by Anna Smith
‘Rosie.’ His voice was soft. ‘Laila wants to talk to the police. I . . . I’m worried about it. But I think it is the right thing to do. She has heard things about Rabia, and she didn’t even tell us until she came home from Pakistan.’
‘Do you mean you have evidence that they harmed Rabia?’
Rosie looked at Laila, then at the grandfather.
‘Not evidence, as such. Just what Rabia told her about being ill-treated. And that wouldn’t mean much now, because it’s too late . . . she’s already buried,’ Laila’s grandfather said. ‘But what Laila heard from Sabiha and Rabia about the passports, and how Rabia’s husband Farooq was involved in it, that’s important. I don’t know how much his father knew, but if Rashid did know, even if he wasn’t involved, then he turned a blind eye. That is wrong. They are all guilty. If Rabia was pushed out of the window, or was so depressed because of how they ill-treated her that she jumped, then they all deserve to be punished. They should face justice.’
Rosie nodded. This would be a tall order without evidence. The police had already noised the Shahs up sufficiently, though, so they would be on edge. Probably already starting to blame each other for the passport scam. Laila’s grandmother appeared with a tray with tea glasses on it. She handed Rosie one which was so sweet she could feel it punch its way straight into her bloodstream.
‘Well, I can talk to the police. I have some good contacts, and I know that they have already been to the house, so I know the detectives would welcome more evidence – even if it is only what Sabiha and Rabia told you. Sadly, these poor girls aren’t here to back it up now, but with everything that’s gone on in the past couple of days, I think the case is ripe for the police to move in. Your evidence would definitely be good for them to have, Laila.’
Rosie hesitated. She hated taking her notebook out, but she was going to have to. She wasn’t a police officer; she had a story to tell, and if Laila wanted to fill in the blanks, then she wasn’t going to wait until the police arrived to decide whether or not they would pass the information on to her sometime later.
‘Do you mind if we just have a chat now about what you, Sabiha and Rabia talked about?’
‘No – I want to talk,’ Laila said.
‘Are you sure you’re okay with it? We can do it tomorrow if you’d rather?’
‘No. I want to do it now. I want to tell the truth. We have to.’ She glanced at her mother, who clasped her hand tighter, then her grandfather. He blinked slowly and nodded.
Rosie’s heart went out to them. It was impossible for her to understand what it was like to live in this kind of close-knit community. You had to be a part of it to know. Her dealings with Pakistanis and Asians was very limited, but she had always found them polite and hard-working. What she’d seen in recent weeks had opened up a different world to her. She’d been shocked to the core by what she’d witnessed in Pakistan, but the notion that an entire community, right here on her own doorstep, could keep up a cloak of secrecy about a young girl’s death, was a different issue. She opened her notebook and asked Laila to start at the beginning.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sleep just wouldn’t come for Rosie. She’d wrestled around the bed, a mix of too much tea and being just too exhausted to relax keeping her awake. Eventually she drifted off, but the last time she’d looked at the clock it was four in the morning. When she awoke three hours later, she just lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain batter on her bedroom windows. Her face was wet from her nightmare, and she didn’t even attempt to make sense of it. All she could remember was a blaze and someone screaming. She felt her throat tighten, and the urge to cry was almost overwhelming. If she didn’t get out of this bed right now, anything could happen. She threw back the duvet, grateful that the central heating had clicked on and the room was warm. She padded naked into the living room and clicked on the television, then pulled open the curtains. It was still dark outside and the lights twinkled from cars making their way to work, the slow line of commuters from Charing Cross snaking its way into the city. She stuck the kettle on, then went for a shower and stood there till she was almost sleeping again. She finished it off with a blast of icy water to shock her into her day. By the time Matt’s text sounded on her mobile, she was dressed, caffeined up, and as ready as she would ever be.
The drive to Stirling was a crawl in the semi-darkness, but at least the rain had stopped. She and Matt didn’t speak too much on the journey, both exhausted. He hadn’t slept much either. Eventually, they took the slip road and went along the Bannockburn road towards the farm. On the way up there, they could see the farmer’s pickup was outside the house, and the lights were on. As they drove into the courtyard, they exchanged glances when they saw the Jaguar with the shattered windscreen. Rosie noticed one of the window curtains in the farmer’s house was pulled back a little. She was relieved to see there were no bodies lying around on the ground. By the time they got out of the car, the front door was open and Euan sat in in the doorway in his wheelchair. He looked tired, his eyes were swollen and bruised, and there was a graze on his forehead. He manoeuvred his wheels until he was outside, pulling up the zip on his fleecy jacket against the wind.
‘What do you want?’
‘Sorry. It’s Euan, isn’t it?’
‘Who are you?’
‘We’re looking for your dad. Is he around?’
Euan shook his head, biting his lips together as though he was about to crumple.
‘Are you the people my dad met up at the field yesterday? You said you were journalists?’
‘Yes. We’re from the Post. Is your mum here?’
Euan shook his head.
‘She stayed with her sister last night.’
‘Look, Euan. I’m really sorry about this, but we talked to Julie and Nikki. We were with them last night when they left here. We’ve been working with them on an investigation for a few weeks now.’ Rosie paused, waiting for a reaction. When there was none, she continued. ‘They told us what happened here.’
Euan said nothing. He wheeled past them. ‘Why can’t you just go away and leave us alone! Why can’t everyone leave us alone?’
They followed him as he went across the yard to where the pig pen was. Rosie looked at Matt, not really sure how to handle this. They stood behind him as he stared down at the pig pen, his face ashen.
‘Where’s your father, Euan?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we want to talk to him. Bad things happened here yesterday. We know all about it. Four people died. We know you were in danger.’
‘Bad things happened because bad people came here. The same kind of bad bastards who did this to me.’ He reached up to his face to wipe away a tear.
‘I know. I understand. But your dad is in trouble and he needs to talk to someone.’
Rosie gazed as the thin light of morning crept across the landscape, beginning to lift the darkness. She shivered in the wind as her eyes took in the outbuildings and fences in need of repair. Euan shook his head and stared into space. Then he put his hands to his face as he began to weep.
‘Dad’s gone. He took the shotgun . . . Oh, Dad! Oh God! Can somebody help us . . .?’ He looked up to the sky, pleading, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Rosie shot Matt a worried glance.
‘Where? Where did he go?’
No answer. She went forward and stood in front of Euan, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
‘Euan. Tell us where he is. We can go and look for him.’
‘He wants to die. He said we’d all be better off.’
‘That’s not true. Listen, where do you think he is?’
Silence. Then Euan’s lip trembled.
‘He’ll be down by the graveside. My wee sister died when she was only four, and my mum and dad wanted her buried on our land. He might be there. I don’t know . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Rosie and Matt exchanged looks. Matt shrugged and sighed.
‘Come o
n, let’s go. Where is it exactly?’ she asked.
‘Over there.’ He pointed towards an area beyond the garden that was walled off with trees and bushes. ‘Behind that clump of trees. That’s where the grave is. He might be there, I don’t know. Please . . . Can you go and find him? I . . . I feel helpless here. Useless.’
Rosie and Matt turned and walked quickly in the direction he’d pointed to.
‘This is dangerous, Rosie,’ Matt said. ‘Should we not phone for help? If he’s in a mad state of mind, who knows what he’ll do? He’s got nothing to lose by shooting us.’
‘He won’t shoot us. Why would he do that?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just don’t believe he will.’
‘Christ almighty,’ Matt muttered as they quickened their step.
Across the garden they dipped down to a path through the thicket and as they walked further on, they could see a shape sitting on a bench in front of what looked like a headstone. A conifer stood on each side, and white pebbles surrounded the area.
‘What’re we going to do?’ Matt whispered.
‘You stay here. I’ll go. In case we spook him.’
‘You’ll spook him just as much with one as two.’
‘Maybe not. Look, Matt, just wait here. I won’t do anything daft.’
‘Christ. Like this isn’t anything daft.’
‘Sssh. Don’t say a word.’
Rosie walked slowly along the path through the wet grass, picking her steps carefully in case she stood on a twig that would snap and cause a sudden noise. Then she went on in a semi-circle so she would be in his sight, hoping she was far enough away that if he did instinctively fire, it might just be buckshot she’d get, instead of the full force of the shotgun at close range. This was madness, she knew it. But every fibre of her told her to keep going. When she was in what she hoped was his line of sight, she could see him clearly, head bowed. The gun in his hand.
‘James. Mr O’Neill,’ Rosie said loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to be threatening. At least she hoped not.
His head came up and he looked startled. He grasped the gun.
Shit! Please don’t let him shoot me. Rosie stood rigid, her hands up as though she was under arrest.
‘James, please. A moment. Don’t shoot! I met you yesterday. At the field? You remember?’
He raised the shotgun to his shoulder.
‘Please, Mr O’Neill. Don’t shoot. I . . . I want to see if we can help you. Listen, you need help. You’re not a bad man.’
He shook his head.
‘I am a bad man.’
‘You’re not, James. Everyone will see that. You were trying to protect your son, that’s what they’ll see. That’s all they’ll see.’ She paused, watching him, ready to dive to the ground if he pointed the gun at her. ‘If anything, you’re a hero. Those bastards you shot yesterday were the scum of the earth. They murdered and robbed and built their whole lives on power, and were rotten to the core. You did the world a favour. People will see that.’
He shook his head, but looked up at her.
‘What good will I be if I’m in jail? How am I going to help my son and my wife? Tell me that. I failed them. I failed them all. Just go away. Let me do this.’
He lowered the shotgun, then turned it around, so that the barrel was below his chin and his thumb was on the trigger. Christ! He was going to blow his own head off.
Rosie took a step forward, her heart in her mouth. Anything could happen, and she was getting too close to protect herself. What the hell was she doing? She could get herself killed. But she took another step, her eyes fixed on his.
‘I won’t let you do it, James. I won’t let you kill yourself and leave your family. I’ve seen too much killing in my life as a journalist. Needless killing. I know you’re angry and bitter at what happened to Euan, but please, believe me, people need you. I know you are a good man. Julie and Nikki told me you saved their lives.’
He was silent and Rosie watched as he seemed to process the information. She prayed she was getting through to him. But she also knew that people bent on suicide could just flip at the last minute. She could feel her knees knocking and her face raw in the biting wind.
‘James. Please listen a minute. Let me get you help. Let me get the police and they will look at your case. I promise you, I know how they work. You won’t get done for murder. You were protecting your disabled son, for God’s sake. You did what any father would do. And even if you do go to court, they’ll never send you to jail. The whole country will be behind you. My newspaper will get behind you. I promise you. Please. Put the gun down. Your family need you.’
He pulled back the safety catch, and Rosie braced herself for his head blowing off. She closed her eyes and looked away. Then, suddenly she heard the clatter. She opened her eyes to see that he’d thrown the gun away from himself, onto the pebbles at the graveside. He slumped forward, sobbing into his hands. She stood watching him for a second, her instincts telling her to go forward and comfort him. She took a step closer, then another, the sound of his wailing carrying in the wind.
‘Why . . . Why did they do this to my son? Look what they did to my family . . . Oh God! Somebody help me. Please!’
Rosie went within touching distance.
‘Come on, James. Stand up. Let’s go back to the house. We’ll get the police. You know we need to do that.’
He sat for a moment, sniffing, his big hands wiping his tears away. Then he stood up, shaky on his feet, and walked towards her. He allowed her to take his arm and walk him back up the path.
When they got to the top she spotted Euan in the distance and then heard his cries.
‘Dad! Dad! Oh, God, Dad! I thought we’d lost you!’ He frantically pushed his wheelchair forward.
The farmer walked towards his son, tears streaming down his face.
Rosie went up to Matt and puffed out a relieved sigh.
‘Christ! That was close.’
‘Jesus, Rosie! You took a chance. You did good.’
He hugged her and she buried her head in his shoulder.
‘Sorry . . . God almighty! That’s twice I’ve blubbed with you. You’d better not tell anyone, or I’ll cut your throat.’
‘No chance, Rosie. I love you too much.’ He held her tight while she composed herself.
They went inside the house, where a small fire flickered in the hearth. The farmer wheeled his son close to the fire, then sat in the armchair, as Rosie went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Tea, she thought, sweet tea for the shock. Hers as much as theirs. Matt was still outside.
‘I’m going to call a police contact I know, James,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s with Strathclyde, and I know it’s a different area, but they have contacts over here and they’ll liaise. Just stay strong. I know that if it comes to it, Julie and Nikki will back your story up, so just hang on.’
Rosie could see bloodstains on the carpet, but no bodies. She didn’t want to ask. Matt appeared at the door and gave her a look, beckoning her outside.
‘What?’ Rosie asked as they walked into the yard.
‘Over here.’ He walked towards the pig pen.
‘What is it?’
They walked close to where the pigs were sloshing around in the mud, grunting and pushing each other around, slavering.
‘What?’
‘On the ground. Look. In the mud.’ He pointed into a puddle.
Rosie peered and stepped forward. Then she saw the gold ring shining in the puddle. A big G on the ring. She looked at Matt, her eyes wide.
‘Oh Christ!’
‘Shit, Rosie. Do you think he’s already fed them to the pigs?’
‘Shit! That doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘How else can you explain a big gold ring with the letter G lying on the ground, and a lot of well-fed pigs farting and squelching about?’
‘Stop it, Matt.’ Rosie felt queasy.
‘Where are the bodies? There were four of th
em. Did you ask him?’
‘Put it this way, I don’t think the atmosphere is right yet to start asking questions like that. I’m phoning the cops. Let them ask.’ She paused. ‘Did you get a picture of that ring?’
‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
Rosie punched in Don’s number.
‘Don. I need your help. Right now.’
*
Rosie waited outside the barn, trying to stay far away from the DCI and his team, who had arrived from Central Scotland Police. Don had come through from Glasgow, to liaise, but when he’d introduced Rosie to the youngish DCI from the Central Scotland police force, he’d given her short shrift. He’d asked why she didn’t dial 999. What kind of game was she playing here? he’d badgered her. Did she think she was in some kind of television drama? Rosie had said nothing. This belligerent bastard was clearly the kind of detective who hated journalists. In his pinstriped suit and raincoat, he looked like some city financier rather than your run-of-the-mill detective. Don had told her in an aside (while the DCI was busy dishing out orders) that he was one of the new fast-track university graduates who’d probably not spent much time on the street before they pushed him up the ladder. He’d told her it was best to keep her mouth zipped and not to give him any smartarse comments, because this guy looked like he was in the mood to arrest her.
Rosie watched as a team of officers in white overalls went into the barn. Matt had tried to coax Rosie to go inside for a look before the police arrived, but she didn’t know what they would find. She was relieved when an officer came out and signalled for a stretcher. Don was on the end of the DCI’s conversation, and he came over to tell Rosie that there were four bodies on the floor of the barn. They showed signs that they’d been moved there. Rosie was relieved. At least O’Neill hadn’t turned them into pig feed – presumably he’d realised the ring would help identify the bodies and had tried to dispose of it in his half-crazed state. After half an hour standing freezing in the cold, she’d told the DCI she would have to get back to Glasgow as she had a deadline. He reluctantly let her go. He would be in touch and officers would come through to Glasgow to interview her, he said. He reminded her, unnecessarily, that she was part of a murder investigation. Rosie walked Don to his car and told him about Sabiha, and everything else Laila had said last night, and that she was willing to make a statement. He was already on the phone to HQ as he was getting into his car, arranging for officers to be at Laila’s grandparents’ house in the next couple of hours.
