by Anna Smith
She told McGuire there would no doubt be an attempt by the cops to play down Prentice’s suicide, and that Reynolds would be better handling the story. It would be straightforward. They would say that Prentice had been suffering from depression for some time, and would give Reynolds enough evidence to back that up. There wasn’t a snowball in hell’s chance of anyone connecting his death to the other stuff.
‘I think we should just tell the story,’ Rosie said. ‘We can simply say that it comes at a time when police are probing the deaths of two prostitutes in the past week, and one unsolved hooker murder last year. It doesn’t suggest any involvement and it’s a valid enough thing to say. But it’ll rattle Fox’s cage, and anything we can do to noise him up is good.’
‘Yeah.’ McGuire was on his feet, already visualising the story in the paper. ‘And make sure we’ve got a picture of Prentice for tomorrow’s paper. You never know. There must be a few hookers who know him. One of them might pop up and back the Mags story.’ He grinned. ‘Not that half a dozen junkie hookers telling the same story would stop the lawyers twitching, but it would help.’
‘Sure,’ Rosie said. ‘Reynolds will organise a picture. Might even get Prentice in his Freemason apron.’
‘Now that would be just dandy,’ McGuire laughed, and went back behind his desk. He gave Rosie a look that said it was time to go, but she decided that now was as good a time as any to tell him what Trina had told her.
‘Listen, Mick,’ she said. ‘There’s been another development that I think you should know about. It’s really over-the-top stuff, but if it’s true, then Christ knows how we’ll handle it.’
McGuire looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got a meeting shortly, before conference.’
‘This is important, Mick,’ Rosie insisted.
He leaned forward, his black eyebrows knitted in anticipation. ‘Go on then, Gilmour. Let’s hear it.’
She began by telling him what Mags had said about the children’s home and kids being used. Then she told him about Gemma turning up on her doorstep, and watched his angry frown as he heard how she and TJ had her back to the home.
‘Who the fuck’s TJ?’
‘A friend. Just a friend.’ She looked away from McGuire’s piercing eyes. ‘He’s fine though, don’t worry. I can trust him.’
McGuire said nothing but continued to look straight into her eyes. She assured him again it was fine. She confessed that she’d visited the children’s home at the weekend. He covered his face with his hands when she told him she’d gone into Woodbank and spoken to Gemma and her friend.
‘I don’t think I want to hear this. Christ almighty, Rosie, what are you playing at?’
‘There was nothing else for it, Mick.’ She looked pleadingly at him. ‘They started talking about it and I just asked a couple of questions.’
McGuire shook his head. ‘No you didn’t, Rosie. You broke the fucking law.’
But Rosie persisted.
‘Listen, Mick. Just wait till you hear what the kid told me.’
She then began to relate the story exactly as Trina had told it to her.
When she was finished, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh.
‘Jesus wept!’ he said. ‘This goes all the way to the very top. Jesus!’ He shook his head. ‘Those kids. That’s fucking awful. Could they be making this up?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know,’ Rosie said. ‘The poor little bastards are already victims by the time they get to that home. Then this happens. It’s unbelievable.’
‘So,’ McGuire asked, ‘do you have a plan? Or are you just going to trample all over the child protection laws until you end up in the High Court? We have to handle this very carefully. You know, Rosie, despite how serious this is, we’ve no real defence for what you did. You can’t just walk into a children’s home and start quizzing kids. It’s a jailing case.’
‘I know, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s get the story first and worry about the details later.’
McGuire shook his head. ‘You know perfectly well that you are not allowed to question or interview a kid without an adult being present. Even worse, that these kids were in care. It’s a jailing case.’
Rosie told him they had to be careful of their next move. She had no idea how many people were involved. Maybe more cops. Mags did say there were other things the cops were involved in. What if they were part of this sexual abuse ring as well?
‘That’s wishful thinking on your part, Gilmour.’ McGuire was shuffling papers on his desk.
‘Yes, maybe, but what if it’s all linked? Can you imagine the impact of that? We have to work out a way we can watch this children’s home. We have to get an in, so if they do take the kids away we can follow them or something.’
McGuire buzzed Marion and told her to put his meeting back for fifteen minutes. They discussed various possibilities of how they could monitor any outings Trina and the kids made from the home. Rosie said she would visit Gemma again as a relative or friend. Since there seemed to be scant security that might not be too difficult. McGuire said he would pretend he didn’t hear her say she would visit the home. Rosie hoped she could pick up some information from the kids as to when they would be going, though they both assumed the children wouldn’t be told until the last minute.
They considered working on the caretaker, Paddy, who seemed to be central to the whole affair. Rosie suggested they could monster him by putting the frighteners on him, tell him they knew everything, and threaten to expose him and turn him in, unless he gave them the details. That was risky, though, as he might spill the beans to whoever was handling him, then the whole scam would stop.
‘At the end of the day, Rosie,’ McGuire said, ‘I’m not bothered if it isn’t linked. It doesn’t matter. At the very least we will crucify the cops on two levels, because while they were out shagging prostitutes, kids along the road were being molested by people in high places. That’s if we can get any proof that it’s happening to the kids at all.’
He was pacing the floor now, imagining the front page. ‘I mean if we take it all as two separate stories, we’ll have a couple of belters that’ll rock the establishment on its heels.’ He put one hand out. ‘First we expose the cops and the hookers. Then, while everyone is wiping the blood off the walls, we take it even further and expose the sex abuse ring. Who needs to link them? There will be bodies leaping out of tall buildings from here to Downing Street. It would be good to get the two stories, but either one of them individually is brilliant.’
He grinned. ‘Mind you, it might ruin my chances of a knighthood.’
How typical of McGuire! In one breath he was full of the fight for justice, and in the next he was considering how it would impact on his career.
‘And apart from your knighthood,’ Rosie said, ‘we might even be able to stop the abuse of kids by monsters at the very heart of our establishment.’
‘Of course, Gilmour,’ McGuire said indignantly. ‘Absolutely.’ He looked serious. ‘And don’t think for a minute I’m not driven by that. I know you think I’m a cynical bastard and I only care about myself. But honestly, I want these fuckers exposed for the sake of the kids – and for these poor hookers who stand out there freezing their tits off every night!’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Believe me, Gilmour. I want that badly. Now get out there and make it happen.’
It was just what she needed. She turned and left.
In the coffee shop later in the afternoon, TJ sat silently, watching Rosie as she told him everything that had happened. Neither of them had mentioned the other night at his flat, but she knew that even though they hadn’t called each other since, it was going to have to be dealt with sooner or later. It was there, the elephant in the room.
When she’d finished her story about Trina and the danger she believed Gemma was in, she sat back and took a deep breath.
‘Jesus, Rosie,’ TJ said. ‘This could get really dodgy. You’
re going to have to be very careful. I know it’s not your style, but you are going to have to take a step back and think about this.’
Rosie looked at him, incredulous. She was too hyped up for common-sense talk.
‘What? Do you mean just chuck it because it might get a bit tough? Give me a break, TJ. You don’t know me at all!’ She felt her face burn.
TJ watched her in silence for a moment.
‘Oh but I do know you, Rosie. Maybe even better than you do yourself.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She was irritated. She had wanted TJ to back her, to agree with her that she must go at this investigation all guns blazing, but he seemed to want her to pull back. She wondered if it was anything to do with the other night. Just because they got drunk and went to bed together. He thought he knew her. Now he wanted a say in how she should operate. That was not on the agenda.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ TJ said. ‘Never mind.’
But Rosie was riled. She wanted to talk now. She put down her cup and leaned forward.
‘It does matter, TJ. I told you all of this because I trust you and I value your help and support.’
‘And that’s it?’ TJ lit a cigarette. ‘My support and help.’
Rosie sighed.
‘Look, TJ,’ she ventured. ‘About the other night. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It was fantastic and I really loved being with you. You’re very important to me . . .’
Her voice trailed off as TJ put his hand up as though to silence her.
‘Please, Rosie.’ He looked hurt. ‘Don’t. I get the message.’ He shook his head. His dark eyes burned. ‘I get the message. There’s only one thing that’s truly important to you, and that’s all this shit. Unless you’re up to your knees in it, you’re not happy.’
‘Hold on a minute.’ She reached out to touch his arm, but he pulled away.
‘You see the thing is, Rosie . . .’ TJ moved to get out of his chair. ‘You see, as long as you’re lost in all of this stuff, you don’t have to sit down and look at your own life because there’s no time. And it’s better if there’s no time because then you don’t have to face things.’ He stood up.
‘Oh, TJ, sit down, for God’s sake. Face what?’
She remembered crying in the bed beside him, how she had let her guard down and exposed herself. Now it was coming back to haunt her. She knew what he meant – and she knew that he was absolutely right. But this story was more important right now than anything in her own life, and she had to make him understand. She didn’t want to lose him. She would sit down and talk to him about everything.
‘Listen,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Look, TJ. I’m sorry. Let’s just start again. From where we left off the other night.’
TJ lifted his sax case and got out of the booth.
‘You’re not ready, Rosie,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready.’ He slung the sax case over his shoulder. ‘When you’re ready, call me.’ He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was an Oscar-winning performance from Chief Superintendent Gavin Fox. It had to be. All the movers and shakers from the entire police force, as well as some lawyers from the top drawer were at Jack Prentice’s funeral, so it was crucial that he didn’t put a foot wrong. This was about giving Jack a proper send-off, fit for a cop from the old school. Foxy even amazed himself at how well he delivered the speech, charting the life and heroics of one of the city’s finest ever policemen. He had written the speech over the last couple of nights, and found himself a bit choked when he was going over it again just an hour before the funeral.
He had stood at the entrance to the crematorium in the crisp frost, shaking hands with the mourners as they filed past him. Everyone was there: the uniformed contingent from the various police stations across the city, as well as detectives they had worked alongside as they rose through the ranks, plus others, older now and retired, who always turned up to see one of their own away. Foxy felt proud that he was a leader in this company. Sure, there were a few who thought they had the inside story on Foxy, some of the younger ones who were on the fast-track promotion ladder. They were the ones who’d got there because they were university graduates, not because they knew anything about life on the streets. The force was changing, and the older guard like Foxy knew that. But he was confident that nobody out there had the balls to take him on. He got results, and that’s what mattered to the men at the top. He was untouchable.
The service had begun with the rousing hymn, ‘Will Your Anchor Hold’, the Boys’ Brigade anthem that most of the men now sat before him had belted out as young boys. Once the Bible readings were over, Foxy squared his shoulders and strode up to the lectern to deliver his tribute.
He knew the press, sitting at the back, were listening to his every word, looking for a line that would allow them to make a story out of Jack’s suicide. But Foxy was too clever for that. Tomorrow’s newspapers would tell the story of how DCI Jack Prentice, a tragic and exemplary policeman, was struck down with depression after years of coping tirelessly with the stress of fighting crime on our streets. He told how he had gone through the ranks with Jack Prentice, and how he and Bill Mackie had sometimes been criticised for what people saw as the unorthodox way they handled the small-time gangsters who made life misery for decent people. That got a small chuckle. Policemen and civic dignitaries in the congregation nodded wisely as he spoke.
Chief Superintendent Fox told them he believed passionately that it was officers like Jack Prentice who made a difference to the lives of ordinary people, because men like Jack Prentice cared. One or two people in the press seats nudged each other and rolled their eyes. Most of the older hacks knew the stories of the notorious ‘three amigos’, as Fox, Mackie and Prentice were called. Gangsters had always queued up to tell reporters how they were framed by these three. But when you had a record as long as your arm, nobody gave a toss about the fight for freedom of some crook who belonged behind bars anyway.
Foxy spoke of Jack’s struggle with depression.
‘And you know,’ he said, his voice faltering just a little. ‘You know, deep down I feel a certain responsibility that Jack is gone.’
Bill Mackie shifted in his seat and examined the backs of his hands.
Fox’s eyes scanned the congregation as he spoke. ‘Depression is such a crippling, debilitating illness. Yet the problem, as we all realise now, is that Jack, by and large, managed to hide it from those closest to him. I saw him just the other day and I had no idea he was anywhere this close to breaking point.’ He gripped the lectern and sighed. ‘I wish I could have done more.’ The press would love that, he thought. The soul-baring humility of it all.
He took a deep breath and touched the corner of his eye. A small tear. In the congregation, there were one or two sniffs. Jack’s widow sat with her head bowed. His daughter Alison looked straight at Foxy, her face stern.
Alison stood outside shivering in the cold. Her face was pale and her eyes had dark shadows underneath them, but she had never shed a tear. The mourners shook hands with her, and some hugged the weeping Myra. When her mother had called her mobile after they found her dad’s body in the car, Alison had collapsed from the shock and had to be taken back to her flat in Edinburgh by one of her student friends.
Two days later she returned after being at home with her mother and saw, among the mail scattered on the floor behind the door of her flat, a brown envelope, addressed in what she recognised as her father’s handwriting the moment she saw it. She sat down and opened it with trembling fingers.
The letter was eight pages long and she was almost terrified to read it. But from the third paragraph she could see that it was a confession. Her head swam as she read the words, thinking at first that her father must have lost his mind to write a letter like this. Words like prostitute and cocaine leapt out of the pages. She felt sick. Surely not her father . . . A photograph fell out of the sheaf of papers – a photograph of a man she didn’t know, his arm around two tarty, ha
lf-naked women. Her Uncle Gavin was in the background, not face on, but she could see it was him. She recognised the surroundings as his boat where, as a kid, she had spent many happy sailing trips with her dad.
She kept reading, and the more she read, the more she understood that he was telling of another, secret life. He wrote of corruption, confessing that Gavin Fox, Bill Mackie and himself had been on the payroll of gangster Jake Cox for many years. There were convicted men in prison, he said, who they had framed for crimes they didn’t commit. He named several of them. But the most gut-wrenching of all was the confession that a girl called Tracy Eadie had died on the boat six months ago, and they had got rid of her body by throwing her over the side.
Alison put her hand to her mouth in horrified disbelief. She had seen the story in the newspaper at the time, when the fourteen-year-old girl went missing, and again last week when she was washed up on the beach. Her father did this? Her uncles Gavin and Bill? Another name leapt out. Mags Gillick, a prostitute found several days in Glasgow with her throat cut. Her father knew about this too . . .
Alison had to stop reading. She felt sick. She went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, her hands shaking. She came back in and sat down, staring at the letter for a time, and then forced herself to read on. When she got to the end, she stared at his signature, ‘Dad’. ‘Please forgive me,’ he had written. ‘I am praying now for your forgiveness and for the forgiveness of God. I love you. Please never forget that I love you. Dad.’ She had had so many birthday cards and notes from him all her life, with that same ‘Dad’, the way he always wrote it, with the big elaborate ‘D’. It was from him, there was no doubt.
Alison hadn’t slept a full hour since she read the letter, but she knew she had to keep up some kind of bold, supportive front for her mother. For the whole of the next day, she stayed in her flat, walking around in a stupor. Twice, she almost put the letters and photograph in the fire, but stopped herself.
