68 #Everest

There was an intercom entry system to the crumbling old yellow sandstone building, but no need to use it, as the main door was permanently unlocked. April arduously climbed the three flights of steps to the top flat. She wondered if Edmund Hillary also broke out in a succession of hot hormonal flushes trying to make it to the summit. On each landing of the dingy stairwell, she was greeted by a different variety of odours that attested to the cosmopolitan tastes of the occupants, from the curry spices of India or Pakistan to Chinese culinary treats. It made April hungry.

She loved the way she had seen so many different nationalities settle in Glasgow over the generations. Unlike some of England’s cities, by and large Glasgow had never been blighted by racial tensions. It was something that made her immensely proud of her little country, that it had such a big outlook on the world.

As she plodded her way up the final flight of steps with her thick thighs and lungs on fire, she was suddenly glad she had never lived in student digs. April had always been house-proud – from her days when she was a young mum living in a cramped council flat, to now, when three divorces had left her with a considerable property portfolio. Along with the lovingly restored old Victorian house on Glasgow’s Southside, she had half a dozen flats dotted around the city, which she rented out to students and young families. She had bought them cheaply and in areas normally untouched by developers, and struck it lucky when the districts were targeted by city rejuvenation schemes, or in one case, the creation of a so-called media village, when the BBC and rival STV television stations moved in next door to each other.

But April wouldn’t have bought this flat. She hated old tenement buildings as they were too reminiscent of her childhood.

She knocked on the door, which she guessed had been painted white at some point, but had turned almost yellow with the passage of time. The frame had been bust and repaired several times by the looks of things, from either break-ins or flatmates who had lost their keys and used the age-old master key of a boot to the door. She pressed the doorbell and wondered why she had bothered, as it emitted no sound. April decided to give another sturdy knock instead. Music could be heard from deep within the recesses of the apartment so she knew someone was home.

Moments later the door was opened by a girl in a short skimpy dress, which showed off her array of body tattoos. April’s eyes couldn’t help dropping to those on the girl’s thighs. In the dim light of the landing, the body art looked like varicose veins.

‘Hi,’ April said as cheerily as she could muster, ‘is Des around, love?’

April could not get her head around the modern phenomenon of tattoos. Her least favourite were the multi-coloured ‘sleeves’, with the ‘ink art’ covering the length and breadth of people’s arms. In her day, tattoos were exclusively for sailors and convicts. And it baffled her why everyone wanted to look the same.

It was the turn of the girl to look April up and down, before she shouted over her shoulder, ‘Dessy – someone to see you.’

‘What?’ came the distant reply.

‘At the door. Someone wants to see you.’ The girl gave a half smile as she told April, ‘He’s just coming. We’re not normally up this early.’

The statement caused April to glance involuntarily at her watch. It had just gone 10.30am. Tattoo girl made way for Des Gilmour, who had a fine mop of unruly bed hair, and was wearing black skinny jeans and a student standard-issue faded T-shirt, with the name of some band April had never heard of, or wanted to.

‘Can I help you?’ he said in a passive-aggressive way, his chin jutted forward and his hands on his narrow hips.

‘I’m April Lavender from the Daily Chronicle,’ she replied, her hand outstretched. ‘I wanted to talk…’

Des Gilmour cut her off. ‘About that cunt Bryce Horrigan? What do you want to know? Did I celebrate his death? Damn right. I’m still hung over. Or do you just want to stitch me up again like that other reporter? “Oh, look at the weirdo student, who’s calling the great, mighty Bryce Horrigan nasty names,”’ Gilmour said mockingly. ‘You wouldn’t believe the shit that story caused me. My folks didn’t talk to me for months. Said I’d embarrassed them.’

Cut off your allowance, more like, April thought to herself.

‘So I certainly don’t plan to go through all that again,’ he added emphatically.

‘I completely understand,’ April said truthfully, ‘but now Bryce is dead, maybe it would be good to give your side of the story? How it has affected you. Why you did it in the first place,’ April said hopefully, desperately trying to convince the scruffy young man with a serious attitude problem to talk to her.

Des went to respond then thought better of it. Eventually he said, ‘Okay, I’ll tell you the truth on the absolute cast-iron assurance you won’t print it.’

April maintained her smiley face but inside she was crestfallen. Post-Leveson, people who are interviewed can withdraw their consent at any time before it’s published. So if you had someone confessing all to an affair with a public figure, they could pull their story at the eleventh hour, even though it was all recorded. In the old days, when journalists played hard and fast with the rules, if it was on tape then it was going in the paper. Consent or no consent.

April replied, ‘Sure, I won’t print a word. Legally, I can’t now.’ Deep inside she wanted to cut the meeting short. For what was the point in someone speaking if you can’t use it? She also dreaded calling her news editor to tell him his much-hoped-for splash was now more of a plop.

It was Gilmour’s turn to smile. ‘Okay, come in – I’m about to blow your mind.’