‘So how do you come to know Oz?’ DI Mike butted in. He sounded incredulous; it was my turn to feel a bit narked.
‘We have a mutual friend,’ the wrestler replied, without a sign of a pause or hesitation. ‘He introduced us.’
‘Are you a fan of the Global Wrestling Alliance, Mike?’ I asked. I know; I’m a sod, but I just can’t resist winding that man up. I could tell that he was the sort of bloke who would be a fan, but embarrassed to admit it.
He seemed to flush, slightly, telling me in the process that my guess had been spot on. ‘I’ve seen it on occasion,’ he mumbled.
Everett reached into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Come see us in Newcastle on Saturday, then. Bring Susie and her father. These are for the VIP area.’ He produced three tickets and handed them to Dylan. I recognised them, since he had given me four as I left his office.
‘Are youse all enjoying yourselves, then?’ The Lord Provost’s easy, confident voice sounded from behind us, but his accent was noticeably different, now that there were more people around. It struck me that he must slip into Glesca’ patois when he was performing for a wider audience. I turned and there he was moving towards us, all gold chain and Mr Glasgow smile, with a slim, grey-haired man following in his wake.
‘Everett,’ he said, his voice dropping to its former level, and his accent returning to normal, ‘if you have a minute, the Prime Minister would like to speak to you.’
As he turned, the big man gave me a lightning fast wink. ‘Of course, Jack.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Where can we talk?’
‘Come on through to my office. No one will disturb us there.’ For a second, I thought he was going to try to throw an avuncular hand around Everett’s shoulders, but he couldn’t reach that high: instead he simply patted him, somewhere in the lower part of his back.
‘See you tomorrow night,’ the big man whispered to me, as he moved off with the Lord Provost and the Prime Minister. Automatically, without a sign from her husband, Diane went with them.
‘Your dad seems pretty pally with Everett,’ I said to Susie.
She nodded. ‘He performed the opening ceremony at the GWA headquarters building. And he appeared at the ring at their first show in the SECC. Ever since they came to Glasgow, he’s been telling people what a benefit they bring in selling the city abroad.
‘Yes, you could say that he’s a big Daze fan’
As Susie spoke a drinks waitress appeared at my shoulder, as if the Lord Provost’s departure had been her cue. She offered her tray to our group: our detective friend picked up two glasses at once, handing one to the Lady Provost, but my wife shook her head.
I took the hint. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Susie, it’s been nice to meet you. It’s even been good to see you again, Mike,’ I slipped in as an aside. ‘But we’d better be going.’
‘Yes,’ Jan added. ‘It was great of you to invite us along: I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But I have some work to catch up on this evening.’
‘My pleasure,’ Susie Gantry replied. She gave us a smile, which vanished as quickly as it had appeared, with the slight frown which creased her forehead. ‘Do you have time for any more work, Jan?’ she asked, suddenly.
My wife looked at her, surprised. ‘Just about,’ she answered. ‘It would depend how much was involved.’
The Lord Provost’s daughter reached into her red leather shoulder-bag, and produced a card. ‘Give me a call tomorrow, and we’ll fix up a meeting. You can tell me a bit more about yourself, and I’ll show you the Gantry Group.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jan. ‘I’ll take you up on that.’
I don’t really know what made me do it. I suppose it would have been churlish not to, yet I’ve never had a problem being a churl when it’s been necessary. I picked out my business card from the supply I always keep in my breast pocket and handed it to Dylan. ‘Give me a bell yourself, Mike, if you fancy a pint sometime.’
He looked at me as if a show of friendship was an unusual experience for him . . . and I guessed that it probably was. ‘I’ll do that,’ he answered, ‘once I’m settled through here.’
‘Where are you going to be living?’
‘We’re talking about that at the moment,’ said Susie, with a worldly grin.
We left them to their discussion and went outside, into the night. The drizzle had turned into steady rain, but there was a string of taxis across the street.
‘Have you really got work tonight?’ I asked my wife, half an hour later, as I laid the big square boxes holding our takeaway pizzas on the kitchen counter.
I knew the smile she threw at me. I’d known it since we were sixteen years old. She nodded towards our supper. ‘D’you want that now, or reheated in an hour or so?’
I’ve always liked the word ‘rhetorical’: I was taught the full extent of its meaning by Mrs Janet Blackstone, née More.
The master bedroom of our apartment is directly above the living space, with the same original windows, reaching down to the floor. All of our curtains were included in the sale price, but those in the bedroom had hardly ever been drawn. It looks out west and south over Glasgow, but its height makes it secluded, so Jan and I very quickly formed the habit of leaving the lights off and the windows uncovered.
We had forgotten all about the pizzas as we lay in bed an hour later, as happy and content as we had ever been in our lives, propped up on pillows, looking out at the traffic flowing across the Kingston Bridge, and at the headlight beams, distorted by the rain on the glass. ‘Dylan isn’t really as bad as all that, you know,’ she murmured, suddenly. Her brown hair had fallen over one eye, as she reached over and traced her index finger down my chest, pausing to flick blue lint from my belly-button. ‘He’s made Detective Inspector, after all.’
I picked up the blob which her probing finger had freed and looked at it. Did you ever wonder why belly-button fluff is always blue? I held it up. ‘He’s got about as much substance as that, my darling.’ I paused as an image formed in my mind. ‘Do you remember Slimey Carmichael?’
She laughed. ‘What, the Head Boy when we were in our fourth year at High School?’
‘That’s right. Since you do, you’ll remember as well that he owed his position to being the biggest brown-tongue in the school. He was a complete tosser at games and in class, but he smarmed up to all the senior teachers, and joined all the right school clubs and societies, so they bought his act.’
‘Don’t knock it, my love.You can get to be Prime Minister that way.’
‘Aye, maybe so. Anyway, Mike’s a bit like him. The first time I met him I thought he was a real high flyer, until I realised it was all hot air. His balloon’s been a bit deflated since then; some of Ricky Ross’s mud splashed on him. I suppose this Glasgow transfer’s a form of rehabilitation.
‘Still,’ I conceded. ‘As you say, when you get to know him he’s not so bad.’
‘Susie thinks so, obviously.’
‘True. She’s a lively wee thing, isn’t she.’
Jan nodded, as she slid down from her pile of pillows, fitting herself alongside me. ‘I wonder what her problem is?’ she mused.
‘Who says she’s got one?’ I slid down beside her.
‘She has, believe me. People don’t change their accountants otherwise.’
‘Forget her problem,’ I murmured, turning her towards me and nuzzling her firm breasts. ‘Let’s concentrate on our own.’
‘And what’s that?’ she asked, smokily, being rhetorical again. I answered her anyway.
‘When the hell are we going to eat those pizzas?’
Chapter 5
In a lot of ways, Newcastle is like Glasgow. There’s nothing quaint about it, but it has the same sort of grit - evolved, I suppose, through a century of building big ocean-going vessels. Like Glasgow too, the distinctive character and toughness of its people still shines through, for all its nineties face-lift.
Jan and I travelled down from Scotland by train on Friday afternoon, first class
of course, courtesy of Everett Davis. He and his star performers had gone down to Tyneside that morning, to do television promotions for the live event, while the road crew drove down in their trucks, to begin the setting up of the arena.
As the express cut silently through the fields of East Lothian, many of them ploughed already in readiness for their spring seeding, I asked Jan whether she had taken up Susie Gantry’s invitation.
‘I called her this morning, while you were out doing that interview,’ she replied. ‘We had a long chat.’
‘Why’s she looking for a new accountant then?’
‘Because she does have a problem. I was right. She thinks her book-keeper may be on the fiddle, and she wants someone independent to cast an eye over his work.’
That sounded a bit odd to me. ‘Wouldn’t the company’s auditors do that?’ I asked her.
‘Normally they would. But Susie buys her book-keeping and audit services from the same firm. They’ve just finished the audit for the last financial year, but they seem to have skated over some discrepancies that were worrying her.
‘As a result, she doesn’t trust any of them any more; she wants me to do some forensic work, either to confirm her suspicions or put her mind at rest.’
‘Has she spoken to her father about this?’
‘No. That’s a bit of a touchy point with her. When the Lord Provost gave her control of the firm three years ago, he saddled her with an in-house accountant. He was an old mate of Councillor Gantry, who’d been doing the job for years, but very badly, according to Susie. She tolerated him for as long as she could, but finally a few weeks back, she’d had enough. She fired him.
‘Her father wasn’t very pleased about his pal getting the sack, although he didn’t interfere. Against that background, though, the last thing Susie wants is for her appointees to be found wanting. She says her dad would never let her live it down. So, among other things, she wants help to find the right successor to his old mate.’
‘Are you going to do it?’
Jan nodded. ‘I’m having lunch with her in the Rotunda on Monday. We’ll sort out the brief then.’
She glanced out of the window, as the train swept past a huge, grey, monolithic, menacing building, which I guessed had to be Torness Power Station. ‘That’s next week, though,’ she said. ‘What’s the programme for this weekend?’
‘We check into the Holiday Inn, then I have to go to the Arena. Everett’s called a team meeting for five o’clock, to go through the running order for tomorrow’s show. The roadies will start to build the ring and dress the hall this evening, while the rest of us are having a buffet supper back at the hotel.’
She threw me a mock grimace. ‘You mean I have to eat with a bunch of sweaty wrestlers?’
‘They only sweat after their matches, my darling. Some of them even know how to use a knife and fork.You’ll enjoy it.’
‘If I must,’ she grinned. ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘That’s when you go to the Metro Centre. I have to be around the Arena most of the day, ostensibly rehearsing, but in practice nosing around and keeping my eyes open for potential saboteurs.
‘The show begins at six o’clock. I told Dad you’d meet him and the boys outside the main entrance at five thirty. Once the thing’s all over, and they’re heading back to Fife, we’re on our own . . .’ I hesitated ‘. . . Except that Everett’s invited us to have dinner with him and Diane.’
My wife grinned at me, and leaned across the table which divided our seats. ‘You know, Osbert,’ she whispered. ‘I think you’re as big a Daze fan as Mike Dylan. Just as well I sort of fancy him myself.’
Chapter 6
We checked into the Copthorne Hotel, near to the station, to find that Everett’s secretary had booked us into one of the best rooms in the place, overlooking the River Tyne and its iron bridge, a smaller version of the Sydney Harbour landmark, but one which, I’ll bet, has seen as much action in its time.
I hadn’t realised that the Global Wrestling Alliance had its own liveried bus, until I saw it parked outside the hotel as Jan and I arrived. It wasn’t any ordinary tourer; it looked almost as tall as a double-decker, as if its roof had been specially raised, and I guessed it probably had. When I stepped outside at quarter to five after leaving my wife in our suite, it had begun to fill with wrestlers . . . very large wrestlers, each of them wearing a GWA tee-shirt.
The huge Daze . . . he had the gold in his hair once again . . . leaned out of the door and waved me on board. Even with the high roof he stooped slightly as he looked along the aisle. ‘Okay guys,’ he boomed. ‘For those of you who ain’t met him yet, this is Oz Blackstone, our new ring announcer.’ He turned to me. ‘Oz, I won’t introduce you down the line. Most of these superstars have their names on their shirts, so you’ll be able to figure out who’s who.
‘Grab yourself a seat, and let’s get under way.’
I nodded. There was a spare seat halfway up the aisle, next to Darius Hencke; well, a spare half seat at any rate. The huge German grinned as I squeezed myself in beside him.
As we swung out of the hotel drive, I could see the Newcastle Arena, on the same side of the river, not far away; so close indeed that I wondered why we hadn’t just walked. In fact, I asked Darius that very question, but the driver answered for him, as he turned the bus in the opposite direction.
‘We have to let the people know we’re here,’ the Black Angel of Death explained, tossing his long hair back from his forehead as he spoke and throwing a stage glower at a child who was gawping at him from the pavement.
The driver took us on a grand tour of the centre of the city, across the bridge, up into Gateshead, then round and back over the Tyne by another crossing, until finally, almost twenty-five minutes later, he drew the bus to a halt outside the venue.
The Newcastle Arena is a modern, purpose built place, a big shed with the flexibility to allow it to stage both sports events and rock concerts. As we stepped inside, I could see that Everett’s roadies were a hard-working crew. The ring was in position already, although the canvas and surround were still to be fitted.
As the boss led his troops, me included, across the empty floor, I tried to imagine it twenty-four hours later, filled with seats and screaming spectators. For the first time, a wee bundle of nerves knotted in my stomach, as I thought of myself standing up there, calling out the matches.
The highest of the three ropes which enclosed the ring looked to be around five feet high. Everett jumped up on to the apron and stepped clean over, with ease. ‘Okay guys,’ he called out, ‘listen up.’ The wrestlers, two of them tall, strapping women, and half a dozen older guys whom I took to be the referees and in-house television commentators, gathered around the ring.
‘We got eight matches on the bill tomorrow,’ the giant boomed. ‘You’ve all seen the running order, and you’ve all been working on your routines. Once the guys get the padding and the canvas down, I want you to run through them for me, as usual . . . without breaking any props.’
He looked at me. ‘Meantime, Oz, you with me over there and we’ll rehearse your ring announcements.’
I nodded, understanding fully for the first time, what Everett Davis and the sports entertainment industry were all about. The man wasn’t a promoter after the manner of that American bloke with the big hair; he was an impresario, an actor director, and his presentations were an extreme form of dance theatre.
As the rest of the troupe split off into twos, or in one case, four, I followed him into a corner of the great hall, where a pile of speakers and other audio equipment stood ready for positioning. He picked up a cordless mike and handed it to me. ‘Get used to handling it like it’s not there,’ he said. ‘Hold it like I showed you the other day, chest height to give the cameras a clear shot of your face, about a foot and a half away from your mouth.’ I nodded, dumbly.
‘Okay. Now let’s hear you.’ I took the running order from the inside pocket of my sports jacket, and ran my eyes down it.
The first match featured someone called Salvatore Scarletto (His real name was Johnny King: I had met him on the bus) fighting Tommy Rockette. (His gimmick appeared to be that he came to the ring carrying a guitar.) I ran through my intro, awkwardly. When we had tried it out first in Glasgow, I hadn’t been holding a mike.
‘Relax, man,’ said Everett. ‘Start slow and build up to a crescendo. Roll out each of the names, real slow, so that everyone can hear ’em loud and clear.’ After half a dozen more attempts, he was satisfied. ‘That’s good. Just keep that tempo and you’ll be fine, Oz. Now run through the rest of the card for me.’
I did as he asked. I must have been okay right enough, because his nods grew more emphatic and his smile widened as I went on. By the time I’d finished, I noticed for the first time an absentee from the list. ‘Where’s Jerry?’ I asked.
‘He’s not appearing this week. We’re using that video insert you saw the other day. It’ll run for the audience on our big screen.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘The Behemoth? Okay? Man, he’s indestructible. The fact is he’s on a kids’ television show tomorrow morning, as a special guest star.’
‘Kids’ telly? Won’t he scare the life out of the poor wee darlings?’
Everett laughed. ‘The opposite. He’s great with kids; they love him.’ He turned and looked across at the ring.
‘The canvas is in place. I gotta go and rehearse the guys. You just stay here and keep practising.’
I did as I was told, facing into the corner and feeling only slightly daft as I ran through the card over and over again. I was just about ready to pack it in for the night when a hand fell on my shoulder, none too softly.
‘Well now, Ozzie my boyo,’ said Liam Matthews. ‘How are you doing? Better than that last bastard, I hope.’ I hadn’t taken to the Irishman at first sight, but there was something in his tone which made me like him even less. The fact is it made me downright dislike him.
‘I want you to remember something,’ he brogued at me. ‘All the other introductions, they can all go to ratshit for all I care. There’s one you’d better get right, though, and you can guess whose that is.’ He squeezed my shoulder for a second, hard enough for it to hurt.
Wearing Purple (Oz Blackstone Mystery) Page 6
