Black Mail (2012)

by Daly, Bill

  Simon threw the phone into his briefcase and rammed his cigarette into the ashtray. He started coughing uncontrollably. His whole body was shaking. All the colour had drained from his face and his forehead felt as if it was burning. Firing the ignition, he hammered the gear lever into reverse to pull out of the parking bay, then slalomed up the ramps to street level, tyres squealing. He sped across the city centre as far as Charing Cross but when he reached the bottom of Lynedoch Street he had to slow to a crawl to negotiate the treacherous conditions as he climbed towards Park Terrace. Pulling up outside his house he grabbed his briefcase and took the stone steps two at a time.

  Jude was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flicking through The Herald, when she heard the front door being thrown open. She hurried out to the hall. ‘What on earth are you doing home at this time?’

  ‘I forgot to print off a report I need for a meeting this afternoon,’ Simon said as he head towards the staircase.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘A bit hungover, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

  ‘No. Can’t stop.’ Dropping his briefcase onto the chair in the hall he loped up the stairs. He closed his study door, turned the key in the lock and switched on his computer. Paging quickly through his files until he found the photo he was looking for he hit the print key. He studied the image carefully, then folded the sheet of paper twice and slipped it into the zip-up section at the back of his wallet before reaching for the phone and tapping in a number.

  It was answered on the second ring. ‘Hello, Laura Harrison speaking.’

  ‘Laura, it’s me.’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his hand covering the mouthpiece.

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Oh, it’s you, Alison. For a minute there I didn’t recognise your voice. Shame you couldn’t make it to Jude’s last night. You missed a good evening.’

  ‘Shit! Is Mike there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I have to see you!’

  ‘When do they reckon the snow will clear?’

  ‘I have to see you straight away. It’s an emergency. Meet me in Rogano’s in half an hour.’ He hung up without waiting for her response.

  ‘I’m glad you’re able to get out and about now.’ Laura spoke to the dialling tone. ‘Give me a call the next time you’re in town and we’ll meet up for lunch. Give Norman my love. Bye.’ She replaced the receiver slowly.

  Simon unlocked the study door and crept down the staircase, taking care to avoid the squeaky step. Opening the front door as quietly as he could he stepped outside and tugged the door shut behind him. When Jude heard the tell-tale click of the Yale lock she went out to the hall. ‘In one of our more sociable moods, I see,’ she muttered in the general direction of the front door. As she turned back towards the kitchen her eye caught the briefcase lying on the chair. Snatching it up she wrenched the front door open, just in time to see Simon accelerating away from the kerb. She stood on tiptoe and waved the briefcase in the air and she kept on waving until the Jaguar had turned the corner into Park Gate. With a shake of the head she went back to the kitchen and dropped the case on the table. She picked up the phone and dialled Simon’s mobile number, spinning around with a start when she heard the ring tone coming from inside the briefcase.

  ‘Brilliant!’ She cut the connection and dialled his office number.

  ‘I’d like to leave a message for Simon Ramsay, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, he won’t be in the office today.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘He’s taken a few days off. Can anyone else help?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Do you still want to leave a message?’

  ‘No message,’ Jude said, replacing the receiver.

  Laura Harrison slid onto the bench seat in the booth opposite Simon. Rogano’s was still quiet, the staff preparing for the imminent lunchtime rush.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked, nodding towards the half-full whisky tumbler clenched in his fist.

  ‘I don’t want anything to drink,’ she fumed. ‘What I want is a bloody explanation! And it had better be good. I’ve told you a hundred times never to call me at home.’

  Simon reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, his eyes darting round the room to make sure no one was observing them. Opening the zipped compartment he produced the sheet of paper which he unfolded and slid across the table.

  Every vestige of colour seeped from Laura’s bruised face. The photograph had been taken looking down on the bed from above and most of her body was hidden by the naked torso lying on top of her. Her legs, bent at the knees, were splayed on either side of his buttocks and her arms were wrapped around his back, fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades. Her head was lolling on the pillow, her eyes shut, her tongue protruding slightly from parted lips. Simon’s face was buried in her neck, his hair falling forward and revealing the bald patch on the crown of his head.

  ‘Where in the name of God did this come from?’ she croaked.

  ‘A blackmailer,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ Laura grabbed the whisky tumbler from Simon’s hand and poured the contents straight down her throat. ‘How the hell did he manage to get hold of this?’ she spluttered.

  ‘God only knows!’ He spoke in a strangulated whisper. ‘It must’ve been taken in the Hilton. Where else?’

  ‘What can I get you?’ The smiling waitress had appeared from nowhere.

  Laura quickly placed her handbag on top of the photograph. ‘Gin and tonic, please. Make it a large one.’

  ‘Ice and lemon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else for you, sir?’

  ‘Same again. Glenmorangie. Large,’ he said, sliding his empty tumbler across the polished surface.

  Laura waited until the waitress had moved out of earshot. ‘How did the blackmailer contact you?’

  ‘He sent me that photograph yesterday, attached to an email, then he phoned me this morning.’

  ‘So that’s why you were uptight last night?’ Simon nodded. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Not the easiest thing to slip it into the dinner conversation. Laura, he says …’ Simon was stammering over his words. ‘He says this is only a sample. He claims to have a two-hour video.’

  Sliding the sheet of paper from underneath her handbag Laura crumpled it in both hands while staring unseeingly across the room.

  ‘I’ve had a good look at it,’ Simon said. ‘From the angle of the shot I reckon there must’ve been a camera concealed on top of the wardrobe in the hotel room. Someone must have found out about us – where we go and when – and set us up. He must have found some way to install a video camera pointed at the bed and leave it running.’

  ‘What does he want?’ Apart from the angry bruising around her eye Laura’s features were chalk white.

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Or else?’

  ‘He’s threatening to sell the story to the tabloids.’

  Feeling her stomach starting to heave she dropped the crumpled sheet of paper onto the table and clasped both hands across her mouth to prevent herself from retching as she rocked back and forward on the bench seat. It was a full minute before she tentatively withdrew her hands. ‘We’ll have to –’ She broke off as the waitress arrived with their drinks and placed them on the table in front of them.

  ‘Would you like to see the lunch menu?’

  ‘No!’ Simon snapped, waving her away.

  ‘We’ll have to pay him off,’ Laura whispered. ‘I don’t see that we have any other option.’ Her fingers drifted towards her bruised face. ‘You realise that if Mike ever sees that photograph we are both as good as dead?’ She spoke in a dispassionate tone. ‘You heard his cock and bull story last night about the yobs on the motorbike?’

  ‘Wha
t are you talking about?’

  She continued to finger her bruised eye. ‘Mike did this.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘We were at a friend’s housewarming party on Monday night and he got it into his head that I was flirting with someone. I’d been chatting to a bloke for about ten minutes – having a bit of a giggle – nothing more. Mike was pissed out of his brains and when we got back to the car he started ranting and raving about me trying to get off with the guy. When I told him he was talking rubbish he punched me in the face.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘He made me go along with the handbag snatch story to avoid embarrassing questions.’

  ‘Is this the first time he’s hit you?’

  Laura paused while she poured tonic into her gin. ‘To borrow a well-worn cliché – the first time where it shows.’

  Simon cupped his whisky glass in both hands. ‘Why don’t you walk out on him?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Simon! Spare me the B-movie routine. I stay with Mike for exactly the same reason you hang in there with Jude. I need someone to pay the bills. But I’m not exaggerating. If he ever gets wind of this …’ She broke off and tapped the crumpled paper lying on the table. ‘If he ever sees that photograph – he’ll have no compunction about killing both of us.’

  Simon took a deep breath. ‘If I’m going to pay the blackmailer off I’ll need your help. I can’t lay my hands on that kind of money. Jude controls everything. You know that.’

  ‘We’re not exactly what you would call flush right now. You heard Mike wittering on about his cash-flow problems last night?’ Simon nodded. ‘That’s not the half of it. The Inland Revenue are conducting an investigation into his affairs and he’s about to get landed with a huge bill for back taxes, to say nothing of a hefty fine. A prison sentence isn’t out of the question.’

  ‘What in the name of God are we going to do?’ Simon downed a stiff swig of whisky.

  Tears started forming at the corners of Laura’s eyes as she gazed at her drink, her focus locked on the melting ice cubes clinking gently against the sides of the glass. ‘Do you not have any idea who’s behind this?’

  ‘Not a fucking clue! He said his name was Liam Black.’

  Laura forced a mirthless smile. ‘Not the most subtle anagram of all time. You didn’t recognise his voice?’

  ‘He was using some sort of gadget to distort his speech – made him sound like a Dalek.’

  ‘Which increases the probability that it’s someone you know.’

  ‘He certainly knows enough about me. He knows my email address and my mobile number – God only knows how he got hold of that. He knows where I live, what kind of car I drive and even where I go on holiday.’

  Laura’s fingers strayed back to her swollen cheek. ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Forty-six. He wants the money on Saturday morning.’ Simon paused. ‘Laura, this isn’t the answer. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that we did manage to scrape the money together. What guarantee would we have that that would be the end of it? Even if he gave us the video, how could we be sure he hadn’t made a copy? We know for a fact that he’s downloaded one image onto a computer. For all we know he might’ve downloaded the whole video. Paying him off isn’t the solution.’ Simon swilled down the rest of his whisky. ‘This bastard has to be stopped – once and for all.’

  ‘Stopped? Once and for all?’ Laura stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’ she gasped. Simon nodded quickly. ‘The very idea is preposterous, Simon. It’s totally insane!’

  ‘We have to stop him publishing that photo, Laura.’

  ‘My God!’ Laura gulped at her drink. ‘This is B-movies gone mad. We can’t get involved in anything like that.’

  ‘You said yourself Mike would kill us both if he saw that photo – and I believe you. There’s only one way we can make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Stop talking like that! It’s utter madness!’

  ‘Do you have any other solution?’

  ‘Can’t you stall him? Tell him you’ll give him what he’s asking for but it’ll take you some time to raise the money?’

  ‘He wasn’t negotiating. It was pay up on Saturday or the Sunday papers will have the story. Even if I did manage to buy a few more days – and even if we did manage to scrape the money together – what good would that do us? He’ll never be satisfied.

  As long as he has that video in his possession he has us over a barrel. We have to find a way to deal with him, otherwise Mike is going to see that photo in the Sunday papers.’

  Laura clasped both hands to her mouth. There was a long pause before she spoke. ‘How on earth do you propose we go about doing it?’ she whispered through her fingers, her whole body visibly trembling.

  ‘Jesus Christ! I don’t know!’ Simon caught the waitress’s eye and waved his empty glass in her direction. ‘Mike has people like that working for him, doesn’t he? Couldn’t you get one of them to help us out?’ Laura stared at him in disbelief. ‘What’s the alternative?’ he insisted.

  ‘You want me to get one of Mike’s heavies to commit a murder? Are you out of your fucking mind?’

  ‘I’m thinking of you, Laura. You’re the one who’ll be in the firing line when Mike sees the Sunday papers. You’re the one who’ll get the full brunt of his wrath – and you don’t need me to tell you what that’ll be like.’

  ‘There must be some other solution.’

  ‘I’d love to hear it.’

  ‘I need to think this through,’ Laura said, regaining some composure. ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘He’s going to phone me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to tell me where and when he wants the money handed over.’

  ‘Give me your lighter,’ she said, finishing off her drink. Setting fire to the crumpled sheet of paper, she held it by one corner until the flames had taken hold, then dropped it into her empty glass, watching as it blackened and curled at the edges. ‘Play along with him when he calls tomorrow,’ she said calmly. ‘Tell him you’re prepared to pay up.’ She tucked her handbag underneath her arm. ‘Don’t phone me again. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow, sometime after ten.’ Angling her legs, she slid out of the booth as the waitress arrived with another large Glenmorangie on a tray.

  ‘I have to see Sergeant O’Sullivan.’

  PC Lillian McArthur eyed the slight, nervous figure in the faded denim jacket who had sidled up to the main reception desk in Pitt Street. ‘I don’t know if he’s in the office this morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to him, hen.’ He gripped the edge of the desk and leaned across to whisper in her ear. ‘It’s awfy important.’

  ‘I’ll try his number for you. Who will I say wants to see him?’

  ‘Devlin. Johnny Devlin.’

  ‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’ she asked as O’Sullivan’s extension was ringing out.

  ‘He’ll know.’

  ‘Lillian McArthur here, Sergeant. Someone by the name of Johnny Devlin is at main reception. He says he needs to talk to you urgently. Says you’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘I’m tied up in a meeting, Lillian. Wheel him along to an interview room and leave him there to sweat it out. Tell him I’ll be down in half an hour.’

  When O’Sullivan walked into the interview room forty minutes later Devlin was standing by the window, gazing at the traffic struggling to negotiate the icy slope of West Regent Street. He spun round when he heard the door open. His liver-spotted features were ashen.

  ‘What’s the panic?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘They got Fraser.’

  ‘Who got Fraser?’

  Devlin’s tongue flicked across his cracked lips. ‘I need protection.’

  ‘Let’s take things one step at a time.’ O’Sullivan sat down and took out his notebook, motioning towards the seat on the opposite side of the desk. Devlin walked slowly across the room and slumpe
d down.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘As soon as I was let out this mornin’ I tried phonin’ Gerry but there was no reply, so I went round to his flat. When I got there I found his front door had been busted open. The place looked like a bomb had hit it.’ Devlin’s hand twitched back and forward across his mouth as he spoke. ‘An’ I found Gerry.’

  ‘Found him?’

  ‘Lyin’ unconscious on the floor. A chair had been smashed to smithereens an’ there was blood everywhere. His face was a fuckin’ mess. There were teeth lyin’ on the carpet.’ Devlin’s whole body shuddered. ‘I tried to wake him up, but I couldny.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I phoned 999 for an ambulance and then I fucked off.’

  ‘Why did you leave him?’

  ‘I was scared they might be back.’

  ‘Scared who might be back?’

  Naked fear was showing in Devlin’s cloudy eyes. He half rose from his chair and leaned across the desk. ‘Goany gie us a break, Mr O’Sullivan,’ he pleaded. ‘I need protection. You’ve got to tell the papers that the polis got the collection box or else I’ll be next. When they didny find the money at Fraser’s place they’ll think I’ve got it.’

  ‘First, I’ll need a full statement about what you and Fraser were up to in Argyle Street last night, then we’ll get round to discussing what protection might be appropriate – and what information we might release to the papers.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Devlin sank back down on the chair.

  O’Sullivan produced a tape recorder from the top drawer of the desk and having checked the cassette was fully rewound he depressed the ‘record’ button. ‘Thursday the sixteenth of December,’ he said into the microphone. He glanced at his watch. ‘Two fifteen p.m. This is a recording of an interview between Detective Sergeant Anthony O’Sullivan and Johnny Devlin.’ Swinging the microphone round to face Devlin he pointed to the recorder. ‘On you go.’

  Devlin coughed into his fist and his agitated fingers twitched around his stubbled chin. ‘Gerry Fraser an’ me were workin’ Argyle Street last night,’ he mumbled.