by Anna Smith
‘I would have told you, Mick, you know I would,’ she said. ‘But to be honest, I had put it on the back burner. I knew the priority when I got back here was to nail this Daletsky story about people-smuggling, and the Carter-Smith friendship.’
Rosie lied. She would only have told him about Vinny once Javier was closer to finding out where they could track him down in Morocco. If she had that, she knew McGuire wouldn’t be able to resist sending her there to have a run at.
‘But listen, Mick, there’s an even bigger development. You should sit down for this one.’
‘I am, Gilmour. Tell me.’
‘Martin Lennon may actually have unwittingly met Amy’s kidnappers.’
She told him everything Adrian had told her.
‘Holy fuck, Rosie! What are we supposed to do with this bombshell?’
‘Well,’ Rosie said. ‘I don’t think we should go blasting it on the front page yet, much as I’d like to. I think we should hang fire for a bit.’
‘We should be telling the cops about this. That’s my gut feeling, Rosie. Convince me why not.’
Rosie sighed. She knew he would react like this, and of course he was right. But she’d seen too many bungled police operations in her time, and who knew what would happen once you got the police forces of Spain and Morocco working together.
‘Right, Mick. Think about it this way’ – she made sure the terrace doors were closed tight – ‘there are a couple of things we could do. We could fire a huge story onto the front page about what we already know: Martin Lennon’s dad and the hooker, the Vinny connection, the fact that we’ve been told Amy’s somewhere in Morocco – even that the Lennons may have met the kidnappers. And we could trumpet that we have now passed our explosive dossier to the cops. But what would that achieve? The cops for a start would go nuts, claiming the information being made public would jeopardise their investigation. We’d be in all sorts of trouble. If Amy – who we’re hoping is still alive – died as a result of it, they’d blame us. And apart from all that, if we did a story, the rest of the media would invade Morocco and the people who are holding Amy might panic. Those bastards might just kill the kid and dump her somewhere.’
‘Yeah, fine, Rosie. I get that,’ McGuire said. ‘But a part of me feels duty bound to simply pass the information onto the police and play along with them. Maybe get a promise that we’ll be in pole position when the big exclusive comes.’
‘Christ, Mick, are you serious?!’ Rosie paced the floor. ‘There’s more chance of Carter-Smith going on Blind Date to find a woman than Spanish or Moroccan cops keeping us informed in a kidnapping case. If we make a decision to give them the information, then that’s all we do, and don’t expect us to get anything back from them because we won’t. But ask yourself this: why don’t they have the same information we have about the Martin Lennon connection? They’re the cops, after all. Or do they have the info and they’re not telling us? And if the cops are not as well informed as we are, then you have to ask yourself, did they ever have a chance of finding Amy if they haven’t discovered that the kid is already in Morocco?’
She took a deep breath. ‘My gut feeling, Mick, is that we play this close to our chests. We go to Morocco and very discreetly see what we can dig up. The Lennons will still be here when we get back, so let’s try this first.’
Silence. Rosie could picture McGuire, sense his anxiety.
‘Right, Rosie. Listen and listen good.’ McGuire would be on his feet now.
‘I always listen.’
‘No, Rosie. You listen, then you do what the fuck you want. But not this time, you understand?’
‘Of course, Mick.’
‘OK. You go to Morocco. Take that big fucking Bosnian character with you, and Matt, of course.’
‘And Javier,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘He has to go. He’s the private eye here, and he’s already making some inroads into who’s who in Tangiers.’
‘Aye, right, then take him as well. But I want you to be in the background, doing discreet – and I mean molto – discreet digging. I don’t want you going anywhere near these fuckers that might be holding this kid, even if they give you a fucking address. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, Mick.’
‘If you track down that Vinny bastard, that’ll be something in itself, but I don’t want any kicking doors in at any level in Morocco. As I’ve said, you could end up with your throat cut.’
‘And, of course, that could get the paper in trouble.’
‘Not at all, Gilmour. I’ll just say I had no idea what you were doing.’
‘You’re all heart, Mick.’
‘You bet I am. Now keep in touch, no matter where you are. You’ve got four days – maximum. Then come home and we pass it all to the cops. But before we do that, we’ll hit the Lennons and ask them if they knew about grandad’s dirty little secret. I love that story.’
‘At least Jenny won’t feel so responsible that her wee girl was snatched while she was shagging Martin’s best pal. It was all the grandad’s fault.’
‘Christ, Rosie. I can imagine that front page already. What if they did actually meet the kidnappers … You hurry back. And stay safe.’
‘Oh, Mick,’ Rosie said, remembering. ‘You haven’t asked about the Daletsky-Carter-Smith piece?’
‘What do you mean, Gilmour? Is it not already on my desk? What’ve you been doing all day? Get your arse away from the swimming pool and start working!’
Rosie had finished her story and sent it to McGuire’s private email. The lawyers would pore over every line. It made Carter-Smith look, at the very least, naïve for being anywhere near a Russian oligarch with such a dodgy background as Daletsky. By the time the lawyers started asking questions, Rosie would be in Morocco. She’d written the piece as carefully as possible so that she wouldn’t have too much legal comeback while she was on the road.
She’d already eaten dinner in her room and was packed for the trip, buoyed up by the prospect of being off the leash in the hunt for Amy. This is what made Rosie tick – pushing back the barriers, making her own luck, and, more often than not, flying by the seat of her pants. And now, with Adrian and Javier and Matt riding shotgun, she felt unstoppable.
Later, over a gin and tonic in the hotel bar, Rosie gave Matt the lowdown on plans for Morocco while they waited for Adrian. They’d take the late afternoon ferry from Algeciras. Javier had moved swiftly after he left Rosie and he’d already set up a meeting in Tangiers with a friend of a trusted contact who’d look after them. No, he told her, she didn’t need to know who he was, just that he had information that would interest them.
When Rosie had called Adrian to say she was going to Morocco and to ask if he would come with them, she was surprised that he was a little vague. It was Adrian who asked to come to the hotel, as he didn’t want to talk on the phone.
Rosie saw him coming up the steps from the terrace and to the bar, busy with guests enjoying an after-dinner drink as they listened to an old guy rattling out ‘As Time Goes By’ on the piano. Eat your heart out, Rick. Rosie smiled to herself at the irony. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world …’
Adrian scanned the room. If he saw Rosie he didn’t make eye contact, but she’d put good money on him being able to tell you almost exactly how many people were in the place. He made his way across to their table.
‘Rosie.’ He looked at her, then at Matt, then back at Rosie.
‘Adrian. Good to see you.’ Rosie motioned him to sit down. ‘This is Matt, the photographer I told you about. We work together a lot. He’s the best.’
‘Howsit going, big man?’ Matt stuck out a hand and Adrian shook it and sat down, his dark eyes fixing Matt long enough to let him know he wasn’t about to get involved in blokeish banter. Matt looked a little awkward and took a gulp of his drink.
A waiter came up and Adrian asked for a coffee, while Rosie ordered another gin and tonic and a Jack Daniels for Matt.
Adrian seemed
uneasy, and Rosie hoped he wasn’t going to be uncomfortable with the fact that she was introducing him to someone else. He trusted only her, he’d told her, and nobody else must know who he was. But that was back in Glasgow in what seemed a long time ago, and this was a different ball game now. There were four of them, hopefully heading for Morocco. She wondered how Adrian would get on with Javier, and hoped there wouldn’t be a clash of machismo.
‘You alright, Adrian?’
He nodded and pulled his chair closer to the table.
‘We must talk, Rosie,’ he said almost whispering. ‘I could not say on the phone, but things have changed a bit.’
He looked at Rosie and glanced at Matt as though seeking reassurance.
‘It’s okay, Adrian. Everything here is between us,’ Rosie said.
Adrian lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘I was called by Leka as I was leaving your room,’ he said, blowing the smoke out. ‘He tells me I must go to Morocco tomorrow, to find Besmir.’ His eyes flicked from Matt to Rosie. ‘He says Besmir is a traitor and I must deal with him.’
‘What do you mean a traitor? What’s he done? Did Leka say anything else?’
Adrian nodded.
‘You know I told you it was Besmir, the Albanian who took the girl from the beach? He take her to Tangiers by order of Leka. Some deal they do with the Moroccans is what he told Besmir. But you and me now know different. But Leka says when Besmir came back he is a different man. He says he is going away to Spain in the north with a girlfriend, but Leka knows he is lying and he wants to know why.’ Adrian glanced over his shoulder. ‘He sent his bodyguard to deal with him two nights ago, because he can’t have a traitor in the business. But Besmir killed him.’ He made a stabbing motion with his hand. ‘The knife in his belly. Then Besmir disappeared.’
‘Christ,’ Rosie said.
They sat in silence as the waiter put their drinks down.
‘So. Now I have to go find Besmir. And deal with him.’ Adrian took a long draw on his cigarette and sat back.
The fireworks going off in Rosie’s head were louder than the warning bells. That was always her problem. If Adrian took them with him, there was a tantalising possibility he could lead them to Amy. But McGuire was right – she could end up in an alleyway with her throat cut.
‘So, Adrian,’ Rosie said. ‘You’re not coming with us then?’
‘No. Not travelling together. Is not safe. I take the morning ferry from Tarifa and you go as your plan in the afternoon boat. When you get to Tangiers, you call me and we will speak. I do not know what the plan will be, only that I have to find Besmir. Someone will meet me in Tangiers and tell me more information.’
‘Have you been told anything about the girl? About Amy?’
Adrian shook his head. ‘Nothing. But Leka thinks Besmir is betraying him some way, I do not know how. I am told only to deal with him.’
Rosie didn’t want to ask him any more. The less she knew about ‘dealing with’ Besmir the better, but she was in no doubt what mission Adrian was on. If Besmir was betraying the boss who sent him to kidnap Amy, his betrayal could involve only one thing – Amy. Maybe he’d decided to sell her himself, ask for a ransom.
‘Don’t look now, Rosie! Don’t,’ Matt suddenly interrupted.
‘What?’ Rosie saw the colour drain from Matt’s face. ‘What is it, Matt?’
‘Big Jake Cox has just walked into the bar.’
‘You’re fucking joking. Tell me you’re joking, Matt.’
‘No. I’m not joking. Just keep looking at me and talking. Don’t look up. He walked in and he’s standing at the bar with two big fucking gorillas.’
‘This Jake,’ Adrian said softly. ‘He is the one whose men tried to kill you in Glasgow, Rosie? Yes?’
Rosie nodded. She took a mouthful of her drink. Sweat stung under her arms.
‘I see him,’ Adrian said. ‘And his friends. He must have found new friends, after the last ones.’ He touched Rosie’s hand. ‘Don’t be afraid, Rosie. These are not tough guys. They only think they are tough.’
Rosie bit the inside of her jaw.
‘Fucking hell! They’re coming over, Rosie,’ Matt said under his breath.
‘Stay calm,’ Adrian said. ‘Say nothing.’
‘Can I get you a drink, Miss Gilmour?’
Rosie looked up to see the bloated face of Jake Cox, leathery from the Costa sun where he’d been keeping a low profile since the Post’s exposé on his links to police corruption. Her mouth was dry as a stick.
‘No, you can’t, I’ve got plenty here. But thanks anyway.’
Rosie fixed him with a defiant stare and was surprised and relieved that her voice hadn’t come out as a terrified squeak.
Jake smirked. ‘That’s no very sociable, pal. I thought you’d be wanting to celebrate your survival after that terrible business back in Glasgow.’ He did a sharp intake of breath. ‘That was a bad old business that, Miss Gilmour.’
Rosie said nothing.
‘Did you enjoy your wee holiday after it all? I heard you were up in Jerez. They do a nice sherry up there. I thought about coming up to buy you lunch.’
Rosie could feel the pulse in her neck throbbing. She glanced at Matt who kept his head down, staring at his drink.
‘Oh, well,’ Jake said. ‘Have it your way. I’m off then. Good to see you, Miss Gilmour.’ He stepped away then turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, Rosie. You were lucky in that wee car crash the other week on the Malaga road. Heard all about it. You’d want to be careful out, hen. Lot of bad people out there.’ He sneered. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Rosie.’
‘Bastard,’ Rosie said to herself, taking one of Adrian’s cigarettes from his packet. But her hand was trembling so much he had to light it for her.
‘Don’t be afraid, Rosie,’ Adrian said, ‘he is nobody here.’
Rosie looked at Matt as he knocked back his Jack Daniels in one. ‘Fuck me, Rosie,’ he laughed nervously. ‘I should get danger money working with you.’
Rosie was almost high from the buzz of adrenaline.
‘Christ, Matt! I thought I was going to pass out. Just as well we’re bailing out of here tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 31
The sound of her own crying woke Rosie. She lay in the darkness and brushed the tears from her face. The dream had been so vivid – they always were.
Now, with the images of the dream fading as she woke, she remembered that her mother and father were hiding from her. They were together at the seaside, but one moment she looked around and they’d gone. She was running down the promenade calling out for them. Then she saw them in the distance at the harbour, heading quickly towards the gangplank of a ferry. They were pushing people out of the way, and every now and then her father looked over his shoulder and Rosie saw the blue of his eyes. He must have seen her. But he didn’t stop, and they melted into the crowd …
She stretched over to the bedside table and looked at her phone. It was four in the morning. Rosie switched on the light to banish the loneliness of the dark. She wished she could have TJ to hold her the way he did that first time they’d been together, when she’d woken up in his bed and she’d been crying. She let out a long sigh and swung her legs out of the bed.
On the terrace, the light was just beginning to break through. Rosie looked out into the stillness and her thoughts drifted to her father back in Glasgow.
He had wept again when she’d told him in the cafe that she wanted him to come and stay at her flat. He’d said he couldn’t possibly impose, but Rosie insisted. She hadn’t thought beyond the fact that she was taking home a man to live with her who had been a stranger almost all her life, but it was a basic instinct. Her father was dying. He needed her. But perhaps the truth was that she needed him more.
They’d gone back to the hostel, where Rosie stood watching him pack his things – a whole life shoved into a little black hold-all. In the four-bedded room he shared, two of the other men looked on sadly as he murmured goodbye
to them. Rosie sensed their emptiness, the same emptiness she had felt at the children’s home when one of the other kids left to go and live with relatives or foster parents.
When she took him home he had looked around in surprise.
‘My God, Rosie. You’ve done well.’
She set him up in the spacious spare room, where she had a sofa and double bed and a television.
‘You don’t need to feel you have to come out of here and sit with me all the time,’ she’d told him. ‘I’m not here a lot anyway. You can have your own space, and you can have the guest bathroom. I have one in my bedroom.’ Rosie felt a little awkward, more like a landlady showing round a lodger.
‘Thanks, Rosie.’ He looked at her. ‘If it’s alright with you, it would be good to … well, I mean … I hope maybe we can get to know each other a bit. If you’re okay with that?’ He looked sad.
‘Sure.’ Rosie nodded, not sure it was okay at all, but not knowing what to say. ‘I’m going to cook us something. You get yourself settled and we’ll have a drink before dinner.’
As she was about to leave the room she turned back and saw him still standing there watching her.
‘We’ll be okay.’ She smiled at him.
As she was leaving for Spain she hugged him for the first time. She’d woken up early in the morning, gone shopping to fill the fridge, then gone to her doctor’s surgery to register her father and tell her GP that he was dying of cancer. Dr Simon McLeod had known Rosie for a long time and they were on first name terms. He told her he would see him to organise appointments with specialists. The cancer had spread to both lungs in recent weeks, Rosie told Simon, but when she’d asked her father what the prognosis was, he was vague.
Her father had told her over dinner how he had been living mostly in hostels in the last six months, having moved up from Manchester where he’d been living for years. There were huge gaps to be filled in about how and where and with whom he’d shared his life in the past thirty years. But that was for another day. Rosie wasn’t even sure she wanted to know. But there was something about having him there with her, surreal as it felt, that brought her closer to her mother.
