‘It’s what they’ll argue. Prostitute, drug-user. Person of low moral character.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jan. She’s going to risk her life to testify against Packy Walsh. How much moral character do you want?’
‘That’s a commendably enlightened point of view,’ Lewicki said. ‘It would be nice to think that everyone will share it.’
‘So we’ve got fuck all?’
‘No. We’ve got a start. Now we have an idea what happened we can go back and talk to the other girls, prompt them, give them the hard word. But we need corroboration.’ He paused. ‘The fucking UDA?’
‘I know. It makes no sense. The Walshes are Tims. And it’s a Celtic game, not Rangers? Plus, it’s the Neils who’ve got the Ulster connection, not the Walshes.’
‘Aye but that was different. Maitland’s thing was with the UVF. The UDA’s a whole different ballgame.’
My mind flashed back to the phone call, the number on Moir’s Post-it, the Ulster voice at the end of the line. Lewicki’s trace had got nowhere but maybe this was connected.
‘A Loyalist feud? Maybe he’s Belfast, not Glasgow. He’s over helping the Walshes. Is he hitting the Neils to hurt the other mob, the UVF?’
‘Jesus, Gerry, who knows? The key at this stage is the girls. We get even one of them to confirm this story, then we can move. If nothing else, we can charge Walsh for the assault.’ He sniffed, cleared his throat. ‘You writing this up?’
‘Sensitively,’ I said. ‘With the tact and discretion that have come to be my hallmarks.’
Lewicki sighed, a long low sound that carried no hint of forbearance. ‘Just don’t fuck it up,’ he said.
I bought a roll and square sausage at the baker’s beside the Cope, a caramel latte from the Starbucks at the Trib, put my iPhone onto silent, unhooked my office phone. Half an hour later I filed it to Driscoll:
A prostitute whose body was discovered in woods near Duntocher in October may have been murdered in a Glasgow tenement, the Tribune on Sunday has learned. Helen Friel, 30, a recovering heroin addict, was assaulted in a southside brothel two days before her body was found, according to a fellow sex-worker.
The woman, who has agreed to give a statement to police, claims Ms Friel was punched and slapped by the brothel owner – a member of the notorious Walsh crime family – to coerce her into having sex with a customer known to be violent.
The ToS has passed this information on to detectives working within the elite Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency. An Agency spokesperson thanked the Tribune on Sunday for its diligence: ‘We are grateful to the Tribune for bringing this material to our attention. We will investigate these serious allegations with urgency and rigour.’ Pressed on whether arrests may be imminent, the spokesperson declined to comment.
Ms Friel’s body was discovered by forestry workers in woodland close to the A82 on 25 October. A post-mortem examination determined the cause of death as strangulation.
The Walsh crime family, headed by brothers Patrick ‘Packy’ Walsh, 52, and Declan ‘The Woodpecker’ Walsh, 48, controls the supply of cocaine and heroin to the south side of Glasgow.
Martin Moir, the Tribune on Sunday’s Investigations Editor, had been investigating the Walsh crime family before his sudden death on 22 October.
The last sentence would probably go – Driscoll would strike it, or Maguire would – but I chanced it anyway. I wanted Walsh to know that his card was marked, that another Tribune journo was on his case. Then I wrote up the press conference, the one we would splash with, the Rangers fan murdered off Great Western Road.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Is this an interview?’
Mari was watching from the kitchen doorway. I frowned at the mirror. Paul Smith suit. Lemon shirt, oxblood tie. Tan Loake brogues.
‘It’s called a suit. Type of men’s apparel. Not sure you have them in New Zealand.’
‘Oh I think I’ve seen them.’ She slipped her arms under mine and tightened the knot of my tie. ‘Yeah. Guy sold me a Holden, he was wearing one.’
‘Aye? We’ll all be selling cars if the paper doesn’t pick up.’
*
The Jarvie Club was on Great Western Road, a terrace set back from the traffic, up on the hill with its own strip of road. The blonde sandstone portico was crumbling a little but the brass plate shone wet in the white sunless day. The door opened before I could ring the bell and a porter asked me to sign in, pointed to the stairs.
I climbed slowly, my leather soles slipping on the carpet, and thought about Haining. The first time I heard him speak was in 2005. The city was selling off council land, punting gap sites to developers at throwaway rates. Most council leaders would have kept this quiet; Haining held a press conference. He brought us to an empty lot behind the Gallowgate on a blustery June morning. A lectern stood in the rubble, amid the wagging thistles and torn johnnies, the turds and the used syringes, and Haining gripped its sides with his big fists and glared out at the press pack, a wind from the river lifting his hair.
‘At the start of the twentieth century,’ he told us, ‘this was the most densely populated urban area in Europe. This plot of land. Seven hundred thousand people lived in three square miles of Glasgow city centre. Families of five, six, seven, living in a single room. Worst rate of infant mortality in the developed world.’
He clamped his mouth shut, nodded slowly, scanned the heads.
‘That’s the challenge this city faced,’ he said. ‘A challenge with no parallel in this country, few in any others. Did we meet it?’ He shrugged. ‘We tried. We knocked down whole districts, put up a hundred thousand homes, shifted whole communities out of the slums. But a process on this scale, it’s not neat and tidy. It’s messy. It’s piecemeal. You end up with places like this. Places where the slums were cleared and nothing went up in their place. Gap sites. Wastelands. Eyesores. And we know what happens then. The gangs take over. The junkies. Another bit of Glasgow gone to the dogs. But so what?’ He spread his hands, hunched his shoulders. ‘So what? We can’t afford to build on them. It’s out of our hands.’
He shook his head, studied the lectern. ‘Not good enough,’ he said, looking up. ‘Not. Good. Enough. We can’t afford to build. But—’ tapping the lectern with a stubby finger – ‘we know people who can. And if they undertake to build something useful, if they build houses or shops or businesses, this city will sell them the land. We’ll bloody give them the land. Will we make money? No. Will we make this city a better place?’ He looked around at the rubbled lot, the detritus of coke cans and smashed half-bottles, the dead bonfires, charred scuddy-mags. He leaned forward on one elbow, his lip curled in scorn. ‘What do you think?’
It was classic Haining. Fluent bullshit, for the most part, but something winning in the delivery. No front pages came from that speech, it didn’t make Reporting Scotland at half past six that evening. But that wasn’t the point. He’d killed it as a story. There would be no exposés, no hostile headlines about the city flogging the family silver. He’d painted a quick fix as a moral crusade and stopped the Scottish press pack doing its job.
At the top of the stairs I straightened my tie, checked my fly. A shoelace working loose. Kneeling on the fleur-de-lis carpet I listened to the buzz from the Glasgow Room, through the double doors. People who knew what they were doing. People who belonged. I straightened up and pushed the door.
The room was packed, suits and dresses in loose groups, white-shirted waiting staff weaving between them. I faltered a moment, wavered, like someone who’d stepped off the kerb into oncoming traffic, scanned around for the drink, the bar, the waiters.
‘Gerry!’
Haining was plunging through the bodies, burly, bearish, the big teeth bared in a chummy growl.
‘Glad you could come.’ The moist palm, meaty.
A girl appeared with a tray of champagne. For a moment I thought it was the girl from Temora Street, Gina; she had the same shade of hair, the same purple hollows under her
eyes. I plucked a flute and tipped it back. Haining leaned towards me. His bulk created a private space, a little alcove in the busy room.
‘I meant to say, Gerry. The piece in Sunday’s paper: just the ticket. Get the facts down. Straight bat. No hysterics.’
‘We aim to please, Councillor.’
‘“Gavin”, please! Councillor!’ He laughed and steered me into the crowd. ‘I mean it, though. Enough shit with these fuckwits without blowing it out of proportion.’
A trio opened up at our approach. Two men and a woman.
‘This man writes for the Trib,’ Haining announced. ‘Watch what you say!’
Three broad smiles.
‘Gerry Conway. Anna Vallance. Alan Goldie. Lewis Rush.’
‘Pleasure.’
The woman was early thirties, flirty, flushed, she held her glass up at her shoulder, head cocked to one side. Her glass caught the sunlight; deep red print of her lips on the rim. I wondered which of the men was fucking her.
‘Not bad,’ she said, staring. ‘About time we had some new blood. Any blood, in fact.’
The thin one shot his cuffs, frowned, flexed his shoulders. I stopped wondering.
The other man, Goldie, was in telly, head of current affairs at Baird. I’d known him when he was election officer for Labour’s Scottish leader in the Nineties.
There were thirty people round the table. I knew some of them by sight. The bassist for a local band, just back from playing South by Southwest. A novelist with heavily gelled hair and a cream blazer with thick black pinstripes. I recognised the blazer – he was wearing it on the cover of his latest novel, Heavy Sex, which made it onto the Booker longlist. I spotted McMillan from the Scotsman, a best-selling historian, the presenter of a TV makeover show.
I was seated between the tipsy woman and an old gent in a dark suit and striped tie. The strip of marbled card at his place-mat said ‘John Patullo’. He leaned across to read my own before clasping a massive hand round mine.
‘Conway.’ He settled his napkin. ‘You’re the newspaperman.’
‘I’m a journalist, yes.’
He nodded. Above the blue checked shirt his wattled neck wavered.
‘I was sorry to hear about your colleague.’
Had he known Moir?
‘A capable man,’ he said. ‘I liked him a lot. Here.’ He took a card from his top pocket and placed it on the table beside me: John Patullo, OBE. Kentigern Consortium.
The sound of pewter on glass. Conversations faltering, stalling, dying out around the table. Haining on his feet, smiling. He put down his spoon.
‘Ladies. Gentlemen.’ He spread his arms. ‘Friends. I nearly said Comrades.’ Little rip of laughter. ‘As ever, pleasure, real pleasure to see you. As you know, I like to mix things up in these little gatherings and we have two new faces with us this afternoon. Lauren, could you give us a wave, please?’ A smoky, cadaverous blonde across the table raised her hand like someone swearing the oath of allegiance. ‘Lauren Trevelyan from Burnbank Media. Moved up from London last year. And we have our own Gerry Conway of the Tribune on Sunday.’ I raised my hand. ‘Gerry moved up from – where was it, Gerry? Mureton?’ Laughter. ‘You’re both very welcome.’
He smoothed his tie with a fat hand.
‘For the benefit of the newcomers, these events are social. There’s no discussion paper, no agenda. Just bringing you guys together, in my opinion, is good for the city. Things will happen, ideas will emerge, if artists talk to bankers. If CEOs talk to filmmakers. If lawyers talk to journalists. Hang on, scratch that – say fuck all to journalists.’ More laughter. ‘Gerry, Brian: only joking.
‘I think of these gatherings as a little investment in the future of our great city. I’m fortunate that my position allows me to bring talented people together. Sadly, one very modestly talented person has to be leaving—’ he looked at his watch, ‘right about now. Watch Reporting Scotland tonight and you’ll see why. Enjoy your dessert. Enjoy the wine, the company. Talk to each other. And I’ll catch you next time.’
And then he was off, patting shoulders, shaking hands, on his way to the exit. Light smatter of applause and the conversations started up again.
After the meal, we moved to the side tables for coffee. Gold-rimmed cups and dice-sized cubes of tablet.
‘Gerry.’
Allan Goldie at my shoulder, tight smile, eyebrows raised.
‘You got a minute? You’re not heading off?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Great.’ He ushered me over to a table in the corner where we sank in the brown padded club chairs.
‘I’m glad I caught you. Look, I’ll get straight to the point, Gerry. We’re commissioning a series of programmes about the referendum. Explore the issues, explain the process. Profile the key players. Leaders’ debates, studio audience of five hundred people.’
I nodded. ‘Sounds impressive.’
‘It might be. That depends on the talent. Talent’s you, Gerry. We want you to front the series.’
I looked away down the long high room, the sun in the tall windows catching the nap of a blue suit, a sheaf of feather-cut hair, a bright plug of gold in a long-stemmed glass.
‘What about Dennis?’
Dennis Garvaghy was the channel’s political editor. He’d fronted their coverage of every election since 1992. I’d sat up into the small hours more often than I could remember, watching his stern jowls announce Labour holds in Aberdeen North or Hamilton South.
Goldie grimaced. ‘Oh, Dennis is Dennis. Dennis is great. He’s going through some issues just now, working things out. We’re planning some changes at the channel. Look,’ he held his hands up; ‘I don’t need a decision right away. The programmes won’t be starting till the spring. Meantime, let’s get you on Spectrum again, get the viewers used to that handsome mug.’
Spectrum was the Sunday-lunchtime politics show that Dennis had fronted for the past ten years and on which I irregularly – and to my mind ineptly – guested during my first stint at the Trib.
‘OK.’ He was on his feet now. ‘We’ll start the profiles with the “No” camp leader. Better the devil you know!’
He was grinning.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Who’s leading the “No” campaign?’
The grin fell. He looked puzzled, gave a short laugh.
‘He is.’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to where Haining had been sitting. ‘I thought – I mean, Jesus, you’re sitting here.’
I looked at the vacant chair, the napkin that had still to be removed.
‘But he’s not even in parliament. He’s not an MSP.’
‘All the better. He’s not tainted. You’ve seen them, Gerry, the Party’s Scottish emissaries. It’s not the brains trust. They’re not in government, they know fuck all about opposition.’ He opened his arms. ‘Meantime Haining’s running a city with a budget of ten billion.’
‘So the plan is, what? He leads it from outside parliament?’
‘He runs the “No” campaign. Saves the Union. Hosts the Games. Stands for Holyrood in 2015. They win, great – he’s in the cabinet, he gets the big job in a couple of years. They don’t win, McKay stands down, Haining’s in the big chair, wins next time. Look—’ he checked his watch, ‘we’ll cover all this when we do the briefing. Keep in touch.’
I took the hand he offered, watched him slip back into the fray.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘We invite you all to join us after the service for a cup of tea in the Gathering Area, which is reached through the doors on your right as you leave the church.’
She blessed us, impressively, with one hand held high. Then we all stood up as a man in a black velvet robe carried the big black Bible down the aisle, followed by the minister and the choir.
The Gathering Area was a modern, glass extension to the church, a kind of see-through transept. There were chairs along both sides and a serving hatch at the far end, where a woman in a scarlet cardigan was tipping tea int
o mugs from a big tarnished pot. Glasses of pale diluting orange caught the sunlight. There were small round tables with plates of biscuits and buttered fruit loaf.
I was chatting to a man with a name-tag reading ‘Bertie’ when the minister floated into my field of vision. She had changed out of her robes and was now wearing a blue Adidas tracksuit and chunky white running shoes. I had a cup of tea in one hand and a slice of pineapple loaf in the other. I swallowed the last mouthful, rubbed my palm on my jeans and shook her hand.
‘Are you visiting the parish?’
A toddler with a custard cream held aloft careened between us.
‘No. Yes. I grew up around here but I live in Glasgow now. In fact, though—’ I fished a card from my breast pocket – ‘I’m here for another reason.’
She read the card. ‘Martin,’ she said.
‘I was Martin’s friend, as well as a colleague. Clare’s been trying to make sense of what happened and she’s asked me to help.’
‘Yes.’ The minister nodded, as if this made perfect sense.
‘I’m trying to, I don’t know. Gauge his state of mind. What might have driven him to do what he did. I wondered if you might have time to talk to me for a little while.’
She nodded. That would be fine. She had Session in half an hour, but was I free that afternoon?
We met in one of the cafés on Bank Street, ‘The First Edition’, scrubbed deal tables and leather couches. It was the minister’s suggestion.
‘I thought you might feel at home.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Newspapers. The First Edition?’
‘Right. Actually it’s not a newspaper reference.’
‘But what about—’ she jabbed a thumb at the window; the offices of the Mureton Standard across the street.
‘I know, but it’s not that. It’s Robert Burns. The poems. The first edition of his poems was published up the road.’
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