***
April was as excited as a schoolgirl as she boarded the train at Glasgow Queen Street for the three-and-a-quarter hours direct service to Inverness. As Connor had suggested, she had stocked up on supplies from Marks & Spencer on Argyle Street first. Although, admittedly, it was a lot more than Connor would have bought. Along with a prawn mayonnaise sandwich, orange juice and packet of crisps from the ‘meal deal’, she’d also bought a bucket of Chinese chicken wings, commenting to a complete stranger in the aisle, ‘Oh, I just can’t resist these – mmmm. Delicious.’ At the check-out, she picked up a packet of bon-bons, only to be told that the sweets were actually part of a three-for-two offer.
‘Oh, you are awful,’ she said to the check-out man, pushing him playfully on the shoulder. ‘I think you’re just trying to make me fat,’ she added while throwing a couple more bags of sweets into her basket.
April was to meet a freelance photographer, Kenny Black, in Inverness, which meant she had the journey to herself, to feast in peace. Shortly after trundling through the long tunnel out of Queen Street, the train made its way north of Glasgow and into the countryside, passing parallel to the Campsie and Kilsyth hills before turning north through Stirling towards Perth and the Highland main line. April was glued to the window as she munched her variety of supplies and took in the scenery; the train stopping at stations with an old-world charm, including Dunkeld & Birnam and Pitlochry, through Blair Atholl, which has the only private army in Britain, and over the 1,500ft Drumochter summit, where the lush Perthshire forests and rivers are replaced by bleak moorland.
It trundled on through Dalwhinnie, home of the famous whisky distillery, into Newtonmore and Kingussie before pulling into the toy-town station of Aviemore, where the Strathspey steam engines run side by side with the modern Scotrail locomotives. From there it was thirty miles or so to Carrbridge and on to the final destination of Inverness. By that point, April was fast asleep, her snores being heard the length and breadth of the entire carriage.
She was woken with a start by the train conductor after pulling in at Inverness. She hated the moment’s panic that came when she woke only to realise she didn’t know where she was. Her mouth felt dry, which could only mean it had been hanging open – ‘catching flies’, as Connor once observed, having stumbled upon her having a sneaky wee nap in their broom cupboard office. April apologised to the conductor, took an age to gather her belongings and headed outside to meet the photographer.
Lacey Lanning had agreed to meet at a four-star hotel on the outskirts of the city. April couldn’t help but be impressed by the hustle and bustle of Inverness, which only officially became a city in 2001. It was a hive of activity, from the shops in the city centre, to the flow of heavy goods vehicles to the business parks on the outskirts. Inverness had clearly become so much more than just a mecca for all the monster hunters using the city as a base to visit Loch Ness.
That myth fascinated April. Even in this day and age, when almost everyone has powerful cameras on their mobile phones, there was no solid proof whatsoever that the beast existed. Yet still they came in their droves. Some so-called Nessie watchers dedicated their lives to staring out at the loch surface, longing to catch a glimpse of the creature from the murky depths. Tourists travelled from across the globe, pumping millions of pounds into the local economy, captivated by the thought that a dinosaur had been trapped in modern times.
‘I know how you feel, Nessie,’ April chuckled to herself.
Kenny, the photographer, met April outside the station and drove her to the hotel. He was a nice chap and, like April, had been working in newspapers for decades.
‘So I take it you must have photographed Lacey Lanning before? What’s she like?’ asked April.
‘A real looker in her day,’ Kenny said in his lilting Highland accent, ‘and probably the most ambitious girl to come out of Inverness. She was going to the top and nothing was going to stop her. Rumours are she slept her way there, mind you.’
April was saddened that any career woman was always tarred with the same brush. Ambition equalled ruthlessness. Success meant she’d turned favours on her way to the top. April recalled being accused of such in her early days. If only she’d had the opportunity to have some fun, because by the time she got a foothold in the industry she was already a divorced single mother.
No, she would take Lacey Lanning as she found her, like she did with everyone she met. And anyway, she really wanted to know the truth: why such a high flier had returned home. Growing in stature as Inverness surely was, it wasn’t London, where she imagined a girl like Lacey would have thrived. April often wondered how she herself would have taken to London, given the chance. But the opportunity never arose. She imagined she would have liked it, unlike Connor who couldn’t wait to return home to Scotland after his time working with Bryce Horrigan.
The thought of the deceased sharpened her focus. Despite her own curiosity about Lacey’s life, April had travelled a long way and she needed her interview subject to spill the beans.
39 #CheshireCat
Tom O’Neill had been dispatched to Baltimore by his bosses at ABT News. He was needed as a man on the ground to liaise between the police department and the television executives. O’Neill knew it gave his bosses an excuse to get him out from under their feet as they ran down his contract. The police were also asking a lot of questions, the main one being why Bryce Horrigan was in Baltimore in the first place.
O’Neill had been briefed intensely by his bosses, who were desperate to be kept as far away from any potential scandal as possible. He could still hear the words from his CEO ringing in his ears: ‘I don’t care if Horrigan was snorting coke off the ass of a Puerto Rican hooker – as long as the network is kept clean.’
Kept clean. There was a laugh. The bosses had deliberately been turning a blind eye to Horrigan’s increasingly erratic behaviour in recent months. For starters, there had been his barely concealed cocaine addiction, where it had become routine for the television host to do a line shortly before going on air.
Then there was his casting couch approach to hiring interns and the nicknames he gave them, including ‘Guns’ for a young graduate with big breasts, ‘Brazil’ for another who waxed off all her pubic hair, and ‘Screamer’ for a girl who made a lot of noise when she got real excited. They all came and went, either because Bryce grew tired of them, or because they could no longer take his public humiliation.
But Bryce had barely even had his knuckles rapped by the senior execs, despite their assurances to the Human Resources director that they would. From then on, Bryce knew he was untouchable and revelled in it. Unchecked bad behaviour has a habit of breeding. And though Horrigan thought his boorish and bullying ways helped drive his team to greater heights, all it really did was make him increasingly unbearable. O’Neill found it hard to believe he had once hero-worshipped Horrigan – the charismatic newspaper editor who had brought O’Neill to New York had turned into a grotesque character. O’Neill always figured Horrigan would one day end up with a bullet in his head. Although he hadn’t figured on it happening so soon.
Now the police in Baltimore were asking awkward questions. They wanted to know if Horrigan had ever verbally, physically or sexually harassed any members of his ABT News team. How O’Neill would love to tell them he ticked all those boxes and more.
The police had also requested access to Horrigan’s computer in his New York office. The network’s bosses turned them down flat, citing the need to protect Bryce’s sources. In truth, they were worried what investigators would find. The cops knew they were playing for time as it allowed ABT News’s IT department to sift through their dead presenter’s hard drive, making sure they left his PC in-situ, lest they be accused of tampering with evidence. The network’s refusal to play ball forced the police’s hand – they now needed to apply for a court order to seize the computer, which would only serve to slow down the investig
ation.
In the meantime, O’Neill had been sent to Baltimore with Horrigan’s personnel file, albeit a heavily edited version. He doubted it would stand up to any serious scrutiny. The HR director was concerned she would be subpoenaed if the cops smelled a rat. O’Neill just hoped the police wouldn’t shoot the messenger.
Lieutenant Haye was friendly enough when he welcomed Tom O’Neill at the station, but his lack of sleep with the Horrigan case meant Haye had little time for small talk.
‘Did you bring the personnel file we asked for?’ Haye asked.
‘Right here,’ O’Neill said, smiling a little too broadly while waving a thick brown envelope. He berated himself for his nervousness – after all, he hadn’t personally deleted all the sexual harassment claims from Bryce’s records.
Haye ripped open the envelope and thumbed quickly through the pages, indicating towards a chair outside an office for O’Neill to take a seat. The lieutenant disappeared through the door marked ‘Captain Sorrell’. Over half an hour later, the door swung open again. Haye was even more brusque than before. ‘Come in,’ he ordered.
Sorrell was sitting behind his cluttered desk, with Horrigan’s personnel file sitting open in front of him. Without introduction, he said, ‘So Bryce Horrigan was a real Mother Teresa, huh?’
‘Well, he had his moments,’ O’Neill said as jovially as possible.
‘Not according to this,’ Sorrell snorted, throwing the personnel file across the table.
‘Ha, well, you can’t expect Human Resources to know everything that goes on,’ O’Neill heard himself say, but couldn’t fathom why.
Sorrell leaned on his desk, resting his chin on his meaty hands. He remained silent as his big, brown eyes bored into O’Neill. ‘Why don’t you cut the bull and tell me what working for Bryce Horrigan was really like?’
O’Neill had always thought of himself as a professional, hard-nosed journalist. But he was hugely disappointed by the effect the world-weary Baltimore police captain had on him. O’Neill had adopted the nervous Cheshire Cat grin favoured by former British Prime Minister Tony Blair. But it was beginning to ache after a few minutes. He had no idea how Blair managed to keep his going for nearly three terms in office.
Then Bryce’s deputy started to unload. It felt good to finally get things off his chest. ‘Well, first and foremost, Bryce was a brilliant journalist,’ O’Neill said, having learned that in any interview you must always start with a positive. ‘As a newspaper editor he had this incredible instinct to always find himself on the right side of the argument. That wasn’t being populist for the sake of it. Often his newspaper’s stance was highly controversial at first, but soon it would start finding support and when debates became a national talking point, they tended to side with Horrigan. I can say this with all honesty, that Bryce Horrigan was a genius.’
‘But a flawed genius,’ Sorrell said, by way of a statement rather than a question.
O’Neill’s shoulders sagged slightly. ‘Yeah, he was. I think the problem was, it all came too easy to him. He was so good that nothing was really a challenge. He was a national newspaper editor. His paper was putting on circulation while others were failing. He could hold court with the Prime Minister. He wined and dined with the music and film stars. He was charismatic and people listened to him. Heck, even the Queen thought he was highly entertaining and she spent her reign despising tabloid newspaper editors.’
‘So he was a smart ass?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Yes, I guess that would be an American take on it. But it wasn’t enough. That’s when he turned to television and annoyingly discovered he was just as good at that. It was weird because I always thought television turned him into a bit of a monster – a stereotypical, loudmouthed, opinionated, arrogant editor. But he loved it. He played up to the role. He appeared on current affairs shows back home, arguing the toss with politicians. Very few ever scored points against him. He enjoyed having a new platform from which to show off. But the strangest thing of all was how much he enjoyed the fame.’
‘How did it change him?’ Haye asked, leaning back against the office wall next to his boss.
‘Truthfully?’ O’Neill asked. ‘He became a bit of an asshole, as you’d say over here.’
‘Sounds like he was already an asshole,’ Haye snorted.
O’Neill leapt to his late boss’s defence. ‘No. He hadn’t been before. Seriously. I’ve thought about this a lot. I watched his life change almost overnight. He was seduced by television. Slowly but surely his newspaper began to suffer as he focused his attentions on his television career. After lots of guest slots he landed his own series, Bryce’s Britain, which involved him travelling around the UK speaking to ordinary people. It was a brilliant programme, full of the British eccentrics with a passionate love for everything that makes the country great. It showed Bryce in a new light. But then America came calling. It was the perfect parting point for Bryce and the newspaper. He was handed a contract even bigger than his newspaper one. But, surprisingly, money didn’t seem to be his main motivation.’
‘So you telling me he did it all for the fame?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Yes. Because fame equalled women.’ O’Neill let his statement hang in the air.
‘Go on,’ Sorrell demanded.
‘At first it was just the “groupies”, if you like. Ironically, the type of girls who slept with famous folk and would then do a kiss-and-tell story with Bryce’s old newspaper. But he quickly got bored with those. So his next targets were forbidden fruit – women he had no right to be with. He loved the thrill of the chase. The deceit turned him on more than the conquest.’
‘And you know this how?’ Haye enquired.
‘I was not only his deputy but his confidant also. And besides, Bryce liked to boast. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he’d brag to.’
‘Didn’t he have a fiancée?’ Sorrell asked, searching around his overflowing desk before he found his notepad. He flicked a few pages then added, ‘A Patricia Tolan?’
‘Yeah, poor Pasty. That was Patricia’s nickname because she was so white it looked like she’d seen a ghost. I guess she had a hard time with Bryce. She’d known him since university. He ordered her to leave his New York penthouse, I gather. She returned home to Scotland and who could blame her? I think that was the worst thing about Bryce: his admirers held him up on a pedestal, meaning it was so disappointing when he let you down.’
‘And did he let you down, Mr O’Neill?’ Sorrell said, his eyes unblinking, searching for any flicker of emotion.
‘Yes, he did as a matter of fact. He promised me I’d be his on-screen cover when he was on vacation. But then he said the bosses wanted a clip show instead. He kinda enjoyed telling me I was no longer going to get my chance in front of camera. He could be cruel that way. He could make career-changing decisions for you on a whim. Or life-changing in poor Pasty’s case.’
‘Did you feel betrayed?’ Haye asked.
‘Yes, but then no. Our relationship had started to become strained. Technically I was his deputy, but became no more than his PA. I was also getting fed up with the way he’d wear you down psychologically. He would always wind me up about how he wished his old pal Elvis had come to New York with him instead. His real name is Connor Presley, but he’s called Elvis for obvious reasons.’
‘Enough for you to wanna do something about it?’ Haye asked pointedly.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. It made me want to quit. But Bryce would have liked that. He was an alpha male. Only losers quit and I knew Bryce now looked at me as a loser. I became something of a whipping boy to him and I didn’t like it. But I only wanted another job in broadcasting, which I hoped filling in for him on air would have given me. He probably suspected as much and that’s why he stopped me. Classic Bryce. As I said, he enjoyed toying with people and their lives. But some things are just not meant to be played with.’
O’Neill was excused only after he had agreed to supply Haye with a list of disgruntled employees, interns and ex-lovers who might bear a grudge towards the deceased Horrigan.
It was a very long list.
40 #Scarred
Lacey Lanning looked down at heel as she arrived at the plush hotel. After their introductions, April indicated a table she’d reserved in a quiet corner.
‘I’d rather sit outside, if you don’t mind, as I’ll need a ciggie,’ Lacey said. That suited April just fine as she was gasping for a puff herself. After her hiatus, she was more desperate to smoke than ever before.
The two women ordered coffees and lit up as the snapper made himself scarce, scouting the well-manicured grounds for a suitable spot to shoot a portrait picture of Lacey. April liked to be left alone anyway, as conducting a three-way interview is nowhere near as intimate as a one-on-one.
Lacey used the old DJ trick of smiling as she spoke – the theory being that it made you sound bright and breezy and helped lighten the listeners’ mood. But she was betrayed by her eyes, which April thought were the saddest she’d ever seen. Something had happened to this girl, April just hoped she was willing to reveal exactly what. Part of her skill as an interviewer was to gently coax more out of a reluctant interviewee than they’d planned to give up. April discovered long ago that most celebrities’ favourite topic was themselves, and Lacey was soon talking enthusiastically about her early career. But it was when April finally asked about Bryce Horrigan that the conversation momentarily dried up. Lacey leaned forward to scoop up her packet of menthol cigarettes from the table, tapping one free from the top of the packet. She lit it, inhaled deeply and sat back in her chair, crossing her legs.
‘Bryce, Bryce, Bryce. Where do I begin?’ Lacey said coolly, adding, ‘Let’s just say meeting Bryce Horrigan nearly destroyed me.’
DM for Murder Page 10
