. He couldn’t wait to see them again. He lay back and closed his eyes, listening to the Boss, and drifted off.

  When he woke abruptly, he couldn’t make sense of what had woken him. Someone banging on the door, which made no sense because they had a totally obvious doorbell. Shouting from downstairs, his mother’s voice raised. Was that the front door crashing against the wall?

  Bell was on his feet now, adrenaline pumping. The sound of heavy boots on the thin stair carpet, voices bellowing, ‘Police.’ Now he knew what a shock wave felt like. Dizzy, on the verge of tears. He looked at the window but didn’t even have time to consider escape before the door burst open and two officers crashed in, wearing bulky gear that made them look like extras in a science fiction film.

  ‘Gary Bell?’ one shouted.

  He nodded. ‘Uh huh.’ His voice a squeak.

  The second policeman moved forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him round, throwing him on the bed and yanking his arms behind him. Bell squealed, then cried out as he felt the cold metal handcuffs bite into his wrists. The officer bent close to his ear and hissed, ‘You’re under arrest, you evil little fucker.’

  ‘Gary Bell, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to cause explosions—’

  The rest was lost to him. There was a strange ringing in his ears. He was hauled to his feet, his shoulders screaming in pain. They huckled him downstairs so fast he kept stumbling and falling forward, provoking the officer in front to turn and push him violently in the chest. Now he could hear his mother wailing, see his father gripping the door frame as if his life depended on it. He was aghast, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide.

  Then he was in the street, still in his stocking soles, his feet already wet and freezing. How could he even think about his feet now? Police vehicles clustered in the street, blue lights flashing. Neighbours at their doors. Nosy fucking bastards.

  They opened the back doors of a police van and threw him inside. Cold metal floor. Then they slammed the door. To Gary Bell, it sounded like the end of the world.

  Gone eleven, and the Press Club was as lively as it ever got. Everybody knew by now that the Clarion had something to celebrate. A couple of reporters from rival titles had been summoned away from their pints by newsdesks desperate to play catch-up. Allie was on her third vodka and Coke, trying to make them last. It was never a good idea to lose too many inhibitions in a bar full of hacks.

  When Angus Carlyle barrelled in, a cheer went up, and not just from his own crew. Journalists always showed grudging respect where it was due. He pushed through the crowd, accepting a large whisky on the way, and came to a halt between Danny and Allie, who shifted to make room for his bulk.

  ‘They’ve lifted Bell and Malloch, but no sign of Farquhar. My sources tell me it looks like the bird has flown. Is there any way he could have suspected it was a set-up, Danny?’

  Danny shook his head, eyes on his pint. Allie couldn’t help wondering what had really gone down between Thomas Torrance and Danny. But he was her partner in crime and she had to defend him till circumstances told her otherwise. ‘Him doing a runner? It doesn’t necessarily mean he knew he was going to be shopped to the polis. I
think he got cold feet,’ she said. ‘He was always kinda lukewarm. And once they had the explosives, he couldn’t really turn round and say, “You’re on your own, boys.”’ She shrugged. ‘After all, he had most to lose, really.’ Danny’s head lifted and she saw him struggle momentarily. ‘I mean, he’s a professional. A degree, a good job, more in the way of career prospects than the other two. My impression was that he was the sensible one. The other two? They’re hot-heads. Farquhar, not so much.’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘Makes sense. They got luckier at Dykeswood, though. There was a black taxi parked outside when the polis showed up. They kicked the door in and found your man O’Loughlin in the middle of a game of cards with three other Micks. Sounds like the team that lifted you and Bell, Danny. The polis rolled them up like a hall carpet and they’re presently being detained under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.’

  Overhearing this, Big Kenny Stone butted in. ‘And have they fell down the stairs yet?’

  Carlyle guffawed. ‘That’s not something I’m going to lose sleep over.’ He clapped Danny on the shoulder. ‘These guys are not going to see the light of day for a very long time once Danny Boy here has stepped into the witness box.’ He put down his empty glass and dusted off his hands. ‘Job done, boys and girls. Job done.’

  46

  Saturday drifted past in a pleasantly lazy way. Allie slept late enough to avoid a hangover. A couple of letters had arrived from friends; Marcus from the training scheme, now working as a features subeditor in Birmingham, and Jen, her final year tutorial partner from Cambridge, now close to finishing a masters at Bryn Mawr. She read them over her first cup of coffee then luxuriated in a long slow bath, cracking open the new John Le Carré. The Honourable Schoolboy was the sequel to Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, which had fascinated Allie with its glimpses of the secret world of covert intelligence. She’d been looking forward to the paperback for months.

  The phone had dragged her resentfully out of the bath a little after two. ‘It’s me, Danny,’ he said. ‘The cops just finished with me. For now, apparently. They’re not very happy with us doing their job for them.’