1989, page 12
‘We could go back to mine, it’s only a twenty-minute drive. You could have a nice cup of tea.’
Unbelievable. ‘Just find me a fucking phone box.’
They drove in silence for half a mile before he spotted a post office with a phone kiosk outside. Allie groaned her way out of the car, feeling like an old woman, and stepped into the box. Because it was in a village, it smelled of air freshener and had no postcards fixed to the windows offering French lessons or massages. It also had a working handset. Allie put in a reverse charge call to Richardson’s direct line. Her hand, she noticed, was still shaking. And now she felt sick.
‘Allie? Tell me you got something juicy out of Little Weed. The wife’s singing like she’s auditioning for the Eurovision Song Contest.’
‘I got something out of him, all right. I got a beating.’
A moment of silence, then Richardson exclaimed, ‘He hit you?’
‘He battered me, Gerry. He came after me like a raging bull.’
‘What the hell did you say to set him off?’
‘Blame the bloody victim, why don’t you?’ She drew in a breath. Getting angry was too painful. She slowed herself down. ‘All I said was, “I’m Alison Burns from the Sunday . . .” I didn’t even get “Globe” out.’
‘And he went for you?’
‘To be fair, he only started hitting me when I mentioned his wife. Up to that point, he was just roaring and swearing. Then he started punching me. He chased me up the steps out of his yard, hitting me in the back and the sides. Really hitting me, Gerry.’ She heard her voice waver and bit back the next sentence.
‘Jesus Christ, Allie. That’s bloody awful. Does it hurt when you breathe?’
‘It hurts whether I breathe or not, Gerry. He’s a fucking mountain and he knows how to cause pain.’
‘You need to go to hospital and get checked out, Allie. You might have broken ribs. Or worse. And we’ll get the police round to take a statement. He’s gonna pay for this, mark my words.’
‘No,’ she said sharply. Even in the short drive to the phone box, she’d thought it through. ‘No police. You know what’ll happen there. He’ll be all pally with the local lads, they’ll charge him with something trivial like breach of the peace and then it’ll be sub judice and we’ll not be able to write about it. Then it’ll quietly get dropped and he’ll walk away like he’s been freshly laundered. That’s not what I want.’
‘What are you saying, Allie? I know you know people . . .’
Her laugh turned into an agonising cough. ‘That’s not the answer, Gerry. What I want is for you to splash on this.’
‘What?’
‘Little Weed beats up a woman reporter. A pic of me and a pic of him. And trail a turnover to his wife’s story inside. The world he moves in, they’ve got a code. You don’t hit a woman unless you’re shagging her. Let’s humiliate him, Gerry. The people I know, they’ll be disgusted with him. He won’t dare show his face in a Manchester casino.’
‘Are you sure about this, Allie? You’re not in shock?’ Unusually, he sounded hesitant.
‘Never more certain, Gerry.’
‘OK, sweetheart. Get Alan to fire over the pix soon as.’
‘There are no pix,’ she said without expression.
‘How come? How can there be no pix?’
‘Because Alan Blyth legged it at the first sign of trouble. He left me there, taking a beating at the hands of a man more than twice my weight.’
This time, the silence lasted longer. When Richardson finally spoke, his voice was flint hard. ‘I’ll deal with him. Bad enough that he didn’t take care of you.’ A dark little laugh. ‘A hundred times worse that he didn’t get the pix.’
This was the Gerry Richardson she knew. ‘I knew you’d have your priorities right. I’m not going to the hospital unless I start pissing blood. I’m going to get Blyth to drive me home so I can crawl into a bath. And then into bed.’
‘That’s fine. Do what you need. But don’t be a hero. I’ll get one of the guys to call you later. You can give him the quotes and he’ll pull it together. Don’t worry, Allie, we’ll give you a good show.’ He breathed hard. ‘What a bastard. No wonder his wife legged it with the jockey. Now go home. And take tomorrow off.’
Like she’d been planning anything else. Allie clung on to the handset after the line went dead. If Blyth was watching her, let him think she was still on the call. Then she let the tears come.
20
The house was cold and empty when Allie closed the door behind her, relieved that she could finally drop the bravado. She would never work with Alan Blyth again, no matter if he was the last available photographer in the north of England. There was no point in a colleague if you couldn’t count on them to pitch in when the going got tough. And if you couldn’t depend on the pic man to take pix, what was the point of him?
She turned the heating up as she passed the thermostat then stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. She had no recollection of hitting her head, but the long swelling and the discoloration along her jaw told a different story. She must have cracked it on the step when she fell, the hierarchy of pain meaning she only noticed her elbow. Allie gave the dark purple streak the tenderest of touches and flinched. Just how much of her was going to provoke the same response?
She eased out of her coat, leaving it in a heap on the floor. Just for once, she could be a slob. Step by agonising step she climbed the stairs, glad that Germaine was still with the dog walker and not bouncing around in her usual frantic greeting mode. She started the bath taps, adding the aromatic gel Rona had bought to soothe their muscles after gardening. Then into the medicine cabinet for a couple of ibuprofen, swallowed dry.
Allie had never considered how agonising undressing could be. The day was turning into a whole new encyclopaedia of pain. Getting into the bath was a chapter of discomfort all of its own. Soaking in the warmth helped, but once she’d managed to get out, the slow throb started in her back, her ribs and her elbow. Wrapped in her dressing gown, she slipped into bed, then realised lying on her back was out of the question. She groaned and rolled on to the side without the battered elbow. Her ribs still ached, but the pain was less sharp now.
The women private eyes she read about seemed to recover overnight from a beating. Allie was pretty certain that wasn’t how it worked in reality. Apart from the physical damage, she had a feeling there were going to be other consequences. The very thought of rocking up to a stranger’s front door to confront them with some awkward question made her shudder. Maybe that would have passed by morning. But maybe not. And what would that mean for her future as a front-line reporter?
Inevitably, as soon as she’d managed to make herself reasonably comfortable, the phone rang. Thankfully, the hands-free was next to the bed and she reached it without too much trouble. It was the chief reporter of the Sunday Globe, clearly as uncomfortable with interviewing Allie as she was talking about what had happened. Somehow they stumbled through the necessary questions and answers, and she closed her eyes in relief when the call was over. She’d fulfilled her obligations. All she wanted now was Rona.
*
Rona was not a woman given to quiet entrances. The sharp closing of the front door roused Allie from her fitful doze. For a moment, she couldn’t put the pieces together. Then simultaneously pain surged through her and Rona’s voice drifted upstairs. ‘Allie? Are you home? Why’s your coat in the middle of the hall?’
‘I’m up here,’ Allie said, startled by the weakness in her voice. This wasn’t how she saw herself, weak and feeble in the face of adversity.
Rona rushed in then stopped so suddenly she swayed on her heels. ‘What the fuck?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happened to your face?’ Then she was in motion, hurrying across the room and pulling Allie into an embrace. Allie screamed and Rona released her as if scalded. ‘What’s happened to you, my love? Have you been in a car crash? Did you fall downstairs or something?’
Allie adjusted her position to ease her discomfort. The thought of reliving the morning almost overwhelmed her. But Rona had to know. ‘Little Weed beat me up,’ she said, sounding as weary as she felt.
Rona’s mouth opened in an O of incredulity. ‘He beat you up? How? What happened?’
So Allie took a shallow breath and began again, interrupted every couple of sentences by explosions of anger and sympathy from Rona. When she reached the end, Rona stroked the side of her face that didn’t resemble an aubergine.
‘I’m going to make him wish he’d never been born,’ she snarled.
Allie gave a hollow laugh. ‘I think that might be taking on a wee bit too much. Even for you.’
‘Not Little Weed – I know my limits. No, I’m talking about that gutless shitepoke Alan Blyth. The people I know in this town – by the time I’ve finished, he’ll not be able to get a gig at a church fete. What a despicable lowlife he is.’
‘He is.’ Allie’s eyes were pricking with tears. She blinked and let them fall. ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ she said, reaching for Rona’s hand. ‘I’ve been feeling so rubbish. Every bit of my body hurts, but I think my pride hurts most of all.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’re amazing.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m supposed to handle myself. I keep going over how I could have dealt with him differently, and I keep hitting a brick wall.’
Rona gently wiped Allie’s tears away with her free hand. ‘It wasn’t about you, my love. I think you got somebody else’s kicking. Now, at the risk of putting my great big size eights in it, where does it hurt?’
By Saturday evening, the answer was still the same: ‘Pretty much everywhere.’ But Allie was determined that Little Weed wasn’t going to spoil her weekend. The only concession she was prepared to make was that everyone should come round to their house rather than go to Alix’s as planned. Dosed up with paracetamol and ibuprofen, Allie thought she could probably manage to get through the evening. This would be the first time she’d seen Alix since the disaster of Sunday’s paper; she was afraid that to call off the entire evening would send the wrong signal to her friend.
Rona had insisted that Allie was not to move from the table. ‘We’re getting a takeaway from the Turkish on Barlow Moor Road. I don’t want you thinking you have to clear away plates or jump up and get anybody another beer. Just imagine you’re a princess.’
‘You’re taking a big risk, aren’t you? What if I get used to it?’
Rona gave a dark chuckle. ‘See how far that gets you.’
Jess and Alix arrived together. Rona had warned them about Allie’s injuries, but they were clearly both shocked when they saw her. The bruise had spread and darkened into a dramatic shadow across one side of her face. Alix mustered a weak laugh and said, ‘You didn’t have to go that far to guilt me out of bitching about that travesty of a story last weekend.’
‘I told you on Monday, I was shafted,’ Allie said.
‘And I believed you,’ Alix leaned forward and gave Allie a careful kiss on the unaffected cheek. Then she pointed scornfully at the violet velour leisure suit Allie was wearing. ‘But looking at that outfit, I’d say you’ve been shafted in a whole other way.’
‘Cheeky cow,’ Rona said. ‘That's what all the chic set are wearing to do their yoga.’
‘That explains why it looks so out of place on Allie.’
‘It was a freebie,’ Rona admitted. ‘I fished it out of the charity-shop bag.’
‘It matches my bruises, at least,’ Allie said.
‘We’re going to want the whole sordid story,’ Jess added, dumping a bag of beer cans on the countertop.
‘Wait till Bill gets here, I don’t want to go through it all twice.’
‘He’s picking up the takeaway,’ Rona said. ‘He’ll be here any minute.’
In spite of Allie’s fears, the evening wasn’t the endurance test she’d expected. Once she’d got through her account of the attack, punctuated by exclamations of shock and anger all round, they settled into their usual spirited camaraderie. ‘You’d be safer coming to work with me,’ Bill said. ‘I know your fictional private eyes are always getting into fights, but the reality is I haven’t had a hand raised to me in anger for years.’
‘That’s probably because you’re a giant blond beardy bear,’ Rona said tartly. ‘It’d be an idiot that took you on.’
‘Speaking of investigations,’ Jess butted in, ‘I managed to track down Colin Corcoran. I dropped him a note saying you were planning a trip to Berlin and you were interested in meeting up for a chat. And he got back to me.’ She rummaged in her bag and produced a postcard. ‘There you go. His address and work phone number.’
‘Did you tell him why I’m interested?’
Jess shook her head. ‘No need. He’s a geek. He thinks everybody should be fascinated by the same things as him.’
‘Cheers.’ Allie took the card. ‘I was thinking about going to Berlin next week, but obviously, that’s on hold till I can walk down the street without looking like I’ve escaped from an old people’s home.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Alix said. ‘Playing the pity card might work in your favour.’
‘She doesn’t have to be incapacitated to do that,’ Rona teased.
Before Allie could respond, the phone rang. ‘Stay put,’ Rona commanded, getting up and crossing to the wall-mounted cordless handset. ‘Hello?’ A pause. ‘Hi Angus, it’s Rona here. I’ll pass you over to Allie.’ Another pause. ‘Me?’ Rona cast a glance at Allie. ‘Let me take this in the other room.’ And she walked out.
‘What was all that about?’ Bill asked. Allie was never sure which came first with him; professional curiosity or a natural nosiness that had led him into the right job.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Allie said. ‘I’m guessing it’s Angus Carlyle. He used to be my old news editor back in Glasgow. He’s the editor of the Daily Clarion now. When I heard his name, it was all about me – that he’d heard what happened and wanted to check I’m OK. But obviously not.’
‘I expect he wants to commission something from Rona,’ Alix said. ‘She seems to be more in demand every time we come round.’
Allie looked at the closed door, puzzled. ‘Aye, maybe. But nine o’clock on a Saturday night’s a funny time for that. She’ll tell us soon enough. Bill, you’ve been quiet tonight. What’s going on in your world?’
He shrugged. ‘The usual. Bad people who think they’re smarter than they are. But I did meet a genuinely smart financial analyst this week.’ He avoided their eyes. ‘She’s based in Leeds and we’re having dinner tomorrow.’
They whooped and teased out of him more details of the latest object of his interest. ‘We should take bets on how long she’ll manage to be Ms Right,’ Jess said, giggling.
‘My standards are too high,’ he said. Allie wasn’t sure quite how genuine his mournful expression was. But the subject was closed down by Rona’s return.
‘Was that Angus Carlyle?’ Allie asked.
‘Yeah. He asked after you, said he’d put money on you against Little Weed any day of the week.’
‘Eejit,’ Allie said. ‘So what did he really want?’
Rona sat down and took a swig of her Efes. ‘I’m not entirely sure. He wants me in Glasgow on Monday for a meeting. I asked what it was about and he said he didn’t want to get into it over the phone but it would be worth my while.’
‘What is it about you journalists that everything has to sound like a John Le Carré novel?’ Jess complained.
‘I asked if he wanted to commission something from me, but he just said I’d have to wait and see.’ She frowned a question at Allie. ‘What do you think?’
Allie shrugged. ‘Angus was never a time-waster. If it was me, I’d go and see. What did you have planned for Monday?’
‘Just the usual Monday. Write up last week’s interviews, see what I can set up for later in the week. Do a bit of gardening if it’s not pissing down.’
‘You can write on the train,’ Allie said.
‘And they have phones in Glasgow,’ Alix pointed out. ‘How can you resist? If you don’t go, it’ll really bug you, Rona. You know what you’re like – you always have to know.’
‘I think you should go,’ Bill said. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’ll come round and keep an eye on Allie, make sure she doesn’t get into any more fights.’
‘I don’t need a minder. What about your Sunday-night date?’ Allie asked.
He shrugged. ‘Priorities, Allie. It’s all about priorities. Financial analysts are like buses. There’ll be another one along in a minute.’
Rona raised her drink in a toast. ‘OK, you talked me into it. Here’s to mysterious adventures.’
21
When Wallace Lockhart entered any of his company buildings, it was as if he brought a weather front with him. Sunny or cloudy, warm or chilly, calm or tempestuous, the atmosphere in the building seemed to pick up his frame of mind by osmosis. All his senior executives knew to their cost that scattered showers or, as one BBC weatherman stammered, shattered scours, were more likely than sunny spells.
However, that Monday morning, there was a bounce in his step and a lightness in his eyes as he strode into the Clarion building on Glasgow’s quayside, his camel-hair overcoat billowing around him as if it moved in its own microclimate. He rode his executive lift to the penthouse floor and marched into the biggest office in the building. He subsided into the leather desk chair built to his own specification and frowned at the thin pile of mail front and centre on the desk. Routine matters were handled by others; there were few communications that demanded his personal attention.
Lockhart flicked through the pile. A charity seeking his support, with a scribbled handwritten comment from his PA, suggesting it might earn him favours with the cabinet minister whose wife chaired the board; three sycophantic letters from MPs; a personal note from a retiring division head of Pythagoras Press; and a glossy 8x10 black-and-white photograph of a rough-hewn piece of granite. It resembled a war memorial – a list of names and ages, and below them the legend, Poladski 1941–44. Along the bottom margin in thick black marker pen, he read, All that remains. Lockhart stared at the image, gooseflesh making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His PA had attached a Post-It note to the photograph that read, ‘No accompanying letter. Not sure what it means?’
