by Anna Smith
‘Fuck! I knew it. But you know what happened to him. Don’t you?’ McGuire sighed, clasping his hands across his stomach. ‘Rosie. Listen. Part of me doesn’t want to know, because I have this sense of foreboding that someone bumped this fucker off, and you know about it. That makes me a bit nervous, Rosie. But tell you what. I don’t give a fuck if he’s dead – shot, trussed up, with his own fist stuffed up his arse. But what does worry me, sweetheart, is that a posse from Interpol is going to come riding in here at any time and drag you out. Hey, and not just you. Me as well.’
Rosie had been here before with McGuire. And when backs were to the wall, she found honesty was almost always the best policy with him. You could tell him stuff that was highly unorthodox and he wouldn’t get all hysterical like some editors she’d worked with who played it by the book. But he’d rather know than not know.
She took a deep breath.
‘I will deny on a stack of Bibles, Mick, that I ever said this. But, yes. Vinny is dead. The kidnapper – the Albanian guy I told you about, Besmir? He and Adrian threw him into an old well in the middle of nowhere in Morocco.’
‘Oh fuck!’
‘That’s what I thought at the time.’
‘Were you there?’
‘I was.’
‘Did you see it with your own eyes?’
‘I was supposed to have my back to it. Me, Matt and Javier. We were all looking the other way. But I turned around. The mad bastard in me couldn’t stop myself.’
McGuire burst out laughing.
‘Fucking hell, Gilmour! Your nightmares must be brilliant.’
Rosie shook her head.
‘Well, you could say they are very varied – and extremely graphic.’
McGuire looked as though he was enjoying it. He’d never actually been a reporter; he’d come up through the newspaper ranks as a sub-editor and then onto the back-bench. But he always relished the inside stories from reporters on the frontline. He valued the reporters at the cutting edge above everyone else at the paper because it was they who were out there, making this happen. That was why Rosie loved him so much.
He drained his coffee cup and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Right. What we need is for you to get yourself home for the rest of the day and have a good kip. The Lennon interview will be the splash and spread tomorrow. But we’ll puff the revelations of what may have happened if Amy hadn’t been found. Let’s have chapter and verse on Vinny and how you tracked him down. Bring in the Frankie Nelson interview in jail. Even though he’s a scumbag paedo, his information was crucial. And then just tell the story of your tracking her down. Everything. You coming face to face with the Albanian kidnapper, seeing him die, the fire. The whole shebang, Rosie. Let it run. I’ll clear two spreads for Thursday and we’ll let rip.’ He stood up. ‘It’s going to be brilliant Rosie.’ He raised a finger. ‘But I need to get the lawyer in to talk about the Vinny tapes. Obviously we won’t repeat what you just told me, but you’re going to have to come up with a story about how the tapes came into your possession.’
‘We’ll just say a contact of our Spanish fixer.’
‘Oh, the Javier guy. Yeah. Just say that.’ McGuire’s phone rang. He answered.
‘Really? Fuck me! See what else you can get down there.’ He looked at Rosie as he hung up the phone. ‘That was Lamont telling me that news coming on the wires is that Jake Cox has been shot in Spain. Last night. In some whorehouse.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No. But he’s not in good shape. Lost a lot of blood. Let’s hope the bastard pegs it.’
Rosie’s stomach dropped. ‘The guys who chased us, who shot Javier. They were Brits. They saw me, Mick. They’ll connect it all once they get their thick heads around it.’
McGuire came round from behind his desk.
‘We’ll get you proper protection, Rosie. This time we won’t take any chances. We’ll get you a bodyguard.’
‘I don’t want a bodyguard.’
Rosie stood up and he walked her to the door. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘We’ll keep you back in the office for a while, Rosie. Every time you leave the place people get shot. I’m beginning to get nervous around you.’
He laughed and squeezed her shoulder, but Rosie knew he really was nervous.
‘Go home. Get some sleep.’
‘Sure.’ Rosie smiled to Marion as she walked past her and out into the editorial floor.
CHAPTER 44
Rosie was almost flat out with exhaustion by the time she drove into the car park of Glasgow’s Western Infirmary. But the mixture of fear and adrenaline of not knowing what she was about to encounter in the next few minutes drove her on.
She hadn’t recognised the number that had flashed up on her mobile as she left the Post, yet she knew as soon as she heard the voice that this was the end.
‘Is that Rosie Gilmour?’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘This is Sister O’Rourke at Ward 15 of the Western. It’s about your father. His condition has deteriorated. The doctor said there may not be much time. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Rosie felt sick. There was a tightness in her chest as she took a deep breath. Her hands trembled as she tried to push her keys into the ignition.
Rosie had witnessed death in various shitholes in the world. Journalists like her would leave their five-star hotels in war-torn troublespots to write loftily that life was cheap, when the truth was that life was never cheap. To anguished mothers who wept over their starving children as they died in some stinking African refugee camp, life was as precious as it was to mothers in the rest of the world. She had sat with mothers in their Glasgow high rises as they wept into tea towels, preparing to bury their junkie kids not yet out of their teens. Life wasn’t cheap to them either.
But despite wading through other people’s misery, Rosie had never sat with anyone of her own who was dying. By the time she’d found her mother hanging from the banister she was already too late. So much of her life had been defined by that moment, and nothing she had ever seen since would come close to the sense of shock and loss. Life was never cheap. Not for her mother, and not for the sick old man she was about to sit with and try to find a way to say goodbye.
She stood in the lift with the other hospital visitors. Some, grim-faced like her, would be there to hold the hand of a loved one for the final time. Others, more hopeful, carried chocolates, magazines or flowers.
Ward 15 was ghostly quiet and stiflingly hot. A nurse, pushing a medication trolley, looked up as Rosie walked down the corridor.
‘Can you tell me where Martin Gilmour is? I got a call to come. He’s … He’s my father.’
‘Oh, right. If you’d wait a second, I’ll just get Sister.’ She turned and walked quickly down the corridor, returning with an older nurse in a dark blue uniform.
‘Rosie? I’m Sister O’Rourke. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you’d come this way, the doctor would like to have a word.’
Rosie followed her into the little airless side room, feeling sweat trickle down her back. The doctor stood waiting for her. He looked all of twenty, but with dark circles under his eyes.
‘Hello, Miss Gilmour. I’m Dr Kavanagh.’
They shook hands. He took a deep breath.
‘I’m afraid your father is failing fast, Rosie. You know he’s a very ill man, and that the lung cancer had spread quite rapidly.’
‘I knew he was very ill. He told me.’
The doctor nodded, his face set in concentration. He had a script to deliver, not sympathy.
‘He’s developed an infection and it has slipped into pneumonia. By the time he was admitted, it was deep into his lungs, which were already very weakened. He doesn’t seem to be responding to antibiotics. Your father doesn’t have long.’ He paused. ‘And, I have to ask you, as it’s standard procedure, if he goes into cardiac arrest do you want him resuscitat
ed?’
‘I don’t think there is any point. Do you?’ She swallowed.
The doctor made eye contact with her for the first time.
‘Your father is not going to get any better, I’m afraid. The best we can do for him now is to make him as comfortable as possible.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’
Rosie looked at him. She wondered how many times a week he had to deliver that line. And he was just a kid.
‘I understand. I think it’s best not to resuscitate.’
The nurse produced a form from nowhere like Paul Daniels.
‘Would you mind signing here.’ Sister O’Rourke gave Rosie a sympathetic look.
Rosie signed, noticing her hands were shaking. The Sister squeezed her arm. Rosie almost burst into tears.
‘Can I see him?’
‘Of course. Come this way, Rosie.’
Her father had been given the dignity of a private room. It was at the end of the ward, with a tiny window and a plastic blind over it.
For a second she wanted to say this was the wrong room, that they must have made a mistake. She didn’t recognise the face with its sunken cheekbones behind the oxygen mask. Her father’s chest moved up and down in short, rattling breaths. Rosie couldn’t speak. She gasped and swallowed, turned to Sister O’Rourke and burst into tears.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Rosie shook her head.
‘It’s alright, Rosie.’ The Sister pulled over a chair. ‘Just sit with him. Maybe hold his hand.’
‘Is he unconscious, or is he sleeping?’
‘It’s the drugs. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness. But he’s comfortable, he’s not in pain – and I think he’ll know you’re here.’ She patted Rosie’s shoulder as she sat down. ‘Just be with him. If you need anything, just come out. I’m at the end of the corridor.’
Rosie wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands and sniffed, focusing on his face. She noted the grey stubble on his chin and his dry lips. An old defeated man, tired of living. She reached over and took his hand in hers. It was warm and soft. His fingers wrapped around hers and gripped hard. Tears came again.
‘Can you hear me? D … Dad. I’m here. It’s me. Rosie.’
His hand tightened its grip. She looked at his face and his eyes flickered a little. He could hear her.
‘I’m going to stay with you now, Daddy. I’m here. Just sleep.’
She watched his face for any reaction. A single tear came out of his eye and rolled down the side of his temple. Rosie swallowed a lump so hard it hurt her chest. His lips moved as though he was trying to speak.
His grip tightened more, and his lips were moving a little.
Rosie stood up and leaned across the bed. She put her face next to his, her ear to his mouth.
‘I can hear you, Dad. Are you saying something?’
He breathed the words, not even as loud as a whisper, but Rosie could make them out.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie.’
‘I know. I know you are, Dad. Sssh.’ Rosie held his hand tight. She stroked his papery forehead. ‘It’s okay now. Just go to sleep. You can sleep away. I’m so glad you came back for me. It’s alright to go now. You can be with her.’
Rosie sniffed as tears rolled down her cheeks. She watched as he breathed fast for a few seconds and then nothing. His grip slackened. He was gone.
* * *
Rosie sat at the table next to the window in the Grass Cafe. She’d stopped crying, but she knew by the expression on the face of the waitress that her eyes were red and swollen. The girl had given her a sympathetic look when she put her mug of tea on the table.
Rosie always seemed to end up here in the bad times, as though she needed to be here. She could almost see Mags Gillick and Gemma sitting opposite her that first time they met. The inquiring look on Gemma’s face, the lost look on Mags’. Something about this place made her feel safe, because no matter what happened outside nothing changed in here.
Rosie closed her eyes, felt them stinging. She tried to blot out the image of her father lying in the hospital bed, his frailty. She thought of his face the previous time they’d seen each other when he’d hugged her hard. She’d looked at him across the table in her flat and had gone to bed that night knowing her father was in the room next door. Strangely she’d slept better than usual. The picture that had always come to her in the past had been from years ago, when he’d looked up and waved as she and her mother watched from the window as he came up the path. But now she had a better picture. She could do this. Her mobile rang.
‘Rosie.’ The voice hit her like a knock-out punch.
It was TJ.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many people make a contribution to my life – whether it’s in the love and support of my sister Sadie every day, or the big crowd of family, friends and readers who turn out to book launches, stand in queues and share a drink with me. It’s a privilege to have such support and I appreciate it more every time.
I want to thank my brothers, nieces and nephews and all my family – including all my many cousins – for the kindness and strength I get from them.
Without my brilliant techno troops I couldn’t function in the modern world, so thanks to my nephew Matthew Costello for designing my website and the computer magician Paul Smith who puts up with my endless, frazzled demands.
Thanks also to my cousin Alice Cowan down in the big smoke, who looks after me, no matter how often I pitch up at the Hatchend Hilton.
My friends Mags, Ann Frances, Mary, Phil, Helen, Louise, Jan, Barbara, Donna and Ross, who are always there for me.
In Ireland, thanks to everyone back West in Ballydavid and Mhuirioch, for making me feel at home.
And in La Cala de Mijas on the Costa del Sol, all the characters who give me a laugh with their stories and their company.
My friend Franco Rey, for the good times, the laughter and the love.
My agent Ali Gunn for just being the brilliant Ali Gunn. The wonderful team at Quercus, in particular my fantastic editor Jane Wood, from whom I’ve learned a great deal, and, publicity director Lucy Ramsay for getting me out there.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
