by Anna Smith
Chapter Three
‘She can’t have just vanished into thin air.’ McGuire peered over the top of his reading glasses as he glanced from his screen to Rosie. ‘What are the cops saying?’
‘Not a lot.’ Rosie sighed. ‘I get the impression they took their eyes off the ball a bit when Alan Lewis went missing.’
Rosie missed her close friend and police detective contact Sergeant Don Elliot at times like this. Since his death in a car crash a few months ago, she was using other police contacts, but she didn’t have the same rapport that she’d had with Don.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, one guy I talked to told me they didn’t send any officers over to Romania when Lewis went missing, even to have a conversation on the ground with local cops in the area where his house was. Or to find out about his business there. They basically did bugger all. It probably wouldn’t have achieved much, though, given that Romanian police don’t exactly have the reputation for being efficient or cooperative.’
‘But I suppose our cops could argue that people go missing all the time, and the fact that he went missing in Romania where he has a holiday home didn’t automatically make it mysterious.’
‘I know,’ Rosie agreed. ‘But to me, they should have been digging a bit deeper into his affairs. Lewis is not your average missing man. He’s a wealthy accountant, and maybe there’s no connection between his disappearance and his job at all, but what if he annoyed some of his clients? Maybe not all of his business was whiter than white. There are a lot of gangsters in Glasgow who could use someone clever to money-launder for them. We got no leads on that at the time, but the cops didn’t seem to be busting a gut to solve his disappearance.’
‘So what else does your man say?’
‘He told me the fraud squad are getting their arses kicked by the bosses because Lewis wasn’t on their radar. One or two accountants in Glasgow or Edinburgh are known to the fraud squad, and they try to keep tabs on them, but Lewis hadn’t surfaced anywhere. So on the face of it, he was legit. Now they’re scrambling around all over the place trying to find out more about him. A bit late.’
‘We need to get more on him. But the suddenly vanishing wife with the dead body in her flat is the story. What the Christ is she all about? What do you know about her?’
‘We’ve had a couple of calls, which I’m going to follow up. People who knew her years ago. She’s from the Gorbals, and so was Frankie Mallon. But I’d have thought she’d have buried all the traces of her early life when she hit the big time, marrying a rich accountant.’
Rosie’s gut feeling told her that Helen Lewis was up to her neck in not only her husband’s disappearance, but Frankie Mallon’s death.
‘I bet she’s bumped Mallon off,’ the editor said. ‘So it’s up to you to find her before the cops do, Gilmour. Or at least get something so that we can point the finger at her being dodgy.’
‘Aye, no pressure there then, Mick.’ Rosie gave him a sarcastic smile but she knew that, wild and unfounded as the allegation was, McGuire was already seeing it all over his front page. ‘Put it this way, we might be a wee bit away from that story.’
‘Have the cops got nothing on her? No trace of her since she left? She must have booked into a hotel, bought petrol, got on a flight or something. You can’t just vanish.’
‘Maybe she didn’t kill Mallon, and someone else was in the flat who did, then took her. Kidnapped her.’
McGuire sat back, and nodded his head slowly. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Me too, but it’s fiction.’
McGuire stood up, and Rosie knew he was finished with theorising for the moment.
‘Well. Let’s see where we go. The splash was great today, that old busybody telling us chapter and verse. She’ll be sitting up there like Miss Marple. But we need something more.’
Rosie headed for the door. ‘Declan is going through the ring-ins, and we both might hit a few doors.’
‘Good. Keep me posted.’ He picked up his papers and sat back. ‘Not that you will.’
Chapter Four
Rosie drove to the unit for the homeless up in Springburn on the north side of the city to meet the young woman who’d phoned the Post claiming to be Frankie Mallon’s ex-girlfriend with the familiar sinking feeling she always got when she went to this area. The whole landscape changed so swiftly from the chic, trendy backdrop of the city centre with its designer shops, upmarket bars and restaurants, to this dismal, dank area that screamed of poverty and lack of hope. It was the same in so many housing schemes a stone’s throw from the centre, but Rosie never got used to how it affected her mood. It took her back to her own early life growing up in the tenements where there was never enough of anything, and the odd glimpse of wealth when her mother took her to some big fancy department store only underlined their own poverty. She blinked away the images. Don’t go there today, she told herself. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death, and though years of telling herself to try to focus on the good things that she could pick from her early life, on a day like this, in a place like this, the blackness always crept in. ‘Christ, Gilmour,’ she murmured. ‘Get on with it.’ She consoled herself with the thought that her mother, wherever she was, would be smiling on her, glad that she had overcome so many of her early difficulties and turned her life into something good. And she had, really, considering her beginnings.
She slowed down as she approached the homeless unit – a grim red sandstone tenement building in the middle of a long road that led to the equally grim housing schemes of Possil on one side and Springburn on the other. She could see a woman with a young baby in a pushchair standing outside. She looked cold, shivering in the drizzle. The girl bent her head a little and raised a tentative hand in acknowledgement. This must be her, Rosie thought, glad that she didn’t have to go into the homeless place to talk to her. She’d been there too many times, working and interviewing people, and no matter how good the carers made it look, it was what it was: a homeless unit. For people who had nothing. A refuge for the battered wives who had nowhere else to go, a bed and some heat for a young mother who might also be a drug addict. A place of refuge for victims, because at the end of the day they were all victims. However good it was for the people who were glad to take refuge there, for Rosie it was one of the most depressing places on earth. When you were in the unit for the homeless, it was staring you in the face that it had come to this. Whether through bad choices or desperation, you’d ended up at rock bottom, and the struggle from here was all uphill. Rosie slowed to a halt, and a brief glimpse at the skinny girl’s hollow cheeks and frame told her that at some stage her bad choices had included heroin. But she wasn’t here to judge.
‘Hi,’ Rosie said, smiling as she dropped the passenger-side window. ‘Donna?’
‘Aye. You Rosie?’
‘Yep.’ Rosie leaned across and opened the door. ‘Come on in, I’ll take you for a cup of tea.’
‘Right, okay.’ She began unhitching the baby strapped into the pushchair and folded it. ‘Maybe better if I go in the back, with the wean.’
‘Sure. We’ll not be going far.’
Rosie watched in her rear-view mirror as she got in and propped the toddler down beside her. She caught the little one’s eye and smiled. The kid looked up, little dark circles under her eyes.
‘Who’s this wee one?’ Rosie asked brightly.
‘Amy. She’s two and a half.’
‘Amy,’ the little girl repeated softly.
Rosie turned her body around to face them.
‘You’re a lovely girl, Amy.’
Rosie smiled to the mum who drew back her lips a little and smiled back. But not with her eyes. The eyes were somewhere else.
‘You all right to go to a café?’
‘Café,’ the kid repeated.
‘Well, somebody wants to go anyway.’ Rosie grinned in the rear-view mirror as she drove off.
‘Aw, she’s full of patter, this one. I think she’
s been here before.’
‘Very cute,’ Rosie said.
‘I know. I adore her. Yeah. We’d love to go for a cup of tea.’
Rosie drove to the top of the city and pulled into a café she knew that was old-fashioned and off the beaten track, so wouldn’t be full of the lunchtime sandwich run. They could find some place to talk.
Inside, she was glad the place was warm, because the girl didn’t have enough clothes on for the icy rain outside. She rubbed her hands together as she sat the toddler up on a chair.
‘You hungry?’ Rosie asked. ‘Why don’t you have something to eat.’ She reached her hand across the table and took the girl’s ice-cold hand. ‘Good to meet you, Donna.’
Donna glanced around the café at the few customers eating soup and pastries.
‘I’m starving, actually. Would it be okay to have a fried-egg roll?’ She looked at her little girl. ‘She’ll have some scrambled eggs on toast. And some milk.’ She looked down at the table. ‘We haven’t had any breakfast.’
Rosie looked at both of them for a long moment and could see that despite their circumstances they were a little family unit. She watched Donna for any signs that she was on drugs right now and was glad that it looked like she wasn’t.
‘Sure. Whatever you like.’ She waved the waitress across.
Rosie gave things a few seconds to settle as Donna pulled off Amy’s jacket and settled her down, pushing the salt and pepper and napkins out of her reach. She put a little doll on the table and the kid started playing with it.
‘So, Donna.’ Rosie looked her in the eye. ‘You and Frankie Mallon.’ She glanced at the toddler. ‘Is Amy his?’
She nodded, but said nothing, bit her lip. Rosie let the silence hang for a moment.
‘Had you been split up for long?’
‘Aye. Since she was four months old. In fact, we were never really together. Frankie never lived with me. He . . .’ She paused. ‘He just used me.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘I knew him from years ago. We grew up in the Gorbals. But he’s older than me. About nine years. He made a bit of money, no doubt conning people because that’s all he ever was. And then I met him a couple of years ago by chance, in a bar.’ She touched her face. ‘I looked better than I do now. It was before . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Before the drugs.’
Rosie’s heart sank even further.
‘Heroin?’
‘Aye. Smoking it. But that was after the wean was born. I was depressed and then I couldn’t cope, but I’m off it now. On the methadone. Less and less meth every day. I’m going to get clean. Definitely. I’ll soon be off it altogether. My social worker is dead pleased.’
Rosie had heard it all before. But this girl wasn’t rattling like the junkies she had often encountered in bars or cafés or places where they’d pitched up with information, usually looking for some money.
‘Good,’ Rosie said. ‘I hope so.’ She glanced at Amy. ‘For both of you.’
‘Definitely.’
‘So, what about Frankie? What can you tell me about him? And did you know Helen Lewis? She grew up in the Gorbals too.’
The food arrived and the waitress set down the tray. Rosie decided to wait until Donna had at least broken her fast before badgering her with questions.
‘Tell you what, Donna. Get some food into you, and then we’ll talk.’
Donna didn’t answer, and was already one bite ahead in her fried-egg roll. Rosie sipped her tea and watched them as they ate. When they she had finished, Donna wiped her mouth and turned to Amy, making sure she finished her food.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That Helen Lewis. She was a hooker, you know. When she was about fourteen. Did you know that?’
Rosie had to be careful how she reacted to this, because if she admitted she hadn’t a clue about it, Donna might ask for some money and up the ante, though she hadn’t shown any indication of that so far.
‘I didn’t think she’d always been whiter than white,’ she said vaguely. ‘She’s got a past. We’ve had a couple of phone calls. How do you know about the teenage hooker stuff?’
‘I just do. It was known in the scheme. She was beautiful, Helen. Some guy – don’t know who he was; older; a pimp – put her on the game. I heard her ma was in on it too. I don’t think Helen was long on it, but she definitely was a teenage prostitute. And after that, I think before she got married, she did a lot of coke, dealt in it, I was told. I think she also went to London one time for a while. But I’m not all that sure.’
‘Who told you all this?’
‘Frankie.’
‘Frankie Mallon told you all this? Why?’
She shrugged. ‘He just did. He was full of it one night – loads of nights actually. Coke and drink. He blabbed a lot.’
‘It’s not something that will be easy to prove.’
‘True,’ Donna conceded. ‘You’ll never prove it. But if you find her, you should ask her.’
‘Oh, I will.’ Rosie wished it was as easy as that. ‘So what about Frankie and her? How come he’s been found dead in her flat?’
Donna glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in across the table. ‘He was blackmailing her.’
‘Blackmailing her?’
‘Aye.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. Frankie killed her husband.’ She nodded knowingly. ‘He told me. She hired him to do it.’
Rosie looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Frankie, a hitman?’
‘I know. I didn’t think he’d have the bottle to be a hitman. Christ! Maybe it was made easy, I don’t know. But he did tell me that. He was off his tits on coke one night he came up here to see the wean and then spilled it all out. Maybe he was making it up. But why do that?’
This was crazy. McGuire would love it, but the lawyers would have a stroke.
‘Why would Frankie tell you all that – you know, if he’s killed someone? It’s not very smart.’
‘He was out of his nut on coke, I told you. I’m not making it up, Rosie. Whether it’s true or not I don’t know, but that’s what he told me. He was shagging her. Probably just to con her out of her money. And he said he was blackmailing her. He told me when he got a big payoff from her, he would see me and the wean all right. I didn’t believe it for a minute. He’s an arsehole – was. Good riddance to him.’ She patted Amy’s head. ‘We’ll be better off without him.’
‘I take it you haven’t spoken to the police about this?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t see the point. What good will it do?’
‘It might help them nail Helen Lewis, if they ever manage to find her. If she did kill Frankie and arrange her husband’s murder, she’s a criminal.’ Rosie thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure how much of what you tell me I can use in the newspaper. Maybe not even any of it. I’ll have to talk to my editor.’
‘You can’t name me in anything in the paper. I don’t know who Frankie was mixed up with. Maybe there are others involved. I don’t want my name in the paper.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t have to. There are ways round it.’
Amy sat back and smiled as she finished the last of her food.
‘She was hungry,’ Rosie said.
‘She’s always hungry.’ Donna smiled. ‘She’s like a wee Hoover with food.’ She looked down at the table. ‘My social is hardly enough to cover our dinners and stuff. I’m hoping to get a council flat soon. But there’s never any money. I’m always skint.’
Rosie waited, knowing what was coming next.
‘Look, Rosie, I didn’t phone you so I could get money. Honestly. That’s not my thing. I was just so shocked by what happened, before I knew where I was I was calling the paper. I’m not asking for money, but would the paper pay for any of the information I’ve told you?’
Rosie’s heart always sank when people asked for money, but it was the way things were these days. Donna seemed genuine enough, and Rosie felt sorry for the hand she’d been dealt.
&nbs
p; ‘Yeah. We can pay you something. Not right now though. I’ll speak to the editor and we’ll sort something out. Maybe I’ll meet you in a day or so and have some money for you. We don’t pay a lot though.’
‘Anything would be good. I should get word about the flat this week, so I’ll want to move in and get settled.’
Rosie nodded. They got up to leave and as they left the café, Rosie went to open the car door.
‘Nah.’ Donna looked up at the grey sky. ‘The rain’s stopped. I think we’ll go for a wee walk. I hate being in that place all day. It’s depressing.’
Rosie looked at her. ‘Okay. I’ll give you a phone call and we can meet here if you want.’
‘Thanks.’ She buttoned her thin jacket. ‘And remember, no name.’
Rosie drove off, watching in the rear-view mirror as they walked towards the shopping centre. As she did so she thought of Mags Gillick, the prostitute, who had helped her and paid for it with her life, throat slashed in a Glasgow side street. It would haunt her forever. But Donna was different. However frail and troubled she looked, there was hope somewhere. Her mobile rang and she didn’t recognise the number.
‘Is that Rosie?’
She didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Rosie. My name is Christy Larkin. You might remember me from the Glasgow refugee council a couple of years ago?’
Rosie brightened. Of course she remembered Christy. Everything about him at the time had spoken of hope, among the wrecked and damaged people he encountered while he worked processing refugees in Glasgow. He’d been planning to go travelling, give up the job.
‘Of course I do, Christy. I thought you were travelling the world?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I was. Did a bit of that, but ended up working for a charity.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, Rosie. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve seen your stories the last couple of days about that guy dead in Glasgow, and also the name of Alan Lewis – the accountant. Are you around sometime for a chat?’
