Dead Won't Sleep

by Anna Smith

  ‘Right, lads. How’s it going?’ Foxy said, rubbing his hands as he sat on his desk facing them.

  Silence. He looked from one to the other, his eyes resting on Jack. He didn’t look well.

  ‘I’m shitting myself, Foxy,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t mind telling you. From the moment we ditched that wee lassie over the edge of the boat I’ve hardly slept a wink. I knew she would turn up some day. I knew it. I feel like I’m constantly going to throw up.’ Jack looked and sounded like a condemned man.

  ‘Me too,’ Bill said. ‘My arse is twitching. But here’s the deal . . .’ He turned to Jack. ‘Jack. You’d better buckle down here. The bottom line is that nobody has a single thing on any of us. I mean we’re more or less above suspicion. It’s only because we know what we did that we’re worried. We’ll just have to tough it out.’ Bill sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. He’d been doing that better than Jack these past months.

  ‘Exactly, Bill,’ Foxy said. He pushed away the niggle in his stomach and kept his voice calm. ‘And anyway,’ he continued, spreading his hands out in front of him. ‘we didn’t actually do anything. The stupid wee bitch just died. I didn’t lay a hand on her. Well, apart from the shag. I mean, none of us harmed her in any way. Under normal circumstances she would have been well paid and dropped off somewhere in the morning. We didn’t kill her, she just upped and died on us. Wee fucking bitch!’ He rubbed his chin and looked at the two of them. ‘It must have been the coke. Perhaps she’d had a lot of stuff before she arrived at the boat.’ He put his hands in his pockets and squared his shoulders. ‘Look, lads, we’ve been through all of this back to front in the last few months. We’ll deal with it. The bird’s been in the water for six months. There’s nothing on her for forensics.’

  The door opened and Patsy came in carrying a tray with cups and teapot. She set it down on her boss’s table and did not make eye contact with any of them, not even when Foxy thanked her.

  He watched the door closing behind her before he continued.

  ‘Bill,’ he said, pouring the tea into cups, knowing they were noticing his steady hands. ‘How did the press conference go this morning?’

  ‘The usual, Foxy,’ Bill said. ‘The only real interest is because the bird was fourteen and she was naked. And because she was that missing lassie.’ He looked away. ‘There were obvious questions from the slavering hacks. You know. Sexual assault. Rape. Murder. Big McCann from Ayr’s handling it. They only gave the basic information out at the press conference. They said forensic tests were still ongoing. Somebody asked how long she’d been in the water, but they couldn’t be accurate. I was there because the girl’s from Glasgow and we’re liaising, but I didn’t say anything. Just sat in the background.’

  ‘Fine,’ Foxy said. ‘They’ll be sniffing around looking for a murder because of the other whore murder last year. But this is different. They’ll never find anything. As you say, Bill, there’s nothing to link her to the night she went missing. Nothing.’ He was confident. ‘So, Bill. Any questions about how she got there? Any imaginative theories from the hacks? You know how the bastards don’t allow the facts to get in the way of a good story.’ Foxy walked towards the window with his tea in his hand.

  ‘No, not yet. We’ll have to wait and see how the papers handle it, but these days nobody bothers with junkies. It’s only because she was that missing kid, but we’ve suspected that since she washed up. We’ve lived with it. We’ll just need to keep going.’

  They both looked at Jack.

  His face turned beetroot. ‘I know, Foxy. It’s my fault. We’ve already been through all that. How the fuck was I to know she was only fourteen and from a children’s home?’ Sweat had broken out on his forehead. ‘But I was assured she was eighteen. One of her pals told me. One of the lassies we’ve used before. She said she knew her. What was I supposed to do? Ask for a passport?’

  He looked pleadingly at Foxy.

  ‘I mean this is the biggest nightmare of my life, Foxy. Honest to Christ. I’m at home with my wife and daughter and I can’t concentrate on anything. Even at work, I feel as if I’m going around in a daze. That wee lassie. I mean we just fucking dumped her like a piece of meat.’ Jack was on the verge of tears.

  Foxy put his cup down on the desk and took a deep breath. He could see Jack was beginning to break already. If this was Jack when there was really nothing to worry about, he wouldn’t like to see him if there was any heat on. Typical Jack. In the beginning, when they were just young cops together trying to make their mark, it was always Jack who was the weakest. A big bear of a man and the best pal anybody could ever have, but when backs were to the wall you could hear the sound of bottle crashing. The first time they got paid off by big Jake Cox, Jack had been panicking in case they were caught. It had taken a few payoffs and reassurances for Jack to get fully into how you could make the system work, and still manage to do your bit to clean up the streets. Over the years, he’d become more confident about it, as long as he knew his two mates would be at his side. They would never desert each other. They’d stick together – they knew too much not to – but now was definitely not the time for Jack to develop a serious conscience.

  ‘Stop that now, Jack,’ Foxy snapped at him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. It’s you and your fucking Catholic guilt. Okay, the lassie died. But she would have died anyway. Sooner or later. They all end up like that. She might not have been injecting heroin when we met her, but you can guarantee she would have been before the year was out. And she’d have been dead by twenty–one.’

  He drank from his cup and set it down on the table.

  ‘I mean we never abused her or anything. We didn’t hurt her. We don’t hurt any of these birds. It’s just a bit of fun. Only this time it went wrong.’ Foxy sat back down and looked straight at Jack and Bill, the way he always did when he was trying to convince them that everything would be fine.

  ‘Listen, Jack. Bill.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Now listen good. We’re all in this together. We’ve just got to stay strong for a few weeks and this will all blow over. Let’s keep our heads down and our chins up. ’Cos if we don’t, it’ll show and I don’t want to think what could happen if any of this gets out.’

  Foxy stood, a signal for Bill and Jack to leave. They got up and shook each other’s hands. Foxy noticed that Jack’s was like a wet dishcloth.

  They went out of the room and Foxy walked over to the wall next to the window and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a handsome man for his fifty years. The dark hair, flecked with grey, gave him that distinguished look of a man you could trust. He looked at the framed photograph of himself on the wall, holding an award, surrounded by police chiefs and the Lord Provost. Yes. Gavin Fox had stood tall in his uniform, and he admired the photograph of him in his black tunic. He ran his hands over the picture, caressed the blue and red ribbons he wore that day over his breast pocket. Medals of distinction, honour. He just had a little weakness for women, but it was his secret. In twenty-five years of marriage, his wife had never suspected anything of his boat trips with the lads at the weekend. That’s how it would stay, Foxy vowed to himself. That’s how it must stay.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Few places depressed Rosie more than the East End of Glasgow. The smell of fat from greasy-spoon cafes hung in the air against the backdrop of cheap clothes shops, selling rubbish gear to kids and parents who existed in a world far removed from the designer stores in the city centre just a mile away.

  For Rosie, the East End stank of poverty and failure. And every time she went there, a flood of buried childhood memories came rushing back to remind her of who she was and where she came from. Now she sat at the window, watching the drizzle cling to the grimy glass of the Grass Cafe, and closed her eyes to push away the image of the little girl trudging up the road in no hurry to go home. There was nothing to go home to. Her mum would be comatose on the couch as usual.

  She could still call up that smell her mother had
when she used to grab Rosie and kiss her, once she’d roused her from drunken sleep. Stale booze and fags, mixed with the musty but potent smell of Worth perfume that had been on too long.

  ‘Can I get you somethin’?’ The voice broke into Rosie’s gloomy reverie. She looked up at the skinny girl in the light blue overall, her hair tied up in a neat pony tail and her eyes bright and inquiring.

  ‘Tea please. Just tea,’ Rosie said, smiling at her.

  The girl walked smartly back to the counter and ordered the tea from the woman behind the formica, working at the deep fat fryers. They exchanged a few words then both glanced over at Rosie who looked away from them. They were probably wondering who she was. A copper? A social worker? Dressed in her raincoat and black suit, Rosie stood out from the other customers in the cafe. One woman sat eating chips and smoking a cigarette between mouthfuls. An old man with no teeth was trying to negotiate a fried-egg roll. Rosie felt a little sick as she watched him sucking the yolk. In the far corner a boy of no more than eighteen had made three attempts to pick up a mug of tea, but his hands trembled so much he couldn’t put it to his lips. Another junkie. ‘Glasgow’s Miles Better’. Sure it did. Rosie smiled to herself thinking of the logo and the yellow, smiley-face icon that had been the city’s image across the world. The thing was, despite all this crap and poverty and drugs, the city still had the balls to smile at itself.

  The door opened and an emaciated young woman walked in, leading a little girl by the hand. She looked around, and her eyes rested on Rosie. Rosie hadn’t expected a kid. She moved to get up and the girl came towards her.

  ‘You Rosie?’ she asked. The little girl by her side smiled at her.

  ‘Yeah. Sit down, sit down. Thanks for coming.’ Rosie had been down this road before with drug addicts, and you needed to be in control from the moment you met them. If you were a soft touch they would dip your bag the minute your back was turned.

  Rosie said she was having some tea and asked if they wanted anything.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Mags,’ the girl said. ‘And this is my wee girl, Gemma. She’s seven.’

  ‘Hi, Gemma,’ Rosie said, softening to the girl, who appeared well looked after for a junkie’s kid. ‘Do you want something to eat, Gemma?’

  ‘Can I get chips?’ the girl said, sitting on her hands, her big blue eyes looking from Rosie to her mum.

  ‘Chips?’ Rosie said. ‘It’s only half past ten in the morning. You can’t eat chips at this time.’

  There was a silence. Gemma’s face fell. ‘I like chips,’ she murmured.

  The waitress was at the table, watching the scene with her pencil and pad at the ready.

  ‘One plate of chips please,’ Rosie said. ‘And . . . ?’ She looked at Mags without saying her name in front of the waitress. Walls had ears around these places.

  ‘A strawberry milkshake,’ Mags said, pulling a pack of ten Embassy Regal from her pocket.

  Rosie nodded to the waitress, who gave her a knowing look that said the milkshake was the typical junkie drink. The waitress looked as though she wondered what this well-dressed woman was doing in this company. Rosie ordered more tea for herself.

  Mags lit up the cigarette and inhaled so deeply that Rosie wondered if the smoke was going to come out of her ears. Gemma sat staring at Rosie, who figured Mags must be around twenty-two. Her stick-thin figure made her look like a kid, and she wore a tight pink T-shirt, with a heart on the chest and a quote that said, ‘love is in the air . . .’ Rosie glanced at it and looked out of the window at the rain. Sure it was. The T-shirt came only halfway down Mags’s midriff. There was no stomach, just a narrow waist and a silver ring in her navel. The pervert punters liked that skinny childlike frame, and Rosie knew they paid more if the girl was younger. But despite her skinny body, Mags’s face showed the ravages of years of heroin. The pupils of her strikingly green eyes were tiny, indicating that she had recently had a hit, probably her first of the morning. At least she would be in coherent shape to talk.

  ‘Well, Mags,’ Rosie said softly. ‘Tell me about Tracy Eadie. It’s a terrible thing that happened, but the cops don’t seem that bothered, to be honest with you. The only thing that’s keeping them on the ball is that she was so young and from a children’s home. That’s what’ll keep it in the papers.’ Rosie knew that sounded a bit tactless, but she didn’t see the point of pulling any punches. ‘Is there anything you can tell me? Maybe I can do something. Maybe I can investigate.’ Rosie leaned forward.

  ‘Tracy’s deed,’ Gemma piped up, taking Rosie by surprise. ‘It was on the news.’

  ‘Shutit you,’ Mags snapped. ‘I told you. You can only come if you shut your mouth. I’ll no tell you again.’ Gemma put her head down, saying nothing. Rosie smiled at her, apologetically.

  ‘Right,’ Mags said, leaning towards Rosie. ‘Right. I’m going to tell you somethin’ about Tracy. You know the night before she went missin’? The night before she was never seen again? Well, I know where she was.’

  She sniffed, her eyes darting around her.

  ‘She was with the polis. The main man. Top detective. Head of the CID. On his boat.’ Mags’s eyes narrowed. She drew on her fag and swallowed the smoke.

  Several little explosions went off in Rosie’s head. Jesus. The boss man and a prostitute. A runaway from a children’s home, no less. Gavin Fox? Christ. It was like all your birthdays coming in one miserable morning. Prove it, she could almost hear the editor say. No chance of ever proving it, she thought. She pictured the apoplectic newspaper lawyers who pored over everything she wrote in this new litigious world we lived in. You couldn’t even imply that a man like Gavin Fox spoke to a prostitute the wrong way, far less that he spent the night with a teenage one. No chance.

  Fox was Teflon man. There were plenty of rumours about his less than conventional ways, but nobody had a thing on him. He was squeaky clean, and he got results. People said he was on the take, but people had said that about detectives since the beginning of time. Proving it was a different matter.

  ‘Aye,’ Mags said. ‘And he wasn’t on his own. His other two mates were there an’ all. They’re high heid yins as well. Big guys. Top men.’ She sat back. ‘By the way, am I getting paid for this?’

  Rosie’s heart sank. She’d heard the fantasies of prostitutes before, and sometimes they gave Oscar-winning performances, but too often they lied through what was left of their teeth. She pushed the teacup away from her and moved as though she was getting up to leave. She went into her pocket, pulled out a ten-pound note and threw it onto the table.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard enough. You phone me in tears about your dead pal, tell me a far-fetched story about a top policeman, then ask for money. Mags, do me a favour, pal. Away and find yourself some other eejit. Try the Sun. They’ll maybe believe you.’ Rosie stood up. If the girl was telling the truth she would stop her and withdraw the request for money. If she was lying, she would let Rosie go, still protesting that the story was true. There was always the chance that the girl would just let her go anyway, and even if the story was true, it was lost. Rosie took the chance.

  ‘Wait,’ Mags said, grabbing her arm. ‘Wait. Right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean I’m askin’ for money. Sorry about that. Sit doon, please. Please.’ She looked about to burst into tears. Gemma sat playing with her chips, watching her mum’s anguish.

  Rosie sat back down.

  Gradually Mags spilled out the story. She had known a cop called Jack Prentice for years. He sometimes used her and other girls. Only the ones that were quite smart looking, not the proper stanks who could hardly stand up. He introduced her to his mates a few months ago. They were both top policemen, but she only knew them as Bill and Foxy. She didn’t know who Foxy was until she was watching the news one night and his face came on the telly. He was the head of the CID. Jack used to arrange for her to go on Foxy’s boat overnight and she would have sex with the three of them. It was a yach
t. It had sails. They always paid her well. It was Jack who paid her the money. And they used condoms, most of the time, but not for the blow-jobs.

  Rosie glanced at Gemma but she was concentrating on the chips.

  ‘Sometimes I took another girl, but she’s dead now from an overdose,’ Mags went on. She sucked on the straw of the milkshake. ‘Then there was this night, about six months ago, I saw Jack was talking to wee Tracy Eadie. I knew her for about four or five months. She was in a children’s home, because her da had been passin’ her round his mates for money. Wanker. She was in that Woodbank place.’ She put her arm around Gemma and pulled her close. Her voice became a whisper.

  ‘Tracy was on heroin, just smokin’ it, and started to work the Drag to pay for her habit. She was only twelve when she started takin’ stuff, with the hash and the jellies. But she looked a bit older, wi’ make-up an’ that. Not old, like twenty or something.’ She half smiled. ‘She made good money because a lot of the men like young ones. The next night, after Jack was talking to her, he was on the Drag and asked me could I find this girl Tracy, and if she was all right. I told him she was. He said to ask her if she would come to the boat. I said I would, and he gave me fifteen quid.’

  Mags swallowed hard and looked beyond Rosie into the distance.

  ‘I know she went on the boat. She told me she was goin’ when I talked to her earlier on the night. I told her it would be okay and they were all right guys. I know she went with Jack because I saw her getting into his motor. I know he drove her to Ayr to go to the boat.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘That’s the last I saw her. She was on that boat with them. I know for a fact.’

  ‘How do you know for a fact, Mags?’

  Mags looked at her. ‘She phoned me. She had a mobile some shoplifter gave her. She always had it. She phoned me from the boat later on that night. But I was wrecked and didn’t have my phone on. She left a message though. She sounded out of her box. Coked up or something. Said she was feelin’ sick. Said she wanted off the boat. And sayin’ the names of the guys. That kind of stuff.’