by Anna Smith
They sat in long silence and you could have cut the air with a knife. Eventually Rosie ventured, ‘Helen. I’d like to get some photographs of you organised. How do you feel about that?’
‘No. No way. You’ve got plenty of pictures. And anyway, you said you were not going to reveal where I am or anything. I’m in hiding.’
‘We’ll say that in the paper. I can still say it with pictures. It would be good to get a picture.’
She looked at her mum.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Okay. Well, what about one when you walk out of here, and you don’t know it’s being taken. You just walk down the road looking straight ahead. You won’t even see the photographer. Or, I can take you somewhere else. Some place that won’t be identified as Glasgow.’
‘No. I think I’ve had enough.’
‘Okay. That’s up to you.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘It was really good to speak with you. And you’ve got plenty to say here, so I’m going to get back to the office and speak to my editor.’ Rosie stood up. She wanted out of this claustrophobic dark place. ‘I’ll be in touch if I need to ask any more, if that’s okay.’
‘Aye. Fine.’
Rosie backed away from the table and opened the door to the blare of the music. She winked to Matt, then made her way up the winding staircase to the husky voice of a woman singing . . . ‘Memories, light the corners of my mind, Misty water-coloured memories, of the way we were . . .’ Indeed, Rosie thought as she walked out, blinking, into the daylight, glad she was sober.
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘I don’t believe her,’ Rosie told McGuire from where she sat opposite his desk. ‘You know one of those people you meet and you take an instant dislike to? Well, a bit like that. As I told you, she managed to leave out sections of her life as a hooker. And also she claimed she barely knew Frankie Mallon back in the day. That’s just bullshit. Donna told me all about her and him, plus I’ve got the nosy neighbour seeing him coming and going about her flat.’
McGuire nodded. ‘And she bristled all right when you asked her if she killed him?’ He chortled. ‘That was quite ballsy, by the way, Gilmour, just to ask that straight out.’
‘You told me to ask it.’
‘Yeah, but I thought you might have put it another way.’
‘How else can you ask someone if they’ve shot a person? What do you say – ask if a gun went off in the room? And anyway, by that time I was satisfied that she was lying through her teeth.’
‘Do you think she knew all about the babies racket?’
‘Actually, I don’t think so. That’s probably the only thing she said that I really believed. I got the distinct impression she was horrified at the thought of selling babies. In fact, that’s why she got in touch – to clear her name on that.’
‘Yes, because she knows the mob are bumping off everyone attached to the charity, and she’s panicking.’
‘I know. I’m prepared to believe she got in touch to tell her story in an attempt to save her own skin. That much I do believe. But I don’t think she had anything to do with the babies racket. I didn’t mention the people-smuggling to her yet, as I was waiting till we get it in the paper. Just in case she is at it, and was just fishing for information to pass on to the gangsters. You never know really what her game is. That’s the thing with this dame, Mick. You just talk to her for five minutes and you know she’s a chancer – and as for her ma, she’s a bit of conwoman too. But I knew that before I went.’ She paused. ‘But, we’ve got a good story from her. It’ll still be great in the paper – the wife breaking her silence, living in fear. All that stuff. And I’m sure that’s true. But she’s far from innocent.’
McGuire sat back and scribbled on his notepad.
‘Okay. I’m happy to go with what we’ve got. You never know who it might flush out. But tomorrow is the people-smuggling story, so by late tonight, make a call to her and ask her if she knew anything about that. I know what her answer will be, but we have to ask.’
‘Sure. I’ll do that.’ Rosie stood up. ‘But we need to get the cash we agreed on to the boys – Viktor and Pavil. Are they sorting it out up in Accounts?’
McGuire looked at his watch.
‘Should be. They told me this morning it would be there by late afternoon.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m just uneasy about it, Gilmour. Are you sure these boys are okay? That handing them money isn’t going to lead to all sorts of shit flying around? What do they do with the money when they get it?’
Rosie knew she hadn’t told him her plan to get them to Europe, so she looked away from him.
‘Gilmour, I can see from your face you’re not telling me something. Come on. Out with it. I like to get a bit of warning in case any old something is going to fall on my lap.’
‘It won’t.’ She hesitated, stood up. ‘Look, I’ve got plans in place to get them over to Europe. I’ve got some contacts who can get them out of here and over in a lorry.’
McGuire threw his hands up. ‘Fuck’s sake, Gilmour. Your own people-smuggling racket. Christ almighty!’
‘It’s not people-smuggling.’
‘It bloody well is. What do you call it if someone is in the back of a truck with no passport and smuggled through a border of another country? What do you call it? Hide and fucking seek?’
Rosie couldn’t help but smile.
‘It’s only a one-off. I’ve never done this before.’
He shook his head. ‘You’d better not have.’
‘Of course I haven’t. But I want to get these guys out of the country and over to the north of Spain. It’s up to them after that. They’ll be on their own. I’m sure they’ll find work.’
McGuire lifted his papers and shuffled them as he headed towards the door.
‘Right. That last bit of conversation, I’m now going to pretend I didn’t hear, so don’t tell me any more. Just get things sorted. But before you do anything, write up that Helen piece and have it over to me by tonight.’
‘No problem.’
He left and she walked out behind him.
*
Trying to get newspaper executives to part with actual cash always involved a tussle of epic proportions. If it was a few hundred quid in cash to pay someone for a story and pictures, then that was fine. Even if it was a couple of hundred quid to take some contacts out for dinner, it was fine, as long as you filled in the form. The form in itself was a piece of nonsense, because there was no way in the world Rosie or any other frontline reporter would give the genuine name of a contact they were entertaining. But they had to go through the motions, and names like Jack Brown or John Smith regularly featured. Once or twice Rosie put down the name Hugh Jarse, so she could get a couple of hundred pounds to pay off a contact. The name of course would only sound funny if the accountant read it aloud. She was later taken to one side by the managing editor and told to stop taking the piss, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. However, trying to get the accountants to part with five thousand pounds in cash almost involved being fingerprinted. It had to be sanctioned by the managing director, then sent to London to their and the sister paper’s head office and sanctioned again by their bean counters, complete with questionnaire as to who it was for and why it was necessary. As a result of all the hassle, she was told the money wouldn’t be available until the morning. Now she had to go and break it to the boys at the hotel that the plans had to be put back. She knew they wouldn’t be happy, but it had to be done. She hoped they trusted her enough by now. She hadn’t heard from either of them for most of the afternoon, and when she called there was no answer to Viktor’s mobile. As she drove towards the hotel, her mobile rang and she could see it was Bertie Shaw. She put it on speaker.
‘Bertie. I was about to call you. I’ve been trying to get Viktor on his mobile, but he’s not answering. Is everything all right?’
‘Well, I don’t know, Rosie. That’s why I’m phoning you. There’s been a bit of a development.’
/> Rosie felt her gut twist. ‘What? Something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s the young fella. Pavil. He said he told you about his brother who he’s been trying to contact and hadn’t spoken to for a while.’
‘Yeah. I remember he said. Saban. He didn’t know where he was though.’
‘That’s right. Well, it turns out that the brother has phoned him on his mobile.’
‘Christ! When?’
‘About half an hour ago. He said he was in Glasgow.’
Rosie did not like the sound of this. A brother already here who hadn’t talked to him in nearly two years, suddenly materialising as soon as he went off the radar.
‘I don’t like this, Bertie. There’s something not right about it. What is Pavil saying? What does his brother want?’
‘I don’t like the sound of it either, Rosie. But this brother has got in touch, and Pavil is quite made up about it. He’s very young, and I think he’s a bit excited about the prospect of seeing him.’
‘Seeing him?’ Rosie was aghast. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Pavil said his brother is in Glasgow and was coming to see him to offer him some work, but Saban found he wasn’t at his flat. So that’s why he phoned. He told Pavil he wanted to see him. And so he has arranged for his brother to come to the hotel.’
‘Christ almighty! That sounds like some kind of trap. What if Pavil’s brother is working for the Albanian gangsters and just wants to dig up his brother for them? He might have been told to do this, to track Pavil and Viktor down. If he was, he wouldn’t have much of a choice. You know the way these guys work.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking. But what can we do? He’s going to be here in about ten minutes.’
Rosie jumped a red light at the far end of Hope Street. She was only a few minutes away.
‘Okay. I’m nearly there. I don’t think there is much we can do. Has Pavil told his brother about talking to me?’
‘Yes. He said he has.’
‘Oh Christ! This is all a bit dodgy now.’
‘I know.’
Rosie felt sick with nerves. She had nobody to back her up. She couldn’t call her DI friend, because she was already planning to smuggle two illegals out of the country. Where was Adrian when you needed him? Then she hated herself for the thought, because as far as she knew, Adrian was still recovering somewhere after almost getting killed pulling her out of a hole. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d got back. Jesus! Only one person she could phone now. She took out her phone and scrolled down.
‘Jonjo, it’s Rosie Gilmour here.’
‘Rosie. I saw your name on my screen.’
‘Jonjo, I’m sorry to ask you this, but I think I need your help.’
‘No problem. Where are you? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m heading for the Crest Hotel. Can you meet me there as soon as possible? I think there’s some trouble with these Albanian guys I’ve been dealing with. It’s a bit of a long story. I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘Don’t worry. See you shortly.’
*
Rosie tried to compose herself as she got into the lift at the Crest Hotel. As it closed, she could see Jonjo Mulhearn and two of his henchmen sitting in the reception bar. She’d had a brief five minutes to tell him what she was doing and her fears. He thought it was a trap too, but also told her maybe it wasn’t, that perhaps Pavil’s brother just hated where he was and wanted a way out too. You never know. But once Jonjo was assured that the police were not involved in any way, he told her not to worry. To play along with whatever was going on upstairs. If there was any chance or danger, to have his number on speed dial and ring it once. He would be there pronto. He’d already posted a man on their floor, close to the boys’ hotel room. Rosie pressed the button for the second floor. What the hell am I getting myself into here? she asked herself. Her mouth was dry with anxiety. She could feel sweat on her back and wanted to go back downstairs and phone McGuire, the cops, anyone. This was madness. She was a journalist, and she’d already crossed the line arranging to smuggle these guys out of the country. Now she’d summoned gangsters to help her out. Christ! She was behaving like one of the mob herself. She quietly resolved that she would never do this again once the current situation was over. The lift doors opened and she stepped out and went down the corridor to room 212.
‘Who’s there?’ It sounded like Viktor’s voice.
‘It’s Rosie.’
The security chain was pulled back, and the door was unlocked then opened by Viktor, and she stepped inside. There were four people in the room – Bertie, Viktor and Pavil, but there was also a taller, slightly chunkier version of Pavil, with stubble and a mean mouth. Saban glanced at her and then at Pavil. In his new desert boots, leather jacket and jeans, he was better dressed than his brother. Whatever he was doing, he was not living on the bones of his arse like Pavil.
‘This my brother Saban I told you about, Rosie. He is here. He contact me and he wants to go with us.’
Rosie glanced at Bertie, then at Viktor, who looked paler than normal. It was hard to read what he was thinking. He was a bit smarter than Pavil, she thought, and he didn’t look like he was taken in by all of this. But he also looked as though he felt he had no choice.
‘Hello,’ Rosie said, crossing the room and stretching a hand out to Saban. ‘Howsit going? Your brother and his friend are good people. What a coincidence you getting in touch as they are leaving.’
Rosie wanted it to sound exactly as it did, to let this guy know that she wasn’t convinced by him, but she was big enough to take him on. She was jittery inside, but he wouldn’t see any of that. He looked at her and smiled suddenly, looking more eager and youthful than that mean first glance she’d had suggested.
‘Yes. They told me all about you, Rosie. You are helping them. They are leaving tomorrow. That is good. I am very lucky. I want to go too. I hate it here. Just like them. I am a slave. Can I go too with them? Are you okay about that?’
His English was much better than Pavil’s and his tone was one of an excited young boy rather than a hard-edged Albanian gangster. But she knew nothing about him and what he had been doing here over these past two years. Right now wasn’t the time to ask.
Rosie motioned to them all to sit down. She had to maintain that she was in control, which she was, as long as the brother didn’t look like any kind of threat. And right now, he didn’t. She was probably just being paranoid. Maybe he really was just a long-lost brother wanting to be reunited with his younger sibling. And she didn’t have a lot of options. She could hardly tell Pavil’s brother he couldn’t go with them.
‘Okay. The plan is to leave here early in the morning. We have to be at a motorway service station car park close to here. That is where the driver will be and he will be loading up, waiting for us.’
‘What about the money?’ Viktor asked.
All three of them looked at her, and she was more conscious of Saban’s stare than the others’.
‘I’ll have it by the morning. Before you leave. It’s a lot of cash, so it has to be signed for and that takes a lot of paperwork in London. It all takes time. But don’t worry. It will be here.’
‘You are sure?’ Viktor asked.
‘Yes. I’ll be here first thing. Then we go. I’m coming with you to the service station to meet our contact.’
Pavil looked relieved and she saw him smile for the first time.
‘That’s good. You are very kind to us, Rosie.’
She nodded, still a little tense. She still wasn’t sure what to expect in the next few hours. But everyone seemed fine with the arrangements. All she could do now was hope to Christ that the brother wasn’t a plant.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was early morning and still dark by the time Rosie and Matt were headed down the M74 motorway, sleet slapping the windscreen. She’d arranged to meet big Tony, a truck driver she’d encountered on a foreign aid trip a few years ago when she was part of a cha
rity convoy. He was a larger-than-life ageing hippy with a lot of stories to tell. She hadn’t been that surprised when he’d told her one night when he’d had too much local hooch in Budapest, that sometimes he drove ‘other items’ to and from Europe. He’d never confessed what they were, and she didn’t push it, but she got the impression the he was dropping some cannabis loads off from time to time. People-smuggling was a different ball game, he’d told her. Gangsters did that, he’d said, and he didn’t want to get involved. But he’d agreed to do it this one time, on condition, he’d joked, that when he was done with all this travelling, Rosie would write his life story.
They were too early for the rush-hour traffic and they were grateful that when they took the slip road off the M74 and headed into the service station car park there were only a couple of cars there. Rosie turned around to check that Bertie was driving behind Matt with the three Albanians. None of this felt good. She was clutching her handbag, which contained five grand in a padded brown envelope. She was about to hand it over to three Albanians who were to be smuggled out of the country by an illegal arrangement she had made. This was wrong on so many levels. McGuire’s ‘people smuggler’ words rang in her ears. She had lain in bed last night twisting and turning, as sleep wouldn’t come, trying to tell herself that she was doing the right thing. And deep down, she believed that she was. She’d been using these refugees to give her a story that would break open a smuggling racket, so the least she could do was attempt to protect them. If they’d agreed to go to the police as she’d wanted, it would have been more straightforward. But because they’d refused, she was left with no option. She couldn’t leave them high and dry. Why not? she asked herself again and again. Because she felt guilty about some of the people she had used and then didn’t take enough care of before, and even though she knew none of it had been her fault, she was constantly niggled by the voices on her shoulder saying she could have done more. No. This was the right thing to do.
