When The Devil Drives (18 page)

The pursuit lasted a good twenty minutes, Todd going in circles, needlessly back and forth along dual carriageways and around industrial estates before making his way into the car park of a large supermarket close to the football stadium.

‘He’s letting me know he’s aware,’ Martin moaned. ‘He didn’t pull a reciprocal or try to burn me outright: he’s just dicking me about as a means of giving me the finger.’

Jasmine made her way into the car park and picked out the Freelander, reversing into a space where she could keep an eye on
Todd’s vehicle. Time kept on trickling away. It was approaching two o’clock. Even if she left this minute she wouldn’t make it to Alloway until around four.

She could hear Sanquhar’s voice on the phone that morning, his words about letting a piece of paper touch his hand only once and the unnecessary doubling of tasks. A black-belt in time management who had spotted a tiny window and offered it to her. What were the chances of a guy like that giving her a second bite?

She saw Todd returning to his vehicle carrying a single shopping bag. In there half an hour and he only had one bag? Bastard. An ex-cop and he knew the score. He was wasting their time because he knew he could. They had no option but to watch and wait. She was going to be here all day, and what was worse was that they weren’t going to get this guy. He returned all mail, never answered his door and never acknowledged his name. The papers had to be delivered in person, and he had to verify his identity.

She watched him close the hatchback of his vehicle and place his solitary bag inside. Then he’d probably sit there, milking it a bit longer before reversing out. She hated this gig, she hated this guy and she hated that ridiculous, oversized vehicle. How could he even see out the back of it with that spare wheel covering the window?

Which was when she saw how to end this. It would come at a cost, but it would get the job done. How much did she want to make it to Alloway, that was the question.

‘Bollocks to it,’ was her answer.

She put the Civic in first and nipped out of the space, then crawled along the lane until she was a car’s width back from where the Freelander would emerge. Its driver was blocked by a solid-walled Escort van from her line of sight – as she was from his.

She kept her feet balanced between the accelerator and the clutch, then picked her moment as the rear of Todd’s vehicle withdrew. The Honda lurched forward and the back of the Freelander crunched into it. Nothing drastic, but hard enough that some panel work was definitely going to be required. As were his insurance details, what with him being the one who had reversed out without spotting a bright red car coming down the lane at his back.

She got out of her car first and had a look, feigning shock and not a little anger as Todd emerged to assess the damage. It wasn’t a bad bash, but as predicted it would take some work; from experience a couple of hundred quid’s worth. For that reason she made damn sure she had his insurance details written down and confirmed before handing him the envelope.

Jasmine made it to Alloway for five past four, and as she approached the junction closest to where the kirk sat she was hugely relieved to see a van parked near by, bearing the legend of an independent production company: First Glance Films. She recalled the words of one of her teachers at the SATD, warning them that ‘television filming always expands to fill the time available’. This thought had been at the back of her mind since Perth, but it hadn’t eased her foot from the accelerator.

The Honda had been making that clunking noise again, as well as losing power in low gear. She hoped the dunt from Todd’s Freelander hadn’t shaken something else loose, and she didn’t imagine flooring it for the best part of two hours was doing much for the poor thing’s recuperation. She was here now, though, and crucially so was Julian Sanquhar.

She could see him standing close to the iconic ruin, drinking coffee from a paper cup and chatting to a woman while the film crew worked on setting up a shot among the ancient headstones.

He was shorter than the impression she’d garnered from photographs. She’d imagined a wiry figure, toweringly professorial, but though he was indeed thin he was maybe only five-six or five-seven and slight with it. He had wispy white hair, which was blowing around in the breeze coming in from the Firth of Clyde.

He was dressed in a grey suit with a waistcoat, in a cut that had never been in or out of fashion. To Jasmine it said old money well spent, but not spent on clothes very often.

The woman he was talking to turned her head. Jasmine recognised her as Kirsteen Currie, a former BBC Scotland newsreader who had worked the arts beat in recent years. She was the voice and face of
whatever was being filmed, Sanquhar presumably the writer or producer, possibly both.

Jasmine had done her homework on him since getting the Glass Shoe information from Companies House. He had said early in his tenure as head of ACS that ‘if I’m not the most complained-about person in Scottish arts circles, then I’m doing it wrong’. On the surface these sounded like the arrogant words of a man who was not afraid of making enemies, but in practice evidenced pragmatic sensibilities and good-humoured humility, two qualities that had served him well throughout his career. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to please everybody when it was his hands on the purse strings, but he had been the one looking for – and often denied – a hand-out from the arts budget plenty of times in the past, so he understood the frustrations.

‘Begging is good for the soul,’ was one of his quotes on the matter.

For those less inclined to be as philosophical as he had been upon having a funding application turned down, his surname offered an obvious rhyming outlet for their frustrations, but the nickname that seemed to have stuck was ‘Saint Julian’. Jasmine remembered hearing it from lecturers at the SATD, and had at first assumed it was in reference to his renowned but seldom stated religious beliefs. He was known to be deeply – but just as privately – devout in his Catholicism, his faith being a personal matter about which he was neither outspoken nor inclined to bring into his public life in any way.

However, upon researching his career in more detail Jasmine came to discover that the real origin of his moniker was in affectionate and grateful tribute to his ‘working miracles’ in sourcing and stretching funds for theatre companies and other arts projects. He was said to be selfless, dedicated and utterly committed wherever he had worked, so perhaps the large quantity of goodwill he had carried into his ACS chairmanship meant he didn’t get complained about as much as some of his predecessors.

Naturally, he wasn’t without his detractors, even among those acknowledging their gratitude. He was praised for his efficiency, his diligence and in particular his resoluteness: his ability to make a
decision quickly and to stick by it. However, this last was something of a double-edged sword, as he was criticised for being both impulsive and reluctant to admit when he’d screwed up. Most of the time, his forward planning was his strength, but one former ACS colleague warned that he was ‘highly skilled at retro-engineering his logic to justify decisions made on the spur of the moment’.

On the whole, though, his tenure at ACS had been uncontroversial, and that was arguably the greatest compliment that could be paid to whoever held his post.

Jasmine approached on quiet feet, walking briskly but not wishing to appear too hurried. Sanquhar noticed her at around the same time as one of the production crew, who was about to intercept her when he got a wave from the boss to acknowledge that her presence was expected. Jasmine felt a measure of relief that Sanquhar had remembered she was coming, as she imagined that by the end of a day’s filming, arrangements made first thing that morning could have long since dropped off the call sheet. It certainly felt more than just a matter of hours since they’d spoken on the phone, her beloved Civic bearing the scars of a long day.

Sanquhar broke off with an apologetic gesture to Kirsteen Currie and turned to greet her. It didn’t do a great deal for Jasmine’s composure to witness this woman she had grown up seeing on television every evening not only in the flesh a few yards away but effectively being put on hold.

‘You must be Jasmine Sharp,’ Sanquhar said, offering a hand.

‘That’s me,’ she responded self-consciously. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she added, addressing Currie.

‘Not at all,’ said the presenter. ‘Kirsteen Currie. Nice to meet you.’

It was very disconcerting to have a Scottish household name introduce herself like everyone who saw her didn’t already know. Jasmine was lost for a response that wouldn’t have her still cringing in a decade and so opted for a handshake and a mumbled ‘hi’.

‘I’ll keep out of the way until you’ve got five minutes,’ Jasmine assured Sanquhar. ‘Or, well, as long as you can spare.’

‘Oh, I can spare plenty right now,’ he responded. ‘I was the one keeping Kirsteen company while they set up this next shot. We can
take a wander along the road to the hotel there and grab a cuppa, if you like.’

Jasmine glanced at the cup already in his hand and he caught her looking.

‘Don’t worry about that. It’s instant muck. Great excuse to pour it away.’

‘If it’s all the same, I’m all right out here. I’ve been driving and I could use the fresh air.’

Currie gave a chuckle.

‘I think Julian was just looking for an excuse to take a walk. He could stand and talk Burns with me all day, but I’m sure he’d rather not be doing so in a graveyard, even this graveyard. Maybe especially this graveyard. We’re all very grateful for his stoicism thus far. The poor dear won’t be sleeping tonight after this. Can’t handle the “warlocks and witches in a dance”, can you, Jules?’

‘I’d prefer the banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, it would be fair to say,’ he said with a thin smile, indicating that Currie’s was not an idle observation but something of a barb.

It took Jasmine a moment to grasp what she was alluding to. She had read the single interview in which Sanquhar had been less circumspect about his religious beliefs, or rather one aspect in particular. He had never been known to wear his faith as a badge, to paint himself as pious or to indulge in moral pontificating, so it seemed unfair to Jasmine that these few remarks had occasionally been cast up out of context. Perhaps his more typical reticence with regard to his religion meant that there wasn’t a deluge of more bland and mundane bread-and-butter Christian platitudes in which to dilute them, or perhaps it was just one of those issues that was always going to attract attention.

He had said he believed in the devil: not as a generic catch-all term for human wickedness, but as an entity.

‘Catholic doctrine states that Satan exists as a person,’ he told an interviewer for the
Sunday Times
. ‘And I hold that to be true. I don’t believe in some figure of medieval wood carvings with cloven hooves and horns, and not as what you or I would recognise as an individual, corporeal being, but a form of consciousness nonetheless. An agency.
Something that moves within this world. It’s not a fashionable thing to say, and that is why I suspect more people believe it than would own up to it, but you go and ask the soldiers who were in Bosnia, in Kosovo, in Rwanda. They’ll tell you there are evils in this world greater than man.’

It had been in the course of a broadly philosophical discussion about the nature of evil, but the background tended to be left out whenever someone brought it up by way of a cheap dig, trying to make Sanquhar look like a nutter. It struck Jasmine that it would be enormously bad form on Currie’s part to be doing so in front of a stranger, even if she and Sanquhar happened to be old friends. Thus she reasoned that Currie’s remarks were more likely in reference to the one genuine storm that had blown up during Sanquhar’s time as ACS chair.

During her research Jasmine had browsed dozens of news stories and amid the usual exchanges about funding decisions and the predictable jousts arising from arts-world personality politics, the only controversy worth mentioning had arisen over the film body Screen Scotland.

There was always an ongoing debate about whether public money should assist more artistically adventurous films that otherwise wouldn’t stand a chance of getting made, or whether the funding would be better spent investing in more commercially viable projects that would showcase Scottish talent, locations and facilities as well as earning its keep at the box office. Every so often this would come to a head, usually when a disproportionately large share was awarded to a single commercial movie (the complaint being that it would have got made anyway) or when it transpired that the cash had been spread thinly across a number of more worthy projects, none of which had subsequently made it out of development. On this occasion the issue blew up because of Screen Scotland’s decision
not
to award any support to a particular project, and the subsequent leaked revelation that Sanquhar had brought personal pressure to bear in the decision-making process.

Making it all the more juicy, from a media point of view, was that the project concerned was a horror film, and therefore battle was
joined with all the vehemence and over-statement that journalists seemed to reserve exclusively for things that didn’t matter very much.

There was a broad debate about the morality of presenting violence – and in particular the horror genre – as entertainment, with the outcry from the right-wing tabloids against public money being spent on it rendered no less shrill by being utterly moot. More soberly, in the broadsheet arts pages the spotlight was focused upon Sanquhar’s hand in the veto and whether his personal prejudice or even individual taste had played an inappropriate role. This largely derived from Sanquhar being on record regarding his profound dislike for horror cinema, amid reports that he had always been very squeamish about both violence and sex on screen.

‘I am not so naïve, like Keats’s Grecian urn, as to believe beauty is truth and truth beauty,’ he had once said. ‘If art is about truth, then art must necessarily reflect ugliness. But my problem with even the very idea of these films is that they trade
only
in ugliness. Ugly images, ugly emotions, ugly sentiments and, of course, very ugly acts. One can’t help but conclude that such works can only inspire ugly thoughts and ultimately inculcate ugly attitudes.’