by Val McDermid
Allie rolled her eyes as Groom picked up once more. ‘We understand how these things go, Alison. Misunderstandings occur. Things get out of hand. Men do that. We push for more than you lassies are willing to give. We don’t take no for an answer. And the next thing you know, you grab the first thing that comes to hand, and wallop. Now things have really got out of hand.’
‘You guys are living on Fantasy Island,’ Allie said wearily. ‘Danny was not my boyfriend. We were colleagues and friends, that’s all. I wasn’t at his flat last night, and I sure as hell didn’t kill him.’
‘OK, you’re saying Danny wasn’t your boyfriend.’ Hardie’s tone had developed a steely edge. ‘Maybe that was the problem. He wanted to be your boyfriend but you weren’t coming across. And maybe a few drinks had been taken and he was taking advantage. He wouldn’t be the first, would he? I mean, you’d know all about that, being a reporter and all.’
‘None of this is true.’ A mix of anger and panic was building inside her. Nothing she said was having any effect on their lurid fantasies. Her head was pounding and images of Danny lifeless on the rug kept flashing across her vision.
‘Did he try to rape you, Alison?’ Groom said gently. ‘I know it’s a hard thing to say. But it’s not your fault.’
The dam finally burst. ‘Why will you not listen to me?’ Allie exploded. ‘How many times? Danny wasn’t interested in me. Danny was gay.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt a wave of shame. Her revelation might have got her off the hook, but what had she done to Danny?
48
The light on the answering machine was flashing when Allie finally got home. They’d kept her for another two hours after she’d blurted out her betrayal of Danny. She’d refused to answer another question but still they kept at her. ‘Was it you made the pass at him, then? And you couldn’t take the knock-back? Or were you just disgusted when you found out the truth?’ On and on, more variations than she would have believed possible. She’d sat with her arms folded across her chest, her jaw set in a stubborn line that her mother would have recognised. Mrs Burns would have told Hardie and Groom they were wasting their time. ‘Sooner expect Falkland Hill to grow legs and walk round to Largo Law for its tea than expect our Alison to change her mind once it’s made up,’ her mother had been wont to sigh since childhood.
Eventually they’d conceded defeat, though Allie realised it was probably a temporary relief. It had been dark by the time they’d told her she could go. She was too angry or too proud or too something she couldn’t name to ask if she could call a taxi. She regretted that within a hundred yards of the police station. Her feet were wet and drips were slithering down her hair between her coat collar and her neck. Rescue came in the shape of a bus looming out of the snowy dark. She didn’t care where it was going, it had to be better than tramping the streets of the South Side.
Head full of what had happened to Danny, Allie rode the bus across the river and into the city centre, abandoning it near the taxi rank at Central station. Ten minutes later, shoes and coat starting to steam in the fug of the taxi, she’d reached home. She gave the answering machine a hard stare and decided it could wait for her to warm up. She had a quick shower, put on a clean pair of flannelette pyjamas and the thick towelling dressing gown she’d stolen from a posh Highland hotel she’d been sent to on a job, and finally pressed play.
It was Carlyle. No surprises there, then. ‘Christ, but that’s shocking news, Burns. Hellish for you. I hope you’re OK. They tell me you’re at the cop shop, so call me as soon as you get back. I’m at home.’
She was going to have to tell him the secret she’d spilled to the police. It was nobody’s business and it shouldn’t change how anybody thought of Danny, but now the leaky sieve that was Strathclyde Police knew, it would only be a matter of time before it was common gossip in the Press Club. ‘You and your big mouth,’ she muttered. She couldn’t do this cold.
Allie poured herself a stiff whisky and took a gulp. She felt the heat of the spirit all the way down her gullet, and remembered she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And she’d lost that in Danny’s kitchen. Thinking better of the rest of her drink, Allie put the glass to one side and called Carlyle. When he answered, she didn’t know where to start. ‘It’s me,’ she said.
‘Dear Christ, Burns, this is a hell of a thing. I can’t take it in. Danny, dead? Murdered? You must be in a bad way, walking in on that.’
‘It was horrible, boss. And then the polis? Acting like I was a suspect?’
‘You’re kidding? They thought you had it in you to batter Danny to death? What kind of idiots are they?’
‘The kind that hate to admit they haven’t got a clue.’
‘We’ve got the bare bones from the police. And you’re right, they don’t seem to have anything to go on. No witnesses, no prints on the murder weapon. That doesn’t leave me with a lot of options for tomorrow’s front page.’ He let his words hang in the air between them.
Allie’s mouth had dried on her. ‘I can’t,’ she croaked.
‘I think you can, Allie.’ Carlyle spoke more gently than she’d believed possible. And he’d used her first name. ‘I think you’re one of the ones that has ink in their veins. And I believe there’s nobody Danny would rather write your story. And it is your story, Allie.’
Tears pricked at her eyes. ‘I betrayed him.’
‘What do you mean, “betrayed him”? There was nothing you could have done to save him.’
‘No, not that. The police . . . They kept on and on at me, accusing me of being there last night, suggesting Danny might have . . . might have tried to rape me. I held out for as long as I could, boss.’ Even to her, she sounded piteous.
‘Are you saying . . .‘ Carlyle’s voice tailed off, incredulous.
‘No, no,’ Allie exclaimed. ‘No, of course not. I told them even if I had been there, they couldn’t have been more wrong about Danny because he was gay. He confided in me because he thought he could trust me, and I let him down. And now those bastards . . . they act like he’s worth less because of it.’ She paused. ‘I’m only telling you because they’ll already be spreading it round their contacts.’
‘I never knew,’ Carlyle said softly. ‘He didn’t act gay.’
‘Whatever that means,’ Allie said, a savage note creeping in. ‘He was more friendly to me than anybody in the whole bloody newsroom. He was passionate about his work, he never sneered at the people who read the Clarion. He was kind and smart and that’s how he deserves to be remembered. Not because he fancied men.’
‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score. And that’s why I need you to write tomorrow’s splash. Because that’s what you’ll tell the world. Whatever comes afterwards? Hell mend them. You get your truth out there first.’
This was the robust Carlyle she was accustomed to and Allie gave her conditioned response. ‘OK, boss. But I don’t know what to say. How to pitch it.’
She heard the hiss of a flame and the crackle of burning tobacco. ‘An “I” piece. Write it from the heart, Burns. Straight from the heart. You were there. You know what you saw. You know what it felt like. Fourteen pars by eight o’clock. I’m going into the office to see this one to bed.’
A clatter in her ear as he replaced the handset. Time to honour her dead.
Allie set herself up in front of her portable, whisky to one side, ashtray to the other and stared at the blank sheet of paper. ‘Daniel Sullivan, Daily Clarion investigative reporter . . .’ Fuck them all, she was going to give him the title he deserved, even if it gave Wee Gordon Beattie a coronary.
. . . was found brutally murdered in his Glasgow flat yesterday.
I was the one who found him. Danny had invited me round for my Sunday dinner to celebrate the Tartan Terror front-page story that we collaborated on last week. He’d promised me roast chicken with all the trimmings.
But when I arrived
at his Pollokshields flat, there was no reply. I assumed he’d gone to the shop for some forgotten ingredient. It was freezing on the landing and I knew where he kept his spare key, so I let myself in.
The flat was quiet and I couldn’t smell anything cooking. That puzzled me. Danny wasn’t the sort of person to forget an arrangement, especially not a celebration.
I went through to the living room, and everything in my life changed. Danny lay sprawled on his black-and-white cowskin rug, a pool of dark congealed blood around his head.
I’d never seen a dead person before, but I knew right away that my friend was dead. I know now that there’s no mistaking that. It wasn’t the blood or the silence that told me. It was the complete absence of Danny.
Now Danny is part of the machine of justice that rumbles into action when one person ends another’s life with deliberate violence.
If the subs didn’t cut that on the grounds of variance from tabloidese, the night lawyer would, for prejudging whether this was murder or culpable homicide.
Danny grew up in Edinburgh and attended St Augustine’s High. He often spoke with great affection of his parents, Marie and Eddie, his brother Joseph and his close extended family.
He began his career in journalism as an editorial assistant on the Edinburgh Evening News but his ambition and talent soon won him a place as a junior reporter. A series of high-profile news stories brought him to the attention of the Daily Clarion where he was employed as a reporter for the past three years.
Danny was a popular member of the news team here. He had a nose for a good story and once he was on its trail, nothing would stand in his way. But he was also a great team player, happy to work collaboratively to ensure the difficult stories were told.
I learned so much from working alongside him. He was always kind, never arrogant, invariably generous, imaginative and inventive. Among the important stories he worked on recently were the Paragon Insurance tax fraud exposé and the Tartan Terror revelations that rocked the nation yesterday.
Strathclyde Police believe the crime occurred on Saturday evening. There is no sign of a break-in at the flat.
Detectives are working on several lines of inquiry . . .
As if, she thought bitterly.
. . . and we urge any readers who may have information relating to the murder of Danny Sullivan either to contact them or to call our newsdesk in confidence on 041 681 3333.
This was a savage attack on a brave journalist whose only crime was to seek out truth and report it fairly. But for me, it is far worse than that. For Danny Sullivan was my friend. And now he is dead.
Allie read through her copy. It was a long way from what she wanted to write, but that would take time to craft. Time she didn’t have. And Danny would have understood that.
She went through to the phone and dialled the copytaker’s number. ‘This is Alison Burns,’ she said. ‘I’ve got urgent copy for the personal attention of Angus Carlyle.’
A phlegmy chuckle. ‘My, we’re awfu’ grand tonight, Miss Burns,’ came the arch reply.
‘It’s about Danny.’
‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry. You and him were pals, right? He was an awfu’ nice lad, for a Catholic.’
Allie rolled her eyes. ‘Are you ready? Angus is waiting for this.’ And she was off, the machine-gun rattle of typewriter keys the counterpoint to her words. Still, after so long, she was surprised by the speed of the copytaker. Almost before she realised, the end was upon her.
‘For Danny Sullivan was my friend. Full point. And now he is dead. Full point. Ends.’
49
Carlyle had called Allie after her copy had dropped. ‘Not a bad job,’ he said. In the reluctant lexicon of Scottish praise, that amounted to laurels. ‘I’ve trimmed and tweaked it a wee bit, but you’ll get the splash again. This is becoming a habit.’
‘I could do without this one.’
‘We all could. Listen, I’m taking you off the rota again but we’re having a meeting in the morning at eleven to talk about where we go with the story next. I want you there.’
‘Sure. Has anybody spoken to the family?’
‘Maureen Jarvie from the Edinburgh office went round.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Rather her than me. A death knock’s hard enough at the best of times, but when you’re dealing with somebody you know . . . I gather it was pretty grim. But she’s got some good quotes for a sidebar to your piece.’
Allie could only imagine the grief drowning the Sullivans. The one thing worse than losing a beloved son must be to know that things were wrong between you at the end. And Joseph, the man responsible for the rift? It would be so much worse for him, knowing how that wedge had been driven between Danny and his parents. ‘And they can’t even plan the funeral till the police release the body,’ she said.
‘They’ll have a wake, at least. As will we, Burns. As will we.’
She’d barely put the phone down when it rang again. This time, it was her mother. ‘Alison, we were just watching the news, and we saw about a journalist getting murdered in Glasgow. Your dad says it was that Danny laddie that you’ve been working with, but that can’t be right?’
‘It was Danny, Mum.’ She didn’t want to admit to finding him; she knew where that would lead. But it would be in the paper in the morning and that would be worse. So she gave in and put up with an inquisition into every detail of the day. God, but she was weary of reliving the worst day of her life.
‘Was it one of those terrorists you were writing about?’ her mother demanded.
‘I don’t think so. They have very particular ways of punishing people and this doesn’t fit.’ Allie forced herself to sound casual in a bid to allay her mother’s anxieties. She had no idea whether the IRA had taken Danny’s life. It was true that the method of murder wasn’t their typical approach but with their Active Service Unit in the cells, who knew what options had been open to them?
The attempt hadn’t succeeded. ‘I’m worried for you, Alison. You did the same stories as him, what if they come after you next?’
‘Mum, it might not be anything to do with his work. Nobody has any idea why it happened.’
‘It said the police are following leads.’
Allie scoffed. ‘Trust me, Mum, the police haven’t got the first idea what’s behind this. But honestly, there’s no reason to think I’m at risk. Now, I’m away now to get my tea—’
‘You’ve not had your tea yet? It’s nearly half past eight. You need to be looking after yourself, Alison.’
Allie closed her eyes and tried to keep her sigh inaudible. ‘I’ll give you a ring later in the week, Mum. But don’t worry about me. I’m not in any danger. I’m just very sad, that’s all.’ As she put the phone down, Allie realised that was nothing less than the truth. Sadness wasn’t something she felt often but tonight, it was almost overwhelming.
She was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. A flash of panic pierced her momentarily. She was expecting no one. Was that what had happened to Danny? A ring on the bell, a familiar face, an open welcome, an invitation to murder? Allie tiptoed across the hall and opened the inside door with infinite care. She had a chain for the big outside double door and now she slid it into place with all the care of a safecracker turning the tumblers. Only then did she crack open the lock and peer into the narrow gap.
Allie gasped with the laughter of nervous release. ‘Jeez, Rona, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
Rona Dunsyre shrugged. ‘That’s no way to greet your pals.’
Allie fussed with the chain and let Rona in. ‘What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you. How do you know where I live?’ All in a flash flood.
Rona followed her inside and gave the hallway a critical appraisal. ‘Still a work in progress, then?’
‘It’s rented. I’m not wasting money on it. But I don’t understand why you’re here.’
&
nbsp; ‘Danny. I thought you could maybe do with company. A shoulder to cry on. Or maybe just a wee voddy for the body?’ Rona raised the carrier bag that she’d been clutching. It clinked with promise.
‘All of the above,’ Allie sighed. ‘Come through.’
She led the way into the living room. Rona shrugged out of her voluminous olive-green coat and let it slump to the floor beside the chair that had last been occupied by Danny. Her outfit was more subdued than Allie had grown accustomed to – jeans tucked into knee-length boots with a slouch in the leather, a loose grey mohair sweater with a flattering cowl neck, her only jewellery a pair of earrings shaped into gold ingots. The trademark splash of colour came from a multicoloured tie-dye scarf knotted round her shoulders. She considered the chair, then said. ‘If you need a hug, I suppose it makes more sense for us to coorie down on the couch.’ She eyed the tubular chrome construction. ‘Not that it’s exactly designed for snuggling.’
Allie felt her sadness shift a little. There was something about Rona that always made her smile. ‘I’ll get glasses.’
By the time she returned, Rona had pulled the coffee table closer and emptied her carrier bag. A bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label. Half a dozen cans of Coke. A large bag of dry-roasted peanuts, tipped into a clean ashtray. ‘I’m just making myself at home,’ Rona said, cracking the seal on the vodka bottle cap.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Allie sat down beside her and proffered two highball glasses with a single lump of ice in each. Rona poured generous measures and added enough Coke to produce the colour of weak tea.
They chinked glasses, and Rona said, ‘Here’s to Danny.’
‘To Danny. I loved working with him.’
‘What was it about him that made it special?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God, listen to me. Ever the bloody feature writer.’
Allie took a swig of her drink. ‘He didn’t patronise me or treat me like a secretary. He always listened to what I had to say, and he didn’t mind admitting when I had a better suggestion than him. And he didn’t try to pretend it had been his idea.’ She reached for her cigarettes and lit up. ‘But I let him down, Rona. I so let him down.’
