Dead Won't Sleep

by Anna Smith

  ‘You’re right.’ He smiled. ‘Unless some cops who use whores got involved with her.’

  ‘You should be writing detective thrillers, Don. Is that not the realm of fantasy?’

  Don sniggered. ‘Maybe it is. All I know is that there was no big interest in busting a gut to find this kid when she went missing, and now they’re trying to play it down, saying she may have been depressed, suicidal and stuff. From the sexual abuse. Blaming the parents. I don’t think anybody’s even thinking murder. No injuries on the body and nothing to suggest she was strangled or anything. Suicide looks likely.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘And I suppose she got the train from Glasgow, hired a rowing boat and rowed herself out to sea and then just jumped in?’

  Don nodded. ‘Therein lies the story.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then howls of laughter from the champagne guys around the podium reminded them where they were.

  ‘As you can see, my friend,’ Rosie said, raising her glass. ‘Life goes on.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rosie could see it all from her balcony, three floors up at St George’s Cross. The city shimmering in all its glory under a million lights. Mother Glasgow. She could nearly hear its heartbeat. If you stood long enough, you could witness all forms of human life on the streets below. Some of the faces on the buses would not have looked out of place in a Moscow bread queue: empty resigned expressions as they were transported away from the city to the sprawling housing schemes and another world.

  Directly below, students headed for the happy hour pubs to gorge themselves with the remains of their student loans. Payback time wasn’t even a concept – not in any aspect of their lives. Now and again Rosie would catch a glimpse of a drug deal being struck on the corner with a teenager in a baseball cap behind the wheel of a BMW. One time, during a sleepless night, she had stood on her balcony and watched amazed as a man pulled his girlfriend into a doorway and humped her there and then. And they say romance is dead, Rosie reflected ironically in the dark of the February evening. She drained her glass of red wine and stood hypnotised by the teeming rain.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the early afternoon when she was sent by her news desk to speak to the family of the dead girl. It never got any easier, any less depressing.

  She had told the taxi driver to keep the engine running when they pulled up at the block of flats in the Cranhill housing scheme. No curtains twitched in the windows of this block when strangers arrived outside. The heroin explosion of the last decade had ravaged schemes like this and created a lost generation, stumbling around like zombies towards their next fix. Most of the flats were boarded up with the aluminium sheets that had become the shameful backdrop to Glasgow’s architecture in recent years – a stark contrast to the stunning carvings that tourists marvelled at on ancient city centre buildings. ‘Let Glasgow Flourish’, the city’s motto, went way back and came from the very mouth of its patron Saint Mungo, who apparently performed four miracles there. He would have needed another one for these shithole flats that were a blot on every housing scheme across the city. This was the Glasgow of the Billy and the Tim, where lives were trashed on a daily basis, some even before they were born. And years of in-bred religious sectarianism and hate ensured it was the city where wearing the wrong coloured football jersey could get your throat cut on any given Saturday.

  But there also were miracles. If you got to be a teenager without a drug habit you could just about walk on water. And if you were a miracle, you kept on walking and didn’t look back. Bizarrely, Rosie always found that even in a whole block of these boarded-up flats, there was always one with a grimy window and a garishly coloured curtain half hanging off the rail. A kind of twisted lifestyle magazine image, labelling its occupants dysfunctional. The flat she was going to today was no different. The window was half open and Rosie thought she saw someone look out and then disappear when they saw the car arrive.

  She took a deep breath and went into the entrance of the building. It stank of piss. Her feet scrunched on broken bottles as she picked her way through to the stairs. Used syringes were discarded on the steps. Another society party. It was a standard joke among journalists that it was always the top flat when you were following a miserable story like this one. Rosie climbed the stairs, glancing at the boarded-up doorways all the way to the fourth floor. A tiny shudder of fear ran through her, as it always did when she was alone in a set-up like this. She should have brought the taxi driver with her, but he didn’t look like he wanted to be involved. He was jittery enough just sitting in the street with his engine running.

  The door to the flat had no name plate, just the surname Eadie scrawled with a felt pen. The news desk had told her that a reporter had tried to get to the family at the time Tracy went missing, but nobody ever answered the door. The word from the cops was that they were real lowlifes. The bottom half of the door had been kicked in – recently, by the look of things. Rosie took a deep breath, trying to recover from the climb before knocking on the door. Knock, knock. Nothing. Again she knocked. The door opened and a squat guy who looked like he should be tethered to a heavy chain around his tree-trunk neck stood before her in his grubby vest and jeans.

  ‘Fuck are you?’ he growled. Rosie saw his fists clench by his sides and she swallowed hard. Her legs felt a little weak. Fists like that had no compunction when it came to punching women.

  ‘I’m looking for the family of Tracy Eadie?’ She stood her ground, entertained a fleeting fantasy of kicking him in the balls, but the thought only lasted a second.

  ‘Ah said who the fuck are you? Whit d’ya want?’ The colour rose in his shaven head.

  ‘I’m from the Post. I wanted to talk to the family of Tracy Eadie. I know it’s a difficult time . . . tragic time. But I was wondering if I could talk to her parents or family.’ Rosie reeled off her fairly standard opening gambit and hoped the funereal expression on her face would stop her getting a burst lip.

  ‘Nobody wants to talk to anyone. Right. Now fuck off.’ The ape-man rasped and stepped back.

  Rosie had a rush of blood to her head and was on the offensive before she could stop herself.

  ‘And who are you?’ She knew her voice was too indignant for her own good. She braced herself.

  ‘The fucking concierge! Now fuck off, ya useless fuck!’ The door slammed hard, and a couple of splinters from the damaged wood fell on the floor. Rosie turned to walk away. She sighed. This was not going to happen, but as she was on the second step, the door opened again. She turned around.

  ‘Come in!’ She heard the ape-man’s voice, but when she got to the door there was nobody there. Just the long putrid hallway with its bare floorboards and graffiti on the wall.

  Out of nowhere a Great Dane the size of a Shetland pony came bounding down the hall barking, and Rosie nearly passed out with shock.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ She couldn’t help herself shouting. She was about to be mauled to death in a block of derelict flats. What a way to go.

  ‘Dancer! Dancer! C’mere, ya daft bastard.’ A tall skinny boy of about sixteen came running down the hall and grabbed the dog round the neck.

  ‘It’s all right. He’ll no touch ye. He’s just a big pet,’ the boy said, and grinned at her.

  Rosie felt her legs shaking as she walked down the hall. ‘Christ almighty,’ she murmured under her breath.

  Once inside the living room, the age-old thought rushed back into Rosie’s mind. Why do they call it a living room? Living was a huge exaggeration of what was going on in here. There was a double bed in the middle of the floor and, lying on it, a fat woman with hair down to her waist, barely covered by the crumpled duvet. Rosie couldn’t see her face but she could hear her retching into a basin.

  The smell was overpowering. Rosie glanced around the room, looking for some window to open or a pocket of air she could dive into. Cans of super lager were scattered on the floor. A man lay slumped in a stupor on an armchair. He was bare-chested, and Rosie’s t
rained eye noticed that his entire body was full of junkie’s trackmarks. Beside the chair, a toddler in a grubby babygrow lay on a cushion fast asleep. Its hair was matted with food and its nose with caked snot. Rosie felt light-headed. The teenage boy holding the dog could see her shock and looked embarrassed. The ape-man just stood watching her. She thought she had better say something before she passed out.

  ‘I’m Rosie Gilmour, from the Post. It’s about Tracy. I take it this is where her parents live? Are any of you her parents?’ Rose was relieved to see that the woman had stopped vomiting. She watched as she sat up, her face flushed and her eyes bulging. She didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m her da,’ the ape-man said, taking a packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece and lighting one.

  Rosie didn’t know what she was going to say next, but it had better be quick because now she had the full attention of everyone, including the junkie who had just woken up and the dog whose nose was sniffing at her crotch. She pushed it away.

  ‘Could I talk to you about Tracy? I’m trying to build up a picture of her early life and what happened to her. You know, with being in the children’s home. I know it’s a problem with kids in the homes. Running away. And drugs and prostitution.’ It all came tumbling out as Rosie kept pushing the dog’s nose away.

  ‘She’s been in that home for nearly a year,’ the woman said. ‘I’m her mammy. We had to put her in the home because she kept running away from school and stuff, poor wean. She’s only a wean. Some bastard did this to our Tracy. They better get him. She’s only a wean . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  The ape-man stood staring.

  ‘Why was she in the home? Just truancy? Is that it?’ Rosie addressed the question to him.

  He looked at her and his face flushed. He spat. ‘It’s they fuckin’ social workers. They said she was gettin’ interfered with. Even said I was letting ma pals dae it for money. Fuck me! Crap! No way! But they took her and put her in the home. Now she’s deed. Bastards!’ His eyes were full of hatred. Rosie looked at him, feeling she knew exactly what he was. Everything Mags had told her had been true. He had been passing his daughter around. She tried to hide her contempt. Just get on with the business at hand.

  ‘Would you have a picture of Tracy? We’re going to have a go at the social work department, and a picture would be a help. So we can tell the story properly. Like how come she was going out at night in the first place? How come the home didn’t know what she was doing? They should know stuff like that.’ Rosie kept her head.

  The boy went into a bedroom and returned with a picture of a bright blonde teenager in school uniform. She was smiling, showing striking white teeth. But there was something in her pale blue eyes that said she had already seen too much. Rosie took the picture and put it in her pocket.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get it back.’ She looked at the mother, who was staring straight ahead, while the apeman was looking at the floor.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he mumbled.

  Nobody else spoke. Then the silence was broken by the dog jumping on Rosie and wrapping its paws around her.

  ‘Christ almighty! Get him off!’ She pushed the slavering dog away.

  ‘Dancer! Down, Dancer! Down!’ The boy dragged him away, smiling. ‘I think he fancies you,’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m really more of a Border collie woman, to be honest,’ Rosie replied, and tried to smile as she backed out of the room and walked away. She had almost broken into a run when she got into the hallway.

  The sound of the phone ringing brought Rosie back to the balcony. She went inside and glanced around, trying to identify where the mobile ring was coming from. Eventually she found it in the kitchen.

  ‘Hallo?’ The sound of a call box. ‘Hallo. Is that Rosie?’ It was Mags.

  ‘Yeah. Hi, Mags, are you all right? Why are you using a callbox, Mags? Where’s your mobile?’

  There was a sound of sniffing.

  ‘I need to talk to you. I’m getting hassle from the polis. They’re panicking about Tracy, an’ I got a slap from one of them tonight. I’m still seeing you tomorrow, Rosie?’

  ‘Sure. Glasgow Green. Don’t worry, Mags. Don’t go out tonight to the Drag. Stay at home.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Mags sounded anxious. ‘I’ve no stuff. I need to pay my debts, Rosie. I owe the dealers. I’ll get chibbed if I don’t pay them.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘See you tomorrow, Mags, and don’t forget to bring the mobile with you . . . You watch yourself now.’

  The phone clicked off.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The ice cubes cracked as the whisky drenched them in the heavy crystal glass. Jack liked that sound. He watched as he poured, and noticed that his hand was trembling. He poured a little more, just to calm his nerves. He had just come home after giving that junkie whore Mags Gillick a bit of a duffing up to make sure she kept her mouth shut. Christ! He could have choked the life out of her. Now, in the tiled kitchen of the suburban detached house he and his wife Myra had lived in for thirty years, he was trying to keep calm. He had to get a grip of himself. This should be his sanctuary. Nobody could touch him here.

  Jack took a deep breath and swallowed some of the whisky. It felt good. He could hear Myra reading the newspaper in the room next door and shook his head in frustration. Why does she always have to read the fucking headlines out? Every night, the same routine. They sat after dinner and Myra settled down with the newspaper, reading aloud the headlines of any story she found interesting, assuming that Jack would be fascinated as well. As if he couldn’t fucking read. If only she knew that the routine almost drove him to distraction, even though he grunted interested noises with each new story. Stupid little things like that really pissed Jack off these days. Especially during the last few months, and even more so in recent days when he was so tense he felt his head might explode . . . ‘GIRL WASHED UP ON BEACH WAS MISSING TROUBLED TEEN PROSTITUTE.’

  Jack froze as Myra read out the headline. Why doesn’t she shut her mouth, he thought, taking a huge swallow of his drink. He poured another slug into the glass and walked into the lounge, feeling the whisky burn all the way down to his stomach. It had been just about bearable when Alison was living in the house with them before she went to university in Edinburgh. At least he and Alison could have their little private smiles to each other when Myra started reading the headlines. They understood each other. But since she left he felt trapped alone with Myra, and he was beginning to despise her.

  ‘What’s that, darlin’?’ He tried to sound distracted.

  ‘The girl on the beach at Troon. Apparently she was only a wee lassie and was in one of those care homes. My God! It says here she was on the game. And drugs. Christ! She was only fourteen. Isn’t that terrible, Jack?’ Myra never took her eyes off the newspaper so at least she couldn’t see the anxiety in her husband’s eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack grunted. ‘Terrible. It’s all drugs now, Myra. Drugs. I heard the lads talking about the case today. There’s a big investigation into it. Papers are all over it. You know. Because she’s so young. And because she was missing.’ Jack spoke matter-of-factly. The whisky was helping.

  ‘Do you think she was murdered, Jack?’ Myra asked, dropping the newspaper down and looking at him.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Jack hoped his face showed nothing. ‘I heard them say it doesn’t look like murder. No sign of injuries.’

  ‘What about rape?’ Myra persisted.

  ‘Don’t know, darlin’. Looks like she was in the water for weeks, so there might not be any evidence of that.’ Jack hoped it didn’t sound like a prayer.

  Later, in bed, Jack woke up and felt the cold sweat breaking out all over his body. It had been like that in the beginning, after they dumped her, but it had gone away after a while. In the last few nights it had come back with a vengeance, and when the anxiety started like boiling water being poured down his back, he just had to ride the feeling until it stopped, leaving him soaking. At least Myra was such a deep sleeper she didn�
��t notice he was lying awake, willing the first light of dawn to spread across the sky. At least then he could get up, get dressed for work and get out of here. He wiped sweat from his forehead. He was dripping.

  Jack could still see the terrified look on Mags’s face when he got hold of her earlier on. Foxy had told him to make sure he gave the bitch the message that her face better stay shut. So Jack waited until he knew exactly where Mags would be, then he drove out and got her. He waited for about five minutes when there was no sign of her and he guessed she must have picked up a punter. That wouldn’t take long. While he waited, he wondered how the hell it had come to this. It had all started with some harmless fun with the hookers a few years ago. Cops always knew you could get a blow-job for free if you made sure the lassies weren’t arrested. It was easy, and good fun. Nobody got hurt, and now and again they gave the girls a few quid for their efforts. Some of the birds were all right; not the ones who could hardly stand up in the doorway, the ones who still had half a brain and some flesh on them. They were fine for using.

  It was Foxy’s idea to start bringing the half decent ones to the boat, and Jack had the job of finding them. There were others too, for mates of Foxy’s. Jack was never told who they were, but he just did what he was asked and organised the girls. He didn’t want to ask too many questions around Foxy in case he fell out of the inner sanctum that had always been him, Bill and Foxy. He was pleased that Foxy kept it that way, even as he rose through the ranks to become head of the CID. Close mates were everything, Foxy had said. Like brothers, except that you could choose them.

  When Mags had eventually turned up last evening, she was standing at the low wall at the edge of the River Clyde, where Jack appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘Fuck sake!’ She was startled, when he grabbed her arm. ‘I nearly shat myself. Fuck sake, Jack.’

  Jack said nothing but pulled her into the shadows and against the wall.