1979

by Val McDermid

  Can you?’

  Carlyle reflected for a long moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Which is not to say that Joseph Sullivan might not be able to come up with a plausible explanation. Like, he was afraid he’d get the blame, with him being his brother’s beneficiary. According to the will you’ve got tucked into that handbag of yours.’

  ‘He’s desperate to find that will,’ Allie said.

  ‘That’s not a crime. If he wants to start a new life in another country, he might have a sense of urgency in case the polis change their minds about charging him over the Paragon case. And maybe that’s what he was doing for half an hour – searching for the will?’ he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of sweet reason.

  ‘He’d have to be a cold-hearted bastard to be so unmoved by the sight of his brother lying dead on the floor. Even if they’d fell out.’

  ‘Agreed. Still, there are a fair few cold-hearted bastards out there. But the key problem you’ve got is a complete lack of evidence against Joseph. And then there’s the problem of Thomas Torrance inconveniently turning up on Danny’s doorstep. What was he doing there? And why would he kill Danny?’ He held his hands out, cupped, as if weighing two options. ‘On the other hand, if he found Danny dead, why would he not report it?’

  ‘We’ve got Danny’s shorthand note of a threat from Torrance.’

  Carlyle sighed. ‘We’ve got your interpretation of Danny’s note, which isn’t quite the same thing.’

  ‘Danny had the power to destroy Torrance’s career. Not just the revelation that he’s gay, but also that he was in a relationship with one of the Tartan Terrorists, the one who conveniently joined the missing list before the polis knocked on his door. That’s pretty compelling,’ Allie argued.

  ‘All we’ve actually got is hearsay. Danny’s not here to tell us what he saw, what he knew. Again, it comes down to your version of events.’ His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘And we both know there’s at least one person in this office who will pour a torrent of cold water on any attempt to discredit Torrance.’

  Allie groaned. ‘Wee Gordon Beattie. He’ll do anything to defend his source.’

  ‘Especially after I floated the notion of an investigations department separate from his crime corr fiefdom.’ Again, the wry smile. ‘You make convincing arguments, but even you can’t choose between the pair of them. Brother Joseph or Thomas Torrance. Who’s it to be?’

  Allie had one card left to play. ‘We could let the evidence decide. Wee Gordon told me they found a partial print on the candlestick. He said it doesn’t match Barry Curran’s prints. I was wondering whether the Edinburgh police would have taken Joseph’s fingerprints when they were investigating him over Paragon? If it’s not Joseph’s, we could maybe persuade the polis to check Torrance? Could we ask them?’

  At that, Carlyle laughed, deep and long. ‘No, Burns. Well, theoretically, yes. But they’d tell us to take a flying fuck at a bag of nails. But they would tell Detective Chief Inspector Davie Buchan.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘This time of the evening, he’ll be drinking with his team.’ He sighed from the bottom of his belly and got to his feet. ‘Come on, we need to go and buy drink for the polis.’

  The bar was little more than a hole in the wall in one of the back lanes near Blythswood Square. As far as Allie could tell, the clientele consisted solely of plain-clothes police officers and huddles of women who looked like they’d come in out of the cold between clients. ‘Nice,’ she muttered at Carlyle’s back as they made their way to the compact horseshoe bar. She was aware that every eye in the place had swivelled to take her in.

  ‘Makes a change,’ he said. He turned back to the barman. ‘I’ll take a large Grouse.’ He raised an eyebrow at Allie.

  ‘Vodka and Coke.’

  ‘Make that a large one too. And send one through to Davie Buchan. Tell him Mr Carlyle would like a word.’ He cocked his head towards the far corner. Allie hadn’t noticed, but a door was tucked in there. The barman poured a generous measure of Glenfiddich, lifted the hatch in his counter and disappeared through the door.

  When he returned he served their drinks, took Carlyle’s money and said, ‘You’ve to go through.’

  Allie heard a cackle of laughter at her back as they opened the door and entered a cosy parlour filled with cigar smoke and whisky fumes. Buchan occupied a leather club chair behind a small table topped with beaten copper. To one side, Detective Sergeant Hardie, glowering at her; to the other, a woman who bore no resemblance to any kind of police officer Allie had ever seen.

  Buchan nodded to Carlyle. ‘Long time no see, Angus.’

  ‘A word, if you please, Davie.’ A winning smile. ‘In private, if you don’t mind?’

  Buchan considered, then said, ‘Bugger off, you two. This is grown-ups’ business.’

  Hardie looked like he wanted to argue the toss, but the woman scuttled out as if she’d been prodded with a sharp stick, and the junior detective followed slowly.

  Buchan gestured for them to sit. ‘It’s Miss Burns, isn’t it? Have you come to confess?’ His voice was playful and his battered face creased into a smile.

  ‘We’ve come to present you with a gift-wrapped case, Davie. You must know by now that Barry Curran had nothing to do with my boy Danny’s murder. We know it’s not his print on the murder weapon. And I bet if push came to shove, he’d give up at least one of his other clients as an alibi. He’s only holding back because he knows he didn’t do it and he’s banking on you coming round to the same opinion.’

  Allie tried not to show how startled she was at Carlyle’s words. Did he know about Morrison? Or was he just making an educated guess?

  Buchan shook his head, beaming at Carlyle. ‘If you’re sniffing after a story, you should know better. We’ve got the boy in custody because we know if we put him in front of a jury, we’ll get a result.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather get a result with the guilty party?’

  ‘What makes you think you know better than me and my boys?’

  Carlyle turned to Allie. ‘Tell Detective Chief Inspector Buchan what you told me. Spare no details, he’s in no hurry as long as the bar’s open.’

  Buchan chuckled. ‘The bar’s always open for me here. All right, lassie. Let’s hear what you’ve concocted since you spoke to my lads on Sunday.’

  Like Carlyle, he listened in silence. But the cheerfulness gradually left his face, replaced by a stony gaze that fixed Allie in her seat. This was not a man it would be easy to lie to, she thought, glad she was bringing him truth.

  When she reached the end of her story, he sat staring at her. Then he lifted his glass and emptied it in one. ‘You’ve got some nerve, going after a Special Branch officer. You have the will?’ he demanded, holding out his hand.

  Carlyle nodded, and Allie handed it over. Buchan glanced through it and tucked it in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Evidence,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a formal statement from you. First thing in the morning at Stewart Street.’ He shook his head. ‘Your homeless guy should have told our officers on Sunday.’

  Allie held his stare. ‘They didn’t want to listen,’ she said. ‘Homeless, smelly, drink issues, beggar.’

  A tight smile that didn’t come near his eyes. ‘Not witness box material.’

  ‘No, but he led me to Stuart Paul, who is. And you’ve got the fingerprint evidence. That should settle it.’

  Buchan shrugged. ‘You know you can’t write this, right? A word of this appears in the Clarion and I’ll have the pair of you behind bars for interfering with the course of justice. The courts love to slap you lot down for contempt.’

  ‘We understand that,’ Carlyle said. ‘But once you do your job and the case is over, we’ll be telling our side of the story.’ He rose to his feet. ‘We’ve done you a favour here, Davie. Once you’ve checked out that print against the suspects your boys never even noticed, you’ll owe me
a large drink.’ He moved towards the door and Allie scrambled to follow him.

  Buchan stood up. ‘On your way out, Angus, tell that useless fucker Hardie to get his arse back in here, would you?’

  ‘He didn’t seem very happy,’ Allie said as they walked down to Bath Street in search of taxis.

  ‘Nobody likes to be told how to do their job. But he’ll pick up the ball and run with it. I’ve known Davie Buchan since he was on the beat and I was a junior reporter in Clydebank. He’s straight, and there are plenty of polis in this city who are anything but. As you may have noticed.’ Carlyle stepped off the pavement and let rip a piercing whistle. A cab swerved to the kerb and he waved her into it. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow after you’re done at Stewart Street. You need to get both versions of this story written while it’s all still fresh in your head. Then it’ll be ready to roll when one of those treacherous wee shites goes down.’

  The closing of the door cut off whatever Allie might have been going to say. ‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

  She was about to give her address when an alternative came to her. Rona Dunsyre wasn’t the only one who could winkle information out of the office drivers.

  Allie wasn’t sure what she’d expected Rona’s home to be like, but it wasn’t this. Tucked away in a mews behind a row of grand early Victorian villas on the busy artery of Great Western Road was a cluster of converted coach houses. Rona’s was furthest from the mews entrance and sat slightly apart from the rest. A frosted glass panel ran across the top of what had originally been the double doors of the carriage house, giving light without ceding privacy. Next was a single door with a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a horseshoe. Allie knocked and waited.

  A light snapped on behind the frosted glass, and seconds later, Rona opened the door. ‘Woo hoo!’ she hooted, her face revealing amazement then delight. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘I’m not interrupting?’

  Rona drew her in, an arm around her shoulder. ‘No, I was just contemplating half a dozen eggs and some smoked salmon and wondering whether I could be bothered. I’d much rather open a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps.’

  The room was a revelation. It occupied the whole ground floor but its most striking element was a bright mural that covered an entire wall. Chairs and sofas were all arranged to take it in, but Allie only had eyes for the painting. It was a complex composition of buildings and people, some of them familiar, others unknown to her. The juxtapositions were surreal, the colours eye-popping. ‘Good God,’ she gasped. ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Rona stood, hands on hips, gazing at it. ‘I am one of the luckiest people in Glasgow. Have you come across Alasdair Gray? He’s an astonishing artist, he lives near here. He’s also allegedly writing a novel, but who knows when that’ll happen or what his imagination will make of the world. He painted this for me.’

  ‘It’s . . . I don’t have the words.’

  ‘They say art should speak for itself. In Alasdair’s case, it shouts.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I know. And I get to live with it.’ Rona swung round to face her. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. Can you stick around for that bottle of wine and bag of crisps? Or is this a flying visit?’

  ‘I’d love a drink.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Take your coat off, make yourself at home.’

  Allie wondered whether she was imagining a seductive tone in Rona’s voice and suddenly felt both shy and embarrassed. ‘I have got news, though,’ she added hastily, dropping her coat on the nearest chair.

  ‘Come upstairs to the kitchen and tell me while I sort out the wine.’

  Allie followed her upstairs into a compact galley kitchen with a single window that looked out on someone else’s garden, barely visible in the dark. ‘This is great. Did you do the conversion?’

  ‘Thankfully, it had already been done.’ Rona pulled a bottle of wine from a countertop rack.

  ‘I’d never considered living somewhere like this. But I do think it’s lovely.’

  Rona grinned. ‘That’s what people say when they really think, “Where the hell would I put all my crap?” The answer to that is, my dad’s garage. And I’m with you, I think it’s lovely. I’ve never regretted buying it for a minute.’ She pulled the cork. ‘Grab a couple of bags of crisps from that cupboard behind your right shoulder and then you can tell me your news.’ She poured a couple of glasses and as soon as they’d clinked them, eyes meeting, they both took fortifying slugs of Bulgarian red.

  ‘We’ve got two of them in our sights and I don’t know yet which one it is,’ Allie began. Then for the third time, she told the story of her day. But because it was Rona, and because deep down she wanted to impress, she larded it with detail and cliff-edge moments. Her narrative provoked gratifying exclamations of surprise and delight, and that simply made her try harder. Even as she did so, some part of her acknowledged the story was dramatic enough without being buffed to a sheen. As she reached the climax, Rona refuelled their glasses; without noticing, they were motoring through the cabernet.

  Allie, lips stained red, took a deep breath. ‘But the most important thing, from your perspective, is this.’ Pause for effect. ‘Because Joseph and that snake Torrance both turned up after Barry Curran had already left, and because neither of them raised the alarm, it’s hard to see Curran as the killer. I’m sure that partial print will be shown to belong to Joseph Sullivan or Thomas Torrance. And that will lead them straight to the dock in the High Court. Go to jail, do not pass go.’ Final pause. ‘I didn’t have to mention William Morrison’s alibi evidence.’

  To Allie’s surprise, Rona’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘I can’t believe you did that. You understood. And you did that for a stranger.’

  Allie shook her head. ‘Not for William, Rona. Like you said, the man’s an arse. No, I did it for you.’

  Rona put down her glass and threw her arms around Allie. Taken by surprise, she managed to get her own glass on the countertop without dousing them both in wine. Hesitantly, she returned the hug. Her senses flipped into overdrive. All she could smell was Rona’s hair, the remains of the day’s perfume, the sweet breath of fresh wine. All she could see was intensified; brighter, sharper, richer in tone. She heard the blood rushing in her ears, felt the tickle of hair on her ear, the brush of dry lips on her cheek and the warm solidity of Rona’s body in her arms. Her anxiety and apprehension disappeared, replaced by anticipation. Allie fought momentarily against the sense it made inside her, then gave in.

  Time passed and she had no idea how much. Then she murmured, ‘It’s been a strange year. It’s like I started to find my feet and then the ground shifted.’ Rona gently stroked her back. ‘I found a friend in Danny, and then I lost him in the worst possible way. And now there’s you.’

  Rona drew back slightly and smiled. ‘There’s still a lot of year to come, Allie.’

  AFTERMATH

  2 March 1979

  YES BUT NO

  FOR DEVO

  By Our Political Correspondents

  Scots woke this morning to the news that although they voted for a Scottish parliament, not enough voters had taken part to force Westminster to pay attention. Because the bar was set at 40 per cent of the available electorate, Scotland will not have a direct say in its own affairs.

  The high threshold came about thanks to an amendment put forward by George Cunningham, a Scot who represents a London seat.

  ‘Those who did not vote were therefore effectively counted as a No vote,’ an SNP spokesman said last night. ‘If you applied those rules in a General Election, hardly a single MP would be elected.’

  Ignored

  ‘The wishes of 1,230,937 Scots have been completely disregarded. Jim Callaghan’s government should hang their heads in shame.’

  A senior Scottish Labour MP said, ‘I u
nderstand why people might feel aggrieved but it’s not as if an overwhelming majority voted for it.’ Fifty-one point six per cent of votes were cast for the devolved parliament, with 48.4 per cent against.

  But a leading Yes campaigner has complained that the electoral registers are so out of date and inaccurate that in many parts of the country, achieving a 40 per cent vote would be next to impossible. ‘The government tried to appease the Scots by making it look as if we could have a say in our own future. But they were determined to keep their hands on Scotland’s oil.

  ‘Scotland said yes last night, but Callaghan’s corrupt government will keep saying no.’

  5 March 1979

  Arrest in Tartan

  Terror Plot

  By Alison Burns

  A third Glasgow man has been arrested in connection with a horrifying plot to set off terrorist bombs in Scotland.

  Roderick Farquhar fled the city hours before police pounced on the extreme nationalist plotters who had already bought explosives from the IRA.

  But police were tipped off that Farquhar was still in touch with a contact in Glasgow. Detective Chief Inspector David Buchan revealed that his officers had put that contact under surveillance.

  ‘Our undercover officers followed him to Manchester, where they witnessed him meeting Farquhar. With the assistance of officers from Greater Manchester Police, Farquhar was taken into custody.’

  ‘We are not looking for anyone else in relation to this conspiracy,’ he added.

  The suspect’s two accomplices have already been charged with conspiracy to cause explosions and will appear at the High Court later this year.

  4 May 1979

  GOODBYE JIM

  HELLO MAGGIE

  By Our Political Correspondents

  Margaret Thatcher is celebrating becoming Britain’s first woman prime minister. In a decisive victory, her triumphant Tories trounced Jim Callaghan’s Labour government.