by Anna Smith
Javier had positioned the car so they’d be able to see the Lennons coming out, but still stay in the background. Rosie would make her pitch for an interview later. Maybe tomorrow. Give them a night to get their breath back.
‘So – you okay, Rosita?’ Javier’s eyes scanned her face.
She wished she could lie to him, but he would know.
‘If I’m honest, Javier, I’m wrecked, actually.’
‘Me too.’ He leaned back on the head rest, his eyes half closed. ‘I thought we were finished in that fire. I really did.’
‘Yeah. We nearly were.’
He reached across and ruffled her hair affectionately, keeping his hand on the back of her neck and massaging it gently. It felt good. Rosie closed her eyes. Tears weren’t far away, but she bit her lip.
‘I could sleep for a week,’ she said.
‘When we get this finished, we should go out and have a big dinner. Let our hair down. Get blind drunk. Go mad.’
Rosie opened one eye and squinted at him, smiling.
‘I think we’ve had enough of mad for one week, Javier.’
‘Olé! Here they come.’ Javier sat up straight. ‘Look.’
The Lennons appeared at the doorway.
‘Jesus, Javier. That is some sight for sore eyes.’
Now the tears did come. And Javier wiped away his own as well as Rosie’s.
The press pack swung into action with shouts of ‘Over here, Martin … Jenny … Over here … This way … Amy … Smile.’
The cameras whirred, the snappers jostled for position among the TV crews. The Lennons stood behind the railing, holding up Amy and telling her to wave to the cameras, as if she’d just won a bonny baby contest at Butlin’s. Martin put her on his shoulders and she clapped her hands above her head.
The sorrow, the agony had gone from Martin and Jenny’s faces. They smiled, held hands, giggled together as Amy waved both hands and performed for the cameras, even blowing kisses to the delight of the press pack. The Lennons didn’t look broken. But they were. Rosie thought she could see it. Somewhere in the eyes of Jenny Lennon there was a look that said, this is what is left of who we were. We will make the best of it.
Even from half a mile away, Hassan could tell there was too much smoke coming from his father’s place. He stepped on the accelerator, the car bouncing and scraping on the dirt track as he raced towards the farm. He pulled into the yard and jumped out.
‘Mother! Father! Salima …’
But he knew by the eerie silence, he was too late. The fire was dead, only the smoke was still swirling up to the sky. He pushed open what was left of the blackened, burnt-out door. Inside was a shell of the house that had been filled with laughter just days ago.
The first of the charred bodies he saw was that of his father, upright in his chair, burned to death where he sat. Hassan stumbled through the debris in a daze. On the kitchen floor, his mother’s body was spread out as though she’d been crawling to escape. Nausea rose in his throat and he vomited on the floor. He rushed, dizzy, into the tiny hallway and pushed open his sister’s bedroom door. To his surprise, she wasn’t burned like the others, and for a moment he thought she was alive. But when he got closer, he could see she was dead, tied to the bed, her face frozen in terror, her green eyes staring at him, asking why. He stumbled to what was left of the blackened, burnt out twins’ room, but there was no sign of them. They must have taken them.
Hassan collapsed to his knees, weeping. The sound of his wailing startled the wild dogs who waited outside in the shadows.
It was getting dark by the time he came around. He teetered to his feet and staggered out of the house. He went to the well and splashed cold water on his face, then stood there, his face dripping, looking out at the blackness. He threw rocks and screamed at the dogs lurking determinedly at the edge of the yard.
Hassan dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out the rolled-up wad of notes he had taken from the fat man. Two hundred American dollars. He shoved the money back into his pocket. He turned and looked back at the house one more time. Then, in the stillness, as he was about to get into the car, he heard his name being called. He stopped and listened, looked around. Again he heard it.
‘Hassan, Hassan.’
The twins came running through the darkness and threw themselves into his arms. He scooped them up and hugged as they wrapped themselves around him. Then he ushered them quickly into the car.
The people who came here would be looking for him, so he had to move fast. All they had left was one other.
CHAPTER 41
Rosie sat drinking green tea on the terrace of her room in the Puente Romano. It was a very long time since she’d felt relief on the scale she did right now. After Bosnia, maybe, when she’d sat by herself in the hotel room in the northern Greek town of Thessaloniki after the long drive from the former war zone. She had been glad to be on her way home, but the scenes and eye witness accounts of human suffering she’d witnessed just days before had left her unable to speak to anyone without bursting into tears.
This time was different. This story had a happy ending, unless of course your name was Vinny Paterson. Rosie wondered how she would explain that little nugget to McGuire when she got home. But that was for another day.
Now she had to make up her mind how much of the Lennon interview she was going to tell McGuire. She could, if she wanted, give Martin and Jenny Lennon a break. Just tell the big, heart-rending reunion story of a couple who thought they would never see their little girl again. The headlines wrote themselves. The Post would fly off the shelves, what with Matt’s reunion pictures, plus all the graphic dramatic snaps of the rescue in Morocco with the blazing building as a backdrop. But it wasn’t the whole story. To tell the truth, she would have to break hearts, ruin lives, shatter illusions. She remembered the hurt on Martin and Jenny’s faces when she’d put the allegations to them.
The Lennons had agreed to tell their story to Rosie for the Post. She’d made the initial approach at the villa when they’d got back after the quayside photo call for the assembled media. The Guarda Civil had appealed to the press to respect the couple’s privacy and give them time alone with their daughter, but Rosie went to the door later because she knew nobody else would dare. And anyway, the Lennons would have been told by the Guarda Civil of her role in tracking down their daughter’s kidnapper. McGuire told Rosie the Lennons owed her, big time. She was just glad he wasn’t negotiating.
Matt and Rosie had arrived at the villa before ten in the morning, and were surprised to be greeted with a hug from a smiling Jenny Lennon. People weren’t generally big on doorstep hugs in Glasgow, at least not with tabloid reporters, Matt had joked. Over coffee and biscuits, and with Amy playing on the floor, the interview was going well, with Jenny and Martin saying all the right things – the heartbreak, the terror that they might never see their daughter again, the joy of that moment when they were reunited. In theory, it was enough. It would sell papers. But it wasn’t enough for Rosie. She saw Matt watch her anxiously as she began questioning them further.
‘Look, Jenny, Martin,’ Rosie said. ‘I have to ask you some things that you may not be comfortable with, but I need to put them to you, because my job here is to tell all of this story, not just the good bits. I hope you will understand that.’ Rosie was confident, controlled. This was her show now.
Jenny looked suddenly pale.
No point in beating about the bush. Rosie moved straight in, addressing her question to Jenny.
‘Jenny. It has been suggested that your version of what happened on the morning Amy was snatched is not actually the whole story.’ Rosie saw Jenny swallow. ‘I understand the Guarda Civil talked to you about the windsurfer’s eye-witness account of the person he claims he saw in the yellow shorts?’
Martin looked at the floor. Jenny’s lip twitched. The air was thick with tension. Rosie pressed on.
‘Jenny. There’s no easy way to ask you this. Was there someone in the house with you tha
t morning, after Martin went out for his jog?’
Silence. Martin kept looking at the floor. Jenny did too, then she looked up and straight at Rosie, her eyes pleading.
‘Rosie. Is this really necessary?’
‘Yes, Jenny, it is. I’m sorry. I’m trying to report the factual account of events as they unfolded that morning.’
‘But why? What if there was someone else in the house? Why does anyone need to know that. Do you really think people need to hear some kind of tittle-tattle?’
‘Not tittle-tattle, Jenny. The whole country and beyond took the story of Amy’s kidnapping to their hearts. The sympathy was overwhelming. Everyone in the country wanted Amy back. This isn’t about tittle-tattle. I think people want the truth. I think they deserve it.’
Silence. Then suddenly Martin spoke.
‘Jenny, just tell her. Just tell her who was in the house. Get it over with and let’s get on with our lives.’ He took hold of Jenny’s hand.
She swallowed. She shook her head.
‘I’m not going to sit here and tell you every single area of my life, Rosie.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s just not anyone’s business. But I will say this to you, and nothing more: I made a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life, and if I roast in hell for it, then it will be nothing to what I’ve been through these past few weeks. I nearly lost my daughter because of that mistake. My family.’ She squeezed Martin’s hand. ‘I will pay for that mistake for the rest of my life. Do you think I’m going to forget what I did?’
‘Jenny. Were you with Jamie O’Hara in the house that morning?’
‘Yes. I was.’
What the hell, Rosie thought. Just ask.
‘Were you and Jamie … were you together that morning?’ The implication of Rosie’s question was clear.
Silence. Jenny broke. Her eyes full of tears, she looked at Rosie. She didn’t speak. She just nodded.
‘You were?’
Jenny nodded. Amy looked up briefly at her mother then went back to her toys.
Silence. Rosie cleared her throat.
‘Can I ask both of you a question?’
Martin looked up.
‘How have you dealt with this? I mean. Are you able to put this behind you? Are you still together? Do you think you will be able to survive this?’
‘Rosie.’ Martin spoke softly. His pale grey eyes looked sad. ‘We are together. We have our daughter back. That is all that matters. We have a lot to get through, and we can do this.’ He put his hands up. ‘Can we just put this line of questioning away now, Rosie? We are not on trial here. We are two human beings, capable of making mistakes, we’re not monsters. The monsters are the people who kidnapped our daughter. Get this in perspective. Now please – can we move on?’
Rosie lifted her coffee cup, grateful that her hand wasn’t trembling. She looked at them and nodded.
‘I have one more question, Martin. Just one more thing. We have been told that Amy’s kidnapping was connected to your late father. That he was linked to the death of a prostitute in Moscow last year and that Amy was kidnapped as some kind of revenge, with one of the Russian Mafia bosses behind it? Can you talk to me about that?’
Martin shook his head, his eyes closed for a second.
‘No. I absolutely won’t talk about that. Not on the record, and I hope you will understand that. You have enough meat on your story as it is, Rosie. I won’t talk about my father or any talk of revenge. You know why? Because what if this isn’t over yet? Off the record, yes, everything you have said there is correct. But if you publish a story like that, you may be placing our lives in danger. Is there no line you won’t cross, Rosie?’
‘I’ll speak to my editor,’ Rosie said. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I will talk to him, Martin. I promise you that.’
‘Please don’t publish that, Rosie.’ Martin stood up.
The interview was over. There were no hugs this time as they walked to the door. Just handshakes and awkwardness. Sometimes the truth was hard to take – for all of them.
‘Christ. That was tough,’ Rosie said to Matt as they got into the car.
With the press of a key on her laptop, Rosie could lose the Jamie O’Hara line or keep it in. Cut or keep. It was up to her. What good would it actually do to drag the dirty detail out, she asked herself as she read and re-read the interview? Did it make any difference? No, she decided, it didn’t. But what was the point of telling a story if you can’t tell all of the story? It wouldn’t have been the first time Rosie had kept certain facts from McGuire or the newsdesk when she was investigating or writing a story. She operated by her own rules, not those of the bosses who had never knocked on a door in their lives. Part of her wanted to give the Lennons a break, give Jenny a break. She could tell McGuire they wouldn’t even discuss the O’Hara connection. No comment. He would believe her. But a bigger part of her wanted to tell the truth. No other bastard had told the truth since the beginning of this sorry tale. Not Jenny. Not O’Hara. Not Carter-Smith. Not Martin. It was supposed to be about truth. Once you buried the truth, you had nothing left.
She read the story one more time and pressed the send key like an assassin squeezing the trigger.
Her mobile rang and she went inside from the balcony and picked it up off the bed.
‘Rosie.’ It was Adrian.
‘You made it.’
‘I made it.’
‘Are you alright? They arrested Leka.’
‘He is out, Rosie. This afternoon. Daletsky has some very top lawyers and he makes things happen.’
‘Shit, that’s unbelievable. Jesus, Adrian, you have to be careful.’
Silence. Then: ‘Listen Rosie. I know where my sister is. I have information. I am going to get her tonight. Will you help me?’
Rosie and Matt were booked on a plane to Glasgow at six-fifteen in the morning. She’d have to be at the airport by four at the latest. But that wasn’t the issue. Whatever Adrian was planning, it wasn’t going to involve picking up his sister after a shift waiting tables in a tapas bar. He would be rescuing her from some whorehouse. She feared the body count was about to go up. But thinking twice wasn’t in Rosie’s DNA.
‘I’ll help, Adrian. Just tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Only to be outside with the car. Ready to drive us away when I get her. That is all I need.’
‘Fine. I’ll be there with Matt. Maybe Javier.’ Rosie’s stomach knotted.
‘Thanks. I pick you up at ten.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
‘And Rosie,’ Adrian said. ‘Thanks.’ The line went dead.
Rosie went to the bedside phone and dialled Matt’s room number.
‘Matt. Can you come round here. There’s a slight change to our dinner plans.’
She phoned Javier. She told him he didn’t have to be part of this. He was the guy who had to live here.
‘I’m in,’ he said immediately. ‘Of course I’m coming. You want to go somewhere in a hurry in Spain? I wouldn’t leave it to a fucking Brit to drive the car.’
He hung up.
CHAPTER 42
‘I’ve got this feeling of dread in my guts about this,’ Matt said from the back seat.
‘It’s a bit late in the day to start shitting your pants, Matt,’ Javier half joked, glancing in his rear view mirror.
Adrian had been gone less than fifteen minutes. He hadn’t spoken much on the journey from the Puente Romano to the bar/whorehouse in the outskirts of Fuengirola. He was unnervingly quiet, even for him. Rosie guessed he was more nervous than they were. He had more to lose. If something went wrong inside the whorehouse, both he and his sister could end up dead. He’d admitted that much to them when they’d discussed the plan in Rosie’s room before they left the hotel. But once they were in the car, he hardly said a word while Javier negotiated the backstreets and alleys to the bar.
As he got out of the car, Adrian had told them to wait where they were – ‘no matter what happens’. It was the ‘no matter wha
t happens’ bit that worried everyone.
‘He’s a scary fucker, that Adrian, isn’t he?’ Matt said.
‘He’s very different,’ Rosie said. ‘His story is a million miles away from ours. I think when you’ve been where he’s been, through all that shit in Bosnia, seen the things he saw, you can’t expect to engage with other people in the same way the rest of us do. He has a different set of rules.’
‘He sure has. I like the way he does business – especially how he dealt with that Vinny bastard. I just hope tonight isn’t the night his luck runs out.’ Javier drew the smoke from his cigarette deep into his lungs and stared out of the window.
Rosie and Matt had already packed up and checked out of their hotel. The safest place for them to be when this was over would be the busy airport with its police presence – in case it all went tits-up and they were followed.
Once they got Adrian and his sister away from the brothel, the plan was to drop them at a meeting place where his Bosnian friend was waiting with a car. For some reason Adrian didn’t explain, his friend could not come into the area they were going to in case he would be recognised.
As Fiorina didn’t have a passport, Adrian was going to attempt to drive all the way to Bosnia. It was easier to travel in Europe since the frontiers had been removed, but there were still external checks. He said he would deal with whatever he came up against, but the immediate danger would be over once he was far enough away from the Costa del Sol.
After they’d made the drop, Rosie and Matt would go straight to the airport and sit it out until it was time for their early morning flight. As travel itineraries go, it wasn’t ideal.
The bar, a seedy looking place, was up a side street in the part of Fuengirola you didn’t go to unless you were searching for this particular den. The fact that it happened to be part owned by Big Jake Cox from Glasgow cranked up the fear factor for Rosie and Matt, when Adrian broke the news to them. In addition to providing rooms with paper sheets and birds you could rent by the hour, there was also a card school in a backroom of the bar every Thursday where a hand-picked few played for big stakes. Tonight Leka would be taking part in a poker game with Jake Cox and one other hoodlum.
