by Anna Smith
‘Gimme your bag, bitch.’ She smelled drink off the guy’s breath and could taste tobacco on his hand as he covered her mouth.
‘Wait,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t hurt me. I have money. Here. In the purse. There’s thirty pounds. Take it. Please don’t hurt me.’ She started crying.
‘Shut it, bitch.’ The guy, who wore dark glasses, ripped the bag from her shoulder and pushed her head against the wall again, so hard she heard it clunk against the brick. He punched her stomach and ran off, leaving Alison doubled up and sinking to her knees as she gasped for breath. She touched the back of her head, and felt a bump but it didn’t seem to be bleeding. She got slowly back to her feet and looked around. No one was about. Cars had driven past and must have seen what had happened. Why did nobody stop to help her? Sobbing, she staggered along the road and up the hill towards her flat. When she tried to open the main door of the tenement building, her hands were trembling so hard she took three attempts to get the key in the lock.
When she reached her first-floor flat, she saw the lock had been forced and the door was already open. Terrified, Alison stepped inside, but she could see at once the place had been ransacked. She glanced into her bedroom: all the drawers were pulled out and the contents scattered on the floor. She dared not go into the living room in case they were still there. She stood in the hall, sobbing, before slumping down the wall to the floor. After a while, she got up and stepped cautiously into the living room. There, too, every drawer was emptied, everything turned upside down. The sofa cushions were thrown everywhere and all the ornaments had been brushed off the mantelpiece and onto the floor. A picture of her with her father, taken last year, lay smashed on the wooden floor.
Alison staggered to a chair and sat down, weeping. It could only have been Uncle Gavin. He must have sent someone to look for her dad’s confession and the picture. Now she knew for sure the kind of people they were. They would stop at nothing to maintain the sham they’d built up over the years. She rushed into her bedroom where she had hidden the letter under the floorboards below her bed. She pulled the bed out quickly and grappled with the loose floorboard, pushing her hand into the gap. Relief flooded through her when she felt the envelope. She took it out and held onto it. She had to do something now. She considered phoning the police and reporting a break-in, but decided against it. Word would filter back to Glasgow. She wondered if she should go to the police in Edinburgh with the confession, but she couldn’t trust them either. She looked around the room at the books and newspapers thrown everywhere. Uncle Gavin and Uncle Bill had so much to lose. But her father had already lost everything.
Her eyes finally rested on a copy of the Post she had bought a couple of weeks ago on the way home from university. She saw the name Rosie Gilmour on the front page. She picked up the telephone from the floor and put the receiver back on the hook. Then she lifted it off again, dialled directory enquiries, and asked for the number of the Post in Glasgow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rosie was beginning to feel seriously frightened for the first time in this whole investigation. Lying in bed, she couldn’t help listening for every noise. Footsteps in the stairwell, cars pulling up outside. Jesus. She was getting paranoid. She tried to sleep, but her mind kept going over and over the phone call from Alison Prentice. She could never have predicted that, not in a million years. Alison had called her that evening as she was about to leave the office. She said she had a very important story to tell about her father and police corruption. Gavin Fox was the main player, she’d said, and it had all happened on his boat. And she had evidence – a written confession from her dad and a photograph. When she said that, Rosie knew it couldn’t be a crank call. She agreed to meet her in Edinburgh, but after Alison told her of being attacked in the street, Rosie decided it would be wise to take some help. Before she went to bed, she called her friend Adrian, the Bosnian refugee.
The following morning, she drove to the top of Hope Street and pulled over when she saw Adrian standing on the corner. His expression didn’t change when he caught sight of her. No smile or wave. He just came over to the car and got into the passenger seat, stretching out his hand and clasping hers.
‘Hallo, Rosie.’ His voice was deep and rich. ‘My friend.’ Finally a smile cracked his granite face. ‘How are you? I have not see you in some months.’
Rosie smiled. ‘I’m good, Adrian, I’m good.’ She looked at his pale face, black shadows under his dark eyes. He always looked as though he never slept. ‘For me it’s been busy. A lot of work. What about you?’ She handed him a coffee she had bought from the takeaway.
‘Thanks.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sometimes some hotel work, sometimes in the biscuit factory.’ He shook his head. ‘I hate the biscuit factory. They are treating us like slaves. But I like the hotel, the tips are good.’
They drank their coffee without talking. You could do that with Adrian. He was comfortable in his silence, almost unnervingly comfortable sometimes. He’d once told her that people talk too much, and that there is more to hear if you are quiet. Rosie hadn’t worked that one out yet.
She recalled how they’d met – two years ago – and how he’d said he would never forget her kindness. She’d been sitting at the window of a coffee and sandwich shop in the centre of town, waiting for a taxi back to the Post. The place was filling up with office workers out buying lunch to eat at their desks. She was vaguely aware of the big Eastern European guy loitering by the sandwich bar. He was gaunt and pale, probably in his early thirties. In his shabby clothes, he looked no different from the dozens of Bosnian refugees you saw these days in the streets and housing schemes of Glasgow. They had flocked here to escape the conflict in their own war-torn land, only to end up in high-rise flats in drug-infested Sighthill. Definitely a cruel irony there.
Rosie had watched as the guy slipped two baguettes under his jumper, but then she noticed that one of the girls behind the counter had also seen him do it and was whispering to her boss. When he made to walk out of the door, the manager came after him. The big man completely froze as he was approached and asked what he was doing with the baguettes up his jumper.
‘Excuse me,’ Rosie heard herself saying. ‘He’s with me.’ She looked at him and he looked back at her, confused. She glared at him and took the baguettes out of his hand, saying, ‘What are you doing?’
She turned to the manager. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, discreetly. ‘He gets confused, you know what it’s like. He works for me. I told him to pick up the sandwiches and bring them to me in the car so he mustn’t have noticed me here. Must have got lost in translation.’ She gave the manager a slightly frustrated look. He had no reason to doubt her, and apologised. She told the big man to come and sit beside her. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Why you do that? I not understand.’ His face was white.
Rosie looked at him. ‘You remind me of someone I used to know. A long time ago . . .’ She smiled. ‘Hey. But why did you do it? Steal the bread?’
‘I am hungry. Sorry. I will pay you back.’
She told him to forget it. She paid for the sandwiches and watched as he ate both of them. Over two mugs of tea he told her, in fractured English, his story. A Bosnian muslim, he had been a farmer north of Sarajevo who, alongside his villagers, had fought against the Serbian soldiers who rampaged through the region. How he got here, and the horrors he had witnessed in his village before he escaped, was heartbreaking. He had lost both parents and a brother in a massacre.
Rosie knew what he was talking about. The memories of her time in Bosnia, of the brutality and atrocities, still haunted her. She got him a job as a porter at one of the big hotels and, over time, he proved to be a valuable contact. Occasionally they would share a coffee or lunch, and Adrian said she would be his friend forever. He told her he was very strong, and if she ever needed anyone to protect her, she should call him. She had only asked him once before, when she went to doorstep a loan shark. His sheer size had proved enough of a t
hreat, and he hadn’t had to lift a finger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rosie had asked Alison Prentice to meet her in a cafe at the Corstorphine side of the city to save her driving through the madness of Princes Street. It was also better that they meet away from Alison’s flat in case she was being watched.
She drove along the motorway blinking back tiredness, hypnotised by the windscreen wipers and the driving sleet. She explained carefully to Adrian the basics of the story about the police corruption. He didn’t seem surprised. It was the same, he said, in his country. He couldn’t understand the point of writing a story in the newspaper, he was sure nothing would change, and he nodded impassively when she told him about Alison being attacked.
‘When you go to meet her in the cafe,’ he said, ‘drive past first and show me where you are, then I get off along the road. I will watch. I will see if someone is following. You. Or the girl.’ He stared straight ahead.
Adrian wasn’t a lot of laughs, but Rosie was glad he was with her. She was dog tired. She hadn’t slept a wink last night after seeing Matt’s pictures of the kids at the big house. She, Matt, and the picture editor had sat in McGuire’s office with him, going over the snaps. They hardly spoke as Matt explained what he’d been doing and what else he noticed in the room. Rosie and McGuire shook their heads in disbelief when they realised the man with the silver hair, taking pictures of the children, was Lord Dawson. McGuire quoted some of the high profile court cases Dawson had been involved in. McGuire looked shattered, Rosie noticed, as though he didn’t know whether to celebrate or despair at the property in his hands. He knew it was almost too hot to handle.
‘Will we ever get this in the paper, Mick?’ Rosie asked.
McGuire looked at the photographs spread out on his desk, then at her.
‘We will get a story in the paper,’ he said, emphatically. ‘How much we’ll be able to say is another matter. But these pictures tell a story, Rosie, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure we print them, whatever happens.’
‘There’ll be all sorts of pressure from upstairs,’ the picture editor said. ‘Political pressure, I’d say. Wait till you see, Mick.’
‘I know,’ McGuire said. ‘I’m not in any doubt about that. But before this goes anywhere, before we even take it to the lawyers, I want everything nailed down as tight as we can. I want it watertight.’ He looked at Rosie. When the others left the office, she and McGuire stood over the photographs.
‘This is fucking dynamite, Rosie.’
‘I know. I just keep seeing Trina’s face, especially when she’s taken out of the room by that man. God knows what happened to her, Mick. I’m going to find out who he is. I’m going to find out what the bastard did to that poor wee girl.’
McGuire touched her arm. ‘What you’re going to do, Gilmour, is not get all emotionally hung up.’ Seeing she was about to protest, he went on. ‘You will nail this down. In a totally cold, clinical way, as only you can. You can save your bleeding heart for the day after publication. Right now, there’s a lot to be done.’
He had asked how things were going on the cop story and almost choked when she told him about Alison Prentice’s call.
‘Be safe, Rosie,’ he said, as she left the office.
Now, walking towards the small cafe where they’d arranged to meet, Rosie steeled herself. She had dropped Adrian off a couple of blocks down the street, then parked close to the cafe.
There were only three people in the cafe – two elderly, well-heeled Edinburgh ladies with hats on, and an unhappy-looking girl in the far corner. The girl’s face was grey and her eyes looked red and swollen from crying, and Rosie guessed this was Alison. She made eye contact and headed for the table. ‘Rosie?’ Alison whispered, moving as though to stand up.
‘Yeah.’ Rosie slid onto the bench, taking off her coat. ‘How’re you doing?’ She reached across and touched the back of Alison’s cold hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ She hoped she sounded reassuring. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
Alison’s eyes filled with tears, but she seemed to shake herself out of it. She rubbed her face and sat forward. The waitress came and Rosie ordered herself coffee and another for Alison.
‘On the phone’ – Rosie didn’t see the point of wasting too much time – ‘you were saying that you had something to tell. Something about your father and others. Other police officers . . . ?’
Alison closed her eyes and sniffed. ‘I’m so scared, Rosie.’
‘I know. I know you’re scared. Just take your own time.’
They sat in silence for a moment. The waitress came over with the coffees and looked at both of them. Rosie gave her a cold stare and she shrugged and walked off. Rosie wondered if this was a good place to talk, or even if Alison was up to it. She would give her another few moments then suggest they go for a walk.
‘He left a note,’ Alison said suddenly. ‘My father. He left a letter. He posted it to me before he died. It . . . It tells everything. Everything. And there’s a picture . . .’ Rosie could hear her heart beat. She squeezed Alison’s arm encouragingly.
‘Go on.’
Alison composed herself, and told her everything that was in the letter. Rosie kept her eyes looking straight into Alison’s as she spoke about Fox. She called him her Uncle Gavin, whom she had grown up respecting. She told how he was behind everything and described how she had confronted him a couple of days ago. She believed that was why she’d been attacked.
‘Where’s the letter and the picture now?’ Rosie prayed she hadn’t destroyed them.
‘They ransacked my flat, but they didn’t find them. I’ve got them in my bag.’ Alison placed the brown leather bag on the table, and Rosie breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Don’t take them out here,’ she said, as Alison moved to open the bag. ‘We’ll drink our coffee then go to my car.’
She asked Alison if she thought anyone saw her leaving her flat. She said she’d left by a back entrance and had been doing that for the past two days.
Rosie knew that Fox would not rest until he had destroyed any evidence that could damage him. She would call McGuire, they’d have to make an arrangement to get Alison away somewhere. When they’d finished their coffees, Rosie got up.
In the car, Alison sat in silence as Rosie read the letter. She had leafed through it briefly, noticing it was signed ‘Dad’ and not Jack Prentice’s name, but she would get more samples of his handwriting to authenticate it. She spotted the main names throughout the letter, Gavin Fox, and Bill Mackie. Jake Cox. Now she read it again, slowly. It was unbelievable. When she had finished, she sat back and let out a sigh of disbelief. Alison was crying.
‘I’m so sorry, Alison.’ She turned to her. ‘This must have been awful for you. But you will get through this.’ Jesus, she was sounding like the parish priest. But what else could you say to a girl who worshipped her father, then found out he was a complete bastard?
Then Alison rummaged in her bag, and handed Rosie a picture. She immediately recognised Jake Cox, the Big Man, with his arm around a woman. It looked like Gavin Fox in the background, but it was a side-on view. They seemed to be on a boat. Rosie rolled down the window and took a deep breath. The cold sleet felt good on her face.
‘Can I have this picture and the letter, Alison?’ she said. ‘I take it that’s what you want? I can expose this.’ She was terrified that Alison would say no, but she knew in her heart she had to give her the opportunity. And she knew she had to give her the chance to pull back. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want all this to come out?’ she said. ‘All this about your father?’ McGuire would have had a heart attack if he’d heard her.
Alison nodded. ‘Yes. I want the truth to come out. It’s not just about my father, or the shame on me and my mother. It’s about people being killed. Murdered. That young girl on the boat, Rosie? I read that story at the time and thought how sad it was. My dad was there. He did that. Not killed her, but he threw her into the sea.’
She b
roke down. ‘I mean, well, he might even have had sex with that young girl. It’s awful. She was only fourteen. I was physically sick when I read that.’
She sobbed.
Rosie put the snap inside the letter, folded it over and put it into a zip compartment in her handbag. Despite herself she felt a pang of guilt. McGuire was right. She never really had that killer instinct. Save the bleeding heart for the day after publication. His words rang in her ears.
‘Alison,’ she said. ‘What do you want to do? If I’m going to investigate this story and do it in the next week, or however long it takes, I don’t think you’ll want to be around. I can get you away somewhere. Abroad if you like. Or if you want to go somewhere with a friend . . . Have you got a close friend? One you can trust?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about going up north or something? I can send someone to look after you. You wouldn’t be in any danger.’
‘I’d like that.’ Alison blew her nose. ‘Just get away for a bit. Until it all comes out in the paper.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘I’ll tell her I’m going for a break.’
‘Yes, but what will happen to her when all this comes out? She’ll be shattered.’
Alison looked away. She took a deep breath, then she stopped crying.
‘I don’t really care. As you can see from the letter, she made my dad’s life a misery. He was probably all fucked up because of her, and he probably took all those backhanders to keep her and her greed going. She wanted so much, always had to have the best of everything. I want the truth to come out more than I want to protect her.’
Rosie told her to go back to her flat and contact the friend who would go away with her. They might be away for a couple of weeks, so she should be prepared.
