1979

by McDermid, Val

  Rona shrugged. ‘I don’t know either. Honestly, I think gay men are from a different planet to lesbians. That whole picking up strangers in bars, and worse? I just don’t get it. I don’t have arrangements, I have relationships. And I’m guessing Danny didn’t have one of those?’

  ‘Not that he admitted to me. But there was something.’ Allie gave Rona a sideways look. ‘Between the two of us, right?’

  Rona hugged her again. ‘Just the two of us, doll.’

  ‘You know Gordon Beattie, the crime corr?’

  ‘Wee Gordon? Wee in stature and wee in talent. Don’t tell me he’s secretly Gay Gordon?’ Rona guffawed.

  ‘No. God, no. But he’s got a Special Branch contact, Thomas Torrance. And he brought him into the office to consult on the Tartan Terrorists story. Danny just about had a heart attack when he saw Torrance. He turned the colour of putty. When I asked him about it, it turned out he recognised Torrance from one of the clubs in town.’

  ‘That’s interesting, but surely not any kind of threat? Face it, doll, if Danny pointed the finger at Torrance, he was exposing himself at the same time.’

  ‘I know, but get this. The guy Torrance was with – and I mean with, as in he was snogging him – it turns out this guy was Roddy Farquhar, one of the Tartan Terror crew. When we discussed it, Danny reckoned it was just casual between them. But it’s a helluva coincidence that Farquhar did a runner just before the paper hit the streets.’

  ‘So, what? You think they were an item? And Farquhar told Torrance what his pals were up to?’

  ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? And rather than arrest them before things got out of hand, Torrance let them run to see where they were going. Then when Wee Gordon Beattie brought him into the tent he learned what Danny and I had found out. Torrance must have warned Farquhar to get out before the police came for him.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Rona breathed. ‘So Torrance had a very good reason for shutting Danny up. He could still have totally fucked him up.’

  All at once, the unshed tears that Allie had managed to hold at bay burst through her defences. In a matter of moments, she was shaking and sobbing, gulping for air and howling like a child. Rona wrapped her arms around her and held her tight. Allie clung to her, clutching handfuls of her sweater, letting her grief flood through her. Danny was dead, and there was no solace.

  50

  Allie woke to darkness, a faint throb of pain at her temples. The evening came back in fragments. Her tempest of tears. More vodka, more swapping stories. More vodka. Then a blank. She turned on to her back and yelped when she collided with another body. Rona? Rona was in bed with her? What had happened in the gap between the end of memory and the beginning of morning?

  An indeterminate grunt, a shift of weight on the mattress and Rona said, ‘It’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here.’

  Nervous about what she’d find, Allie turned on the bedside lamp. Rona lay next to her, but on top of the duvet. She’d brought the one from the spare room through to cover her. Allie felt her panic subside. Nothing untoward had happened.

  Rona recognised the relief. ‘Your reputation’s unblemished, doll. I’m not into necrophilia.’

  Allie felt the blush rising up her throat. ‘I wasn’t casting you as a predatory lesbian, I was casting me as a stupid drunk. You know how it goes – “ah love you, you’re ma best pal.”’

  Rona yawned and stretched. ‘You just needed a cuddle, Allie. It’s not a criminal offence.’ She released her mane of hair from the topknot she’d tied it into before sleeping and it tumbled on to her shoulders in what looked like a carefully calculated disarray. Allie envied the ease with which she slipped back into the day. Rona reached across and gave her a quick hug. ‘I need to get moving. I can’t turn up at work looking this normal.’ She slipped out of bed and pulled on jeans and sweater. Allie turned away, awkwardly realising she’d noticed how good Rona looked in underwear. What was going on in her head?

  ‘Thanks,’ Allie said. ‘It really helped, having you here.’

  Rona shrugged. ‘When I heard the news, I thought about how I’d feel, in your shoes. Then it was a no-brainer.’

  ‘I can see how you get the punters to talk to you. One thing you didn’t answer – how did you know my address?’

  ‘I asked Jock. The editorial driver. Those guys know everything, did you not realise that? Who’s having an affair and who with, who can’t stay out of the casino, what everybody’s favourite carry-out is. We have no secrets from the drivers. Well, almost none.’ She winked. ‘I’ll probably see you later. I’ll let myself out.’

  The atmosphere in the office was subdued. Nobody was shouting down a phone, nobody was arguing about their assignments. Allie was aware of the eyes following her the length of the editorial floor. Everyone from the copy boys to the chief sub knew she’d been the one to find Danny Sullivan’s body; everyone, she knew, would have their own take on the circumstances.

  ‘You OK?’ the newsdesk secretary asked as she approached.

  ‘Getting there.’ Allie took off her coat and hung it up. ‘Where are we meeting?’

  ‘Angus’s office.’

  To get there, she had to pass the rows of reporters’ desks. They all looked up as she passed, mostly murmuring embarrassed condolences. None of them knew how to react when one of their own became the story. They’d all faked sympathy so many times, they were uncertain how to deliver it for real, Allie thought. She’d be the same herself.

  The Razor and Wee Gordon Beattie were already sitting round Carlyle’s desk. It was clear none of them knew what to say to her either. ‘That was a good piece this morning,’ the Razor said. ‘Carefully done.’

  Typical lawyer’s praise, Allie thought. ‘To be honest, that wasn’t what I was thinking about.’

  ‘It’s a shame about the boy,’ Beattie said. He didn’t even attempt sincerity. Then he muttered so quietly that only she would hear, ‘But that’s what happens when you send a boy to do a man’s job.’

  Allie’s shocked disbelief silenced her momentarily. Before she could recover herself, Carlyle cleared his throat. He looked five years older than he had the week before, his eyes like oysters nestled in bags of wrinkled skin. ‘Gordon brings tidings,’ he said. ‘Not quite comfort and joy, but heading in the right direction. And it’s thanks to the lead you gave the polis yesterday, Burns. Gordon, pick up the story.’

  ‘Aye, well, once they realised Sullivan was queer, they took a good look at the wee address book he kept in the drawer under the phone. Most of the numbers were obvious – family, colleagues, friends. But there was one that was different. It just said, “B: messages.” So they rang the number and it turns out it was an answering service that takes messages for what they call “rent boys”.’ He twinkled a lewd look at Allie. ‘Male prostitutes,’ he added, smug.

  ‘I’m familiar with the term,’ Allie said, brusque.

  ‘It turns out Sullivan—’

  ‘Danny,’ Allie interrupted. ‘His name was Danny.’

  Beattie raised his eyebrows. ‘It turns out he had a favourite among the answering service’s rent boys. B for Barry. Barry Curran, to give him his Sunday name. The polis put a bit of pressure on them – you help us, we won’t arrest the lot of you for soliciting and gross indecency, that kind of thing – and lo and behold, Curran was booked in for a session with Danny on Saturday night. So they’ve arrested the wee shirt-lifter,’ he concluded triumphantly.

  ‘And that’s it?’ Allie said, struggling to keep calm in the face of Beattie’s poison. ‘He’s a rent boy so he’s automatically a murderer?’

  ‘He was there, Burns,’ Carlyle said, the voice of reason.

  ‘What’s the motive supposed to be?’

  Beattie leaned forward, leering again. ‘Looks like it was a lover’s tiff gone wrong. Or else Curran was trying on the blackmail. Or maybe the sex turned nasty. Case solved, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Danny was fully dressed,’ Allie said. ‘He didn’t look as if
he was preparing for an evening of wild sex. What time was this Barry there?’

  ‘His booking was for seven o’clock. The police surgeon estimates the time of death between eight o’clock and midnight. We’ll maybe get something different from the post-mortem, but it’ll not be radically different.’

  Allie shook her head. ‘If Danny was a regular client of this Barry, why now?’

  Beattie shrugged. ‘His name’s been all over the paper this last couple of weeks. Maybe Curran only just realised his punter was worth blackmailing.’ He shook his head in fake sorrow. ‘Just as well for our reputation you didn’t make Sullivan head of investigations, eh, Angus?’

  ‘Curran wouldn’t have recognised him from the paper. That makes no sense,’ Allie butted in. ‘Danny didn’t have a picture byline. He had a thing about that. He wanted to be an investigative journalist. He knew he’d be blown for undercover jobs like the one we just did if his face was all over the story. Unless you’re a columnist, most people pay no attention to bylines. We’re the only ones that notice. It’s just our vanity that bylines appeal to.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ the Razor said. ‘I’d say the police might be struggling with this one. Unless they actually find his prints on the murder weapon, or Danny’s blood on his shoes or his clothes, it’s going to be a stretch.’

  ‘I need to do some digging into this wee toerag’s background,’ Beattie said. ‘See what form he’s got. I bet he’s got a record.’

  The relish Beattie made his pronouncement with enraged Allie yet further. Barry Curran had a target on his back. She could imagine only too well the kind of life he’d led – poverty, violence, bullying, shame. And because he’d been forced to make money with the one thing that had any market value, he was automatically in the frame. ‘He’s not the only one with a motive for murder,’ she said mutinously.

  ‘What do you mean, Burns?’ Carlyle gave her a measured look.

  ‘I can think of at least one other person who had good reason to silence Danny.’ She had the avid attention of the three men now. ‘Someone who has a lot more to lose than some rent boy.’

  ‘Are you going to share that with us?’ Carlyle said after a long pause.

  ‘I wasn’t planning on it, not without more to back me up. But if I’m right, I’d be stupid to keep my mouth shut because he’s as much a potential threat to me as he was to Danny. So I’ll tell you, boss. But only in private.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ Beattie glared at her. ‘I’m the bloody crime correspondent here, not you. You’re just a wee lassie who’s only been in the door five minutes.’

  She said nothing. The Razor gathered his papers and stood up. ‘There are some things better said without a lawyer present.’ He gave her a wry smile and a onefingered tip of an invisible hat. ‘Come on, Gordon, don’t be an arse.’

  The pair filed out, Beattie grumbling under his breath every step of the way. Carlyle watched them go, then said, ‘An arse. That’s Wee Gordon’s natural state. Just ignore him. So tell me – who’s this mysterious suspect you’ve got?’

  Allie took a deep breath and hoped Carlyle would take her seriously. ‘Thomas Torrance. Of the Special Branch.’

  51

  Carlyle didn’t laugh, which was a relief. He gave her a long level stare, then said, ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Allie ran through the story again – Danny’s reaction, his explanation, Roddy Farquhar’s vanishing act. ‘So although we’ve published the initial story now, Torrance must realise we’ll be looking for follow-ups. With Farquhar on the run, it’d be hard to resist the idea of running a story outing his relationship with a Special Branch officer.’

  ‘You think Torrance would be confident that getting Danny out of the way would protect him? That he’d believe Danny would have kept his secret?’

  Allie sighed. ‘I know that might be hard for you to credit, but I think it’s certainly possible. I don’t know anything about their world from personal experience, obviously. But gay men know the risks they’re taking. Sex between men’s still illegal here. You get outed, you don’t just suffer a stigma, you can go to jail. Lose your job. Lose your home. The habit of secrecy, it’s ingrained. Torrance would assume that, by exposing him, Danny would be exposing himself. So yes, I’d say Torrance could feel pretty sure Danny wouldn’t have given him away.’

  ‘So why get rid of him, if Torrance could rely on Danny keeping his mouth shut?’

  Allie paused, marshalling her argument. Finally she said, ‘It’s that old saying, isn’t it? Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.’

  Carlyle picked up a pen and fiddled with it. ‘It’s a big jump from a proverb to a murder.’

  ‘His first reaction might have been to rely on mutually assured destruction. But brooding about it … Remember, Torrance is Gordon Beattie’s source. You know Gordon. He’s incapable of shutting up about all the stories he’s broken in the past. How he’s wormed his way to the truth. Torrance knows what a scoop means to a journalist. We’ll go to any lengths for a revelation we’re passionate about. And Torrance must know the story behind the Paragon story. He must know Danny had already betrayed his own brother. Even though Danny did all he could to protect Joseph, his brother’s still out of a job. Probably out of prospects too. Knowing that, would you – could you – trust Danny to cover your back?’

  ‘Aye, but you’ve already said – outing Torrance would out Danny himself.’

  Allie shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. Danny was smart. He spent his life hiding. He could have covered his back. All he had to do was say that he’d discovered what was going on between Torrance and Farquhar in the course of our investigation, that he followed Farquhar to a gay club where he witnessed the two of them snogging. Or more. And I don’t think Torrance has any hard evidence of Danny’s sexuality. Danny told me he was always careful. Barry Curran’s place in his life speaks to that care, boss. Danny was freaked out at the thought of Torrance revealing his secret to the world, but if he’d had time to think about it, he might have realised he didn’t have much to fear.’

  Carlyle sighed and clicked the end of the pen half a dozen times. ‘It’s plausible, Burns. But it’s no more than that. You’ve not got a shred of evidence. Nothing that places Torrance anywhere near Danny’s flat on Saturday night. Nothing but hearsay about any of this. Torrance could argue that Danny was just making up malicious lies to discredit Wee Gordon’s source, to make himself look like the main man on the investigative side of things. You can’t even begin to stand it up.’

  Allie had an idea how she might do that. But she wasn’t going to run it past Carlyle and risk ridicule or failure. ‘You think I don’t know that? But the polis aren’t even looking anywhere else now they’ve got Barry What’s-his-name in the frame. Boss, give me two days off the rota. Two days and a pic man.’

  ‘What do you want a pic man for?’

  She found a cheeky smile from somewhere. ‘Taking pictures?’

  Carlyle sighed. ‘Let me think about it. Away down to the canteen for an hour.’

  Two hours later, Allie was folded on to a makeshift bench in the back of a van that claimed to belong to Plumb-It Services. In reality, Plumb-It Services consisted of a magnetised plastic board stuck to the side of a Hillman Imp van. It held no plumbing supplies, just a low bench, a tin of biscuits and a cardboard box with half a dozen cans of Irn Bru. It also held the van’s owner, Bobby Gibson. One of the reasons Bobby G was Allie’s favourite photographer was the van, evidence of his dedication to getting the snap that counted. It was elderly, shabby and inconspicuous, the sort of tradesman’s white van that nobody would give a second look. But the back windows were one-way glass, meaning Bobby could stake out his targets without being seen.

  They were parked at the mouth of Douglas Lane, the rear of the van facing Strathclyde Police HQ. Two cameras on tripods pointed at the entrance to the building. When Carlyle had given Allie the go-ahead, she’d asked him where Torrance was based, knowing tha
t if he was unaware himself, he’d soon find out. But he’d told her immediately that Torrance worked out of the Pitt Street HQ. So now she was playing the waiting game with Bobby G.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come out for his dinner?’ Bobby asked, not for the first time.

  ‘We don’t even know for sure if he’s in today.’

  ‘You could phone and see.’

  ‘How? If I go off to find a phone box, he could do a naked Highland Fling on the front steps and you wouldn’t know it was him.’

  Bobby chuckled. ‘Ever since we did that nudist beach story, you’re obsessed with people running about in the scud.’

  Time crawled by. By two o’clock, they both agreed Torrance wasn’t taking a lunch break. Allie tried to teach Bobby to play ‘I’m not Napoleon’, a game she’d learned on long car trips back to Scotland with a couple of fellow Cambridge students. ‘I don’t know anything about anything,’ Bobby had protested after Allie’s first attempt left him in the dust.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have gone with Virginia Woolf,’ she conceded.

  ‘The trouble with you, Burns, is you want to win all the time.’

  ‘The trouble with me is that I don’t think that’s a problem.’

  Three hours trickled past and they were losing the light. ‘I can’t get a decent shot in this,’ Bobby complained. ‘The length of exposure I need, unless your man stands like a statue, all I’ll get is a blur.’

  ‘I know. But I need you to see him. That way, I don’t have to stick to you like a limpet all day tomorrow. You can sit and scratch your balls in peace.’

  Another half hour, then the door opened and three men came out together, talking and laughing. ‘That’s him,’ Allie exclaimed. ‘The man in the middle. That’s Torrance.’

  Instinctively Bobby’s finger hit the button and the motor drive fired off a bunch of photographs. ‘Pointless,’ he muttered. ‘Do you want me to follow him?’