1989, page 3
‘Ah, Genny,’ he groaned, raising a hand in greeting.
‘Hello, Ace.’ She crossed the room and planted a kiss on his forehead.
He muted the TV and nodded towards the drinks cabinet. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’ He delved into the bowl of Twiglets on the side table and crammed a handful into his mouth.
‘Don’t turn it off on my account. I know you can’t bear to miss the news.’ She poured herself a generous schooner of Tio Pepe. She turned back, catching sight of the Lockerbie memorial service on the screen. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’
He swallowed and grunted. ‘Maggie made a meal of it. These people, they don’t know what tragedy is. How many died in this bombing? Two hundred and seventy, for fuck’s sake. The Nazis murdered more people than that in my shtetl. No memorial service for them, though. No prime minister dabbing her eyes with a hankie for my family.’
‘They had families too, the people who died on Pan Am 103, Ace,’ she protested. ‘They’re suffering the way you suffered when our family was wiped out.’
He let out a puff of breath. ‘I know, sweetheart, I know. And I’m not callous about their individual pain. But I can’t help feeling this kind of public memorial is a mere indulgence. How many people there today actually had any personal stake in this? It’s little more than a performance of grief, not the real thing.’
‘Nevertheless. You’ll plaster it all over the first five pages of every one of your titles tomorrow. The Clarion, the Globe, the Mercury – they’ll all be vying for the most tear-jerking copy.’
He sipped his drink. ‘That’s showbiz, Genny. It sells papers. But I bet you that none of that crowd will take their grief and make something out of it, not even the ones directly affected. Not like I did.’
It was a story Genevieve knew so well she could almost lip-synch it. The village in the debatable lands of Eastern Poland. The arrival of the Nazis and the rounding up of the Jews. The sound of gunfire, the crackle of flame. The screams. And Chaim Barak who hid in the dung heap in the byre till the shtetl grew eerily quiet. Then the escape, sleeping in ditches, eating roots and berries, making contact with General Anders’s fledgling Polish Army. Then the Middle East, the hell of Monte Cassino, the oak leaf medal for gallantry, the liberation of Berlin, the discovery of a stash of German scientific research papers and the brilliant idea of helping himself to them. ‘Liberating knowledge,’ he self-righteously dubbed it. Even Genevieve could see it had an unscrupulous side to it. But in 1945, scruples had often been hard to come by.
She let him wind up the story, then said, ‘Let’s hope the Americans don’t jump on this as an excuse for vengeance.’ She curled up in a corner of one of the sofas.
‘They’re still not sure where to jump. The smart money’s on Libya, but there’s a distinct dearth of evidence.’ More Twiglets, washed down with a tiny sip of whisky.
‘So why am I here, Ace? Are we planning what to do for next year’s big celebration?’
There was a momentary flash of surprise, quickly hidden behind a smile. ‘What exactly are we celebrating?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? Glasgow, European City of Culture in 1990? I presumed we’d be planning some cultural extravaganza to blazon our name across the heavens?’ Her voice was light with mischief.
He flapped a hand at her. ‘I’m confident someone below your pay grade can handle that.’
‘So, if it’s not that, why am I here?’
He graced her with his loveliest smile. ‘It’s not enough that your old dad wants your company?’
She snorted. ‘If that were all, you wouldn’t have sent the chopper. You’re too cheap. You’d have told me to get on the sleeper.’
His smile turned down at the corners, an exaggerated clown’s grimace, his eyebrows high, perfect arcs. ‘It’s as well my enemies don’t know me like you do.’ He shifted his heavy body more upright in the chair, his belly appearing to move independently of the rest of his torso. ‘I need you to do something important. Not for me, but for the business.’
‘You know I’ll always do my best for us.’ Faced with her father’s seriousness, Genevieve straightened up, planting her feet on the floor. The tragic death of her mother before her fifth birthday had meant there was no one close enough to temper her father’s enthusiasms. And when things turned against him, as they sometimes had the temerity to do, she was the one who capered and cajoled him out of his disappointment and rage.
‘You know my motto. When opportunity knocks, throw the door open wide.’ Lockhart heaved himself to his feet and shambled across to the humidor that sat on the drinks cabinet. ‘Well, tonight, opportunity has taken a battering ram to our back door.’ He took out a cigar and fiddled with it, chopping off the end. On his way back to the chair, he lit it with the battered brass Zippo he’d used since 1942 and puffed at the cigar. ‘America, Genny, America.’
This was news to Genevieve. But she held her tongue, familiar with her father’s habit of setting the scene before he got to the point. Instead, she nodded redundant encouragement.
‘Simon Levertov was one of the mourners today.’
It was a name she knew well. Levertov was the head of a family empire that controlled a sprawling web of local papers throughout the Midwest. Its flagship titles were city papers in Chicago, Minneapolis/St Paul, Cincinnati and Indianapolis. The outlier was the New York Daily Globe. Rupert Murdoch had come close to buying it, but the family had rebuffed him. The word was that Murdoch’s tabloids left a bad taste in the mouths of the conservative Levertovs. Her father had been assiduously courting the family ever since. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘Thirty-five students from Syracuse were on the flight. The Levertovs own one of the local papers.’
She nodded, understanding. ‘Did you get the chance to speak to him?’
He exhaled a blue cloud of aromatic smoke. ‘He sought me out. They’re ready to sell the Globe. It’s the perfect fit for us. It gives us a prestige foothold in the US, a springboard to drive us forward into new markets.’
Genevieve knew how much her father craved the New York Globe. He loved the idea of new worlds to conquer, but even more than that, he loved anything that reeked of victory in his pissing contest with Rupert Murdoch. To win a trophy the Australian press baron had been chasing would be more than the icing on the cake. But that didn’t mean it was the right choice. Wary, she said, ‘There’s a reason they want rid of the Globe, Ace. It’s losing money and circulation like a runaway train.’
‘Of course it is,’ Lockhart said, waving away the objection as if he was batting away an annoying fly. ‘Because the Levertovs have no idea how to produce a vibrant paper that speaks to the working man.’ Seeing her frown, he added hastily, ‘And woman, naturally, Genny. But in our hands, we’ll reverse that downward trajectory. I’ll send my best team from London to get the show on the road, and then we’ll show New York what it’s been missing.’
His obvious passion for publishing and the power it brought was irresistible. His boisterous delight in success had infected Genevieve at an early age. There was, she knew, little point in arguing. Ace Lockhart was the only god in his universe. ‘Have you set up talks?’
Lockhart guffawed. ‘Genny, we’ve done the deal,’ he said. ‘We sat round a table in a dismal little hotel after the memorial, we agreed a price and we shook hands on it.’
She knew she was supposed to rejoice, and she managed a decent facsimile. But she couldn’t help a sense of dread creeping into her gut. If it was that straightforward, why had he summoned her to Voil House with such urgency? Even though this was the biggest acquisition he’d made since he’d bought the Clarion and the UK Globe, he could easily have told her over the phone, leaving the celebration for their next meeting in a few days. She knew her father well enough to understand that there was more to come. She reminded herself he’d taken some dramatic and unusual routes to success, but that was a measure of his originality and nerve. Neither the intellectual rigour of St Andrews University nor MIT had managed to shake her belief in her father. So she summoned up a smile and raised her glass to him. ‘What a coup.’
He shifted his bulk in the chair, pushing himself more upright with a creak of leather. ‘There’s only one problem.’
Here it comes, she thought. ‘What’s that, Ace?’
‘Liquidity. We’ve extended ourselves to the limit to build the new printing plants in London.’
Which are nowhere near up and running yet, never mind washing their faces. Genevieve tried to hide her dismay. ‘Can we borrow?’
Another cloud of smoke. ‘It might be complicated. And it would definitely be expensive. Not to mention, a sign of weakness. I want us to go into America looking powerful, not cap in hand to the bankers. Murdoch would love that.’
A snatch of panic in her chest. So far, she’d had nothing to do with the flagship newspapers and magazines that defined Ace Media in the world’s eyes. The cash cow that kept everything else afloat was the academic and scientific publishing, and that was where he’d installed her. A year of intense internships in every department, and now she was running a publishing house that had grown to rival the most prestigious university presses. ‘You’re not going to sell Pythagoras?’
He laughed in genuine astonishment. ‘My goose that lays the golden eggs? Don’t be silly, Genny. Besides, you’re doing such a fine job there. No, I have another solution.’ Lockhart gave her his most benevolent smile, but Genevieve knew him well enough to understand this was often a Judas kiss.
‘Tell me.’
‘The pension funds. Pythagoras and Ace Media are carrying huge surpluses. Half a billion, Genny. Half. A. Billion.’
‘But that’s not company money,’ she protested. ‘It belongs to the pensioners, present and future.’
‘I know that. What do you take me for? Some kind of robber baron?’ His indignation sounded like the real thing. ‘I’m proposing a loan.’ He waved his cigar airily. ‘A temporary arrangement. I know I can turn the New York Globe around in short order. This would be exactly the same as borrowing from the bank. Except that it would be a private transaction.’
Genevieve hid her unease. She knew if she showed it, he’d pounce. ‘Is it legal?’ was as far as she felt she could go.
His smile was sweet. ‘Of course it’s legal. All I need is for you as the MD of Pythagoras to countersign the papers.’
It wasn’t a question.
She’d seen her father’s rage rip against anyone who dared to impugn his integrity. She wanted never to be on the end of that fury. Even more, she didn’t want to provoke the look of mournful disappointment that transformed his strong features when one of his trusted employees let him down. His eyes became moist, his lips parted, a bewildered frown creased his forehead. It was a moment that was usually followed by a sacking. OK, she knew he couldn’t sack her. Being his daughter was a fixed point. But she’d seen him throw some of his oldest friends out of the charmed circle and knew how much that had hurt him. Genevieve loved her father; she couldn’t have borne being banished from his affection and respect.
She took a deep breath. ‘Pass me the pen.’
4
Allie loved watching Rona taking off her make-up last thing at night. The mask that faced the world disappeared, revealing the naked beauty that was just for her; it always felt like the most private intimacy. The buzz of the dope she’d smoked earlier had combined with the alcohol to ease the darkness of the day, leaving her feeling relaxed. And maybe just a little bit sexy? She stretched languorously.
‘That was a weird little snippet Alix dropped on our toes tonight,’ Rona said, sweeping a cotton pad across her eyelids.
‘What?’ Allie yawned. ‘The Scots in the rehab clinic?’
‘Yeah. I mean, I know Edinburgh’s supposed to be the AIDS capital of Europe, but I didn’t know they were actually fleeing the country.’ Now for the mascara.
‘Is it really that bad up there?’
‘So I’ve heard. Last statistic I remember reading was that one per cent of the male population of the city is HIV positive. Which doesn’t sound much, till you translate it into actual bodies. Four thousand or so in a wee city. Plus they’ll not be stravaiging through the Georgian elegance of the New Town, will they? They’ll be concentrated in the most deprived parts of town. And of course, nothing gets reported down here.’ She opened her mouth to wipe off the lipstick, distorting her speech. ‘Faraway place of which we know nothing, and all that. Not to mention it’s the untouchables – the druggies and the gay boys.’
‘You think there might be a story in it? Why the Edinburgh junkies are heading south?’ Now Allie was alert. The prospect of a lead to dig into never failed.
‘No idea. But it might be worth checking it out? If they’re leaving because the NHS can’t cope with the numbers, you could go either way. NHS swamped, locals complain other ailments are being ignored? Or HIV patients forced to leave because their city wants them gone?’ The last of her foundation removed, Rona patted toner on her skin, then finally applied a layer of expensive night cream that smelled deliciously of lavender and geranium.
‘Did they fall or were they pushed?’
‘You never know what you’ll find till you go looking.’ Rona raised her eyebrows in the mirror.
‘You’re right. Whatever it is, I should take a look at it. Maybe tomorrow, if I get a couple of hours spare.’ As Rona slipped under the duvet next to her, Allie reached out. ‘But right now, I’ve got more pressing matters on my mind.’
‘So have I,’ Rona said in a different tone. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? When you walked in tonight, you looked like someone had put you through a mangle and squeezed all the life out of you.’
‘I thought I’d dealt with the night the plane came down. Put it away in a box at the back of my head and moved on. But seeing the grief on those faces today – it all came rolling back.’ Allie inhaled deeply. ‘But I’ll be fine. It’s done now.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’ Rona stroked Allie’s hair. ‘The things you see, the things you hear on the news beat – I see it eating into you, Allie.’
Allie scoffed. ‘It just takes wee nibbles, Rona. Then it heals over. Deep down, I’m OK. This is what I do. This is who I am.’
Rona looked dubious, but said no more. She lay awake long after Allie had drifted into an apparently untroubled sleep, unconvinced by her partner’s words. Germaine, alerted by the instinct that draws dogs to humans, nestled tight to her side. Rona turned on her side and pulled Germaine close. Between them, they’d have to find a way to rescue Allie from herself.
Between dealing with a royal visit, yet another political scandal in Liverpool and a clutch of tedious TV spin-off stories, it took Allie more than a month to find that couple of spare hours to chase the AIDS story. Being a one-woman roadshow meant the demands of her job were constant. Every Tuesday she had to have dug up enough stories to pitch at the weekly conference. Then she had to assign the ones that made the grade to a freelance, which meant chivvying and chasing them, a task as frustrating as trying to corral toddlers in a playground. In the interstices, she needed to maintain her own contacts and mine them for possible stories she could pursue herself. Keeping on top of the greedy demands of the London newsdesk left virtually no time for pursuing the stories that truly interested her. Not a day went by that she didn’t mourn her investigative berth.
In the end, Allie went into the office one Monday afternoon in early February. Technically, Monday was her day off, but that didn’t stop the London features desk calling to instruct her to set up jobs for later in the week; or the picture desk demanding contact numbers for whoever they wanted to photograph for the colour supplement.
She hooked up with Rona in the kitchen over a plate of soup at lunchtime. ‘I might as well go in,’ she said. ‘It’s the only way I’ll get peace from the bloody phone. I need to get up to speed on AIDS and HIV before I take a proper look at this Edinburgh idea. I’ll hide away in the library – nobody will think of looking for me there.’
‘Ironic but true. While you’re there, can you do me a favour?’
‘Always. What do you need?’ Although, as a freelance, Rona had no right of access to the Globe library, Allie reckoned it was the least that Ace Lockhart’s empire owed them.
‘Can you do a cuttings check on murders in soap series? I’ve heard a whisper about a murder coming up in Coronation Street and I want to be ready to roll with the background features as soon as I can bottom it.’ Rona gave Allie a mock-beseeching look.
‘Who’s for the chop?’
Rona shook her head. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out from a third-party source.’
Allie grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can find for you.’
‘And don’t steal it.’ They both knew Rona’s words were a tease. They’d established the principle of Chinese walls when they’d moved to Manchester. Back in Glasgow, they’d both been working for the same title. From time to time, one would turn up a story that they both agreed was better suited to the other’s department, so the finder would hand it over. But now Allie couldn’t afford to have her boss in London think she was passing stories to a freelance who might sell them to the opposition. So they’d agreed not to share. Except when Allie’s boss spiked one of her stories. Few things gave Allie more pleasure than seeing one of her rejected stories make a page lead or a magazine feature somewhere else.
