by Anna Smith
‘Yeah? I was a West End boy. Top floor of a tenement. It was quite nice though, even if we didn’t have any money. There was always somebody polishing the banister and bleaching the close. It was as if they were trying to bleach and polish some respectability into their lives to make up for the shame of being skint. Never quite understood it.’
‘Know what you mean.’ Rosie never had Matt down as being profound before.
‘Mind you’ – he chuckled – ‘the closes were great for a bit of a shag against the wall. Some of the knee tremblers I had in there! Jesus!’
That was more like the Matt she knew, thought Rosie, and just then spotted Quigley coming out of the pub. ‘Look here he comes.’
Quigley staggered along the pavement towards the broken neon light flickering on and off outside Mario’s fish and chip shop, and went in. They drove closer to the shop so they could see him standing inside.
‘What happens now?’ Matt said. ‘Fancy a puddin’ supper?’
‘No. I’m watching my waistline. Just let’s see where he goes.’
‘We’re going to have to hit him soon, or he’ll be going home.’
Rosie felt a twinge of nerves.
Quigley came out of the shop, opening his chip bag as he went into the street. He looked up and down, stuffing chips and lumps of fish into his mouth. Then he walked towards a bench close to the bus stop. He sat down and continued wolfing down his fish supper.
‘Paddy’s eating out tonight,’ Matt said. ‘These jannies really know how to live.’
‘Well . . .’ Rosie buttoned her coat. ‘I hope he doesn’t mind a bit of company, because I’m about to join him.’ She told Matt to snatch pictures while she approached Quigley, but to stay at the car.
‘Don’t come until I give you a wave. I want to be first to let him know that his world’s about to come tumbling down.’
She got out of the car and went towards Quigley. He looked up momentarily, then went back to his food. Rosie stopped at the bench and stood in front of him for a moment, then sat down beside him.
‘Howsit goin’, doll?’ Quigley said, giving her a sideways glance. ‘Awright?’
‘Aye, fine.’
‘This is no a bus stop, by the way, doll.’ Quigley spoke with a mouthful of food. ‘I mean the bus doesnae stop here. Not even at the bus stop. Fuck knows why. So if it’s a bus you’re waiting for, you’re in the wrong place. Awright, doll?’
Rosie looked him in the eye for a few seconds.
‘I’m not waiting for a bus.’
‘Oh.’ Quigley looked her up and down. ‘You on the game? If you are, you must be new, ’cos it’s only a fiver for a hand-job down here in the cheap seats. And the birds that hang about here can hardly stand up, they’re that smacked out their tits.’
Rosie said nothing.
‘Sorry, doll. Sorry, darlin’. I mean, I’m just sayin’ what it’s like. Know what I mean?’
‘I’m here to see you, Mr Quigley.’
Quigley’s face froze.
‘How do you know my name?’ He seemed to sober up. ‘Who are you. Polis? Or what?’
‘No, not police. I just want to talk to you, Paddy. You and me are going to have a wee talk.’
Quigley glanced around him. He put his chips down on the bench. His face looked grey.
‘Talk about what?’ he snorted. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Rosie kept looking at him in silence. He stood up.
‘Sit down, Paddy,’ she said. ‘Don’t make this hard for yourself. You’re in enough trouble, believe me, pal, and that’s why I’m here. To give you a chance to get out.’
‘Fuck are you talking about? What? What the fuck is this all about? Look, doll. I don’t know what kind of psycho you are, but I’m going home. Now get yourself tae fuck.’ Rosie caught him by his sleeve and tugged him back.
‘Sit down, Paddy.’ Her voice was calm. ‘I want to talk to you about your Friday night bus runs to the big house in Peebles.’
Quigley rocked back on his heels. Rosie thought he was going to faint.
‘Look, I know all about it, Paddy. You. The kids from the home. The judge’s house. Every single bit of your stinking little scam I know.’ She waved to Matt. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Paddy. See that guy behind you?’ Matt was coming towards them. ‘He’s got it all on film. Everything, the lot. Including you, pal.’
Quigley turned around so fast he staggered and almost fell. He came face to face with Matt, towering above him, smiling. He spun around again and looked at Rosie.
‘So sit down, Paddy,’ she said. ‘Before you fall down.’
Paddy slumped onto the bench. Matt lifted his bag of chips, ate one, then put them on the ground and sat beside him. Quigley fumbled furiously in his pocket and brought out his cigarettes. He shoved one between his lips, but his hands were trembling so much he couldn’t light it.
‘Wait and I’ll get that for you, wee man.’ Matt took Quigley’s lighter off him and clicked it under the fag quivering in his lips. He puffed hard, then took the cigarette out and held it in his trembling hands.
‘Look. What the fuck’s going on?’ His voice was shaking.
‘Paddy.’ Rosie swivelled her body so she was facing him. ‘We are your worst nightmare. We’re about to expose you for what you are, so let’s be clear here. We have been watching you and we know what you’re up to. But you’re only a bit player in this, Paddy. You’re nobody. It’s not you we’re after, so if you help us we’ll make sure you get left out of it.’
There were beads of sweat on Quigley’s upper lip. He stared at them.
‘Are you with the papers?’
‘You should be on Mastermind, Paddy,’ Rosie said. ‘We’re working on the story about the kids going to the judge’s house and the stuff that goes on in there. You know, the pictures of the kids etc. We’re going to blow it all sky high.’
Quigley stared at the ground. Eventually he spoke.
‘And me? What happens to me?’
‘Nothing. If you help us. Tell us everything that’s going on. Every detail. If you do, we’ll not use the fact that it’s you who organises the Friday nights and drives the kids to the big house.’
Quigley looked from one to the other.
‘That’s right, mate,’ Matt said. ‘We’ve got it all on film, from the moment you leave the children’s home.’ Matt produced a digital camera from inside his jacket and showed Quigley a picture of himself outside the big house, holding the door of the minibus open as kids climbed inside.
Quigley buried his head in his hands. For a moment there was no sound. Not even his breathing. Rosie looked at Matt. Quigley’s shoulders started to shake.
‘Oh fuck! Oh fuck! I’m fucked! I’ll end up at the bottom of the Clyde! It’s not me who organises it. I just drive the bus.’
‘You help us, Paddy,’ Rosie said, ‘and nobody will know your involvement.’
Quigley drew on his cigarette. Tears ran down his face.
‘Don’t give me that shit. How’re you going to do that? Who are you going to say takes them to the house? Fuck’s sake! If you’re going to tell the whole story, how the fuck can you leave me out? Do you think I’m buttoned up the back?’
Rosie was quiet. She knew it would be impossible to tell the story without exposing Quigley’s part in it. The fact that it was the caretaker of the home who drove these kids to the judge’s house was one of the crucial parts of the story. But she had to convince him they would find a way out for him, even if at this stage she had no idea whether she could or not.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘If you can help us all the way down the line, then before we’re ready to go with the story we’ll make sure you know in advance, so you can get off your mark. Disappear.’
He sat puffing his fag, breathing fast. He wiped away tears, shaking his head. He looked pathetic.
‘I was only doing it for the money, ‘ he said. ‘I’m up to my neck with the moneylenders. These fuckers are into me for tho
usands. It’s my laddie. He’s a smackhead. He owes so much to the drug dealers they were going to kill him. If I don’t keep up the payments they’ll do me in.’ He turned to Rosie, his face streaked with tears. ‘Don’t you think I’m fucking disgusted at what I do? These sickos make me want to kill them every time I go there. You say you could destroy me? That you’re my worst nightmare? My whole life is a nightmare, but I had to do it. My laddie was going to die.’
Rosie looked at Quigley. Poor bastard.
‘Will you help us?’ She mustn’t let this story get to her.
He said nothing, just kept sobbing quietly. Rosie looked at Matt, who shrugged.
Eventually, Quigley took a deep breath. ‘Aye,’ he said, his head in his hands.
‘Okay.’ Rosie moved closer to him. ‘How much do you get paid each time you take the kids to the judge’s house?’
‘Two hundred pounds.’
‘Every week?’
‘Aye.’
‘I don’t know the name of the judge,’ Rosie lied, and put her hand on Quigley’s arm. ‘I want you to tell me the name – and the names of the others in the house.’
‘It’s a lord. Lord Dawson,’ Quigley said. ‘You know him. He’s famous. There’s a few others there, but I don’t know their names. One’s a judge, but I only know that two others are sheriffs and one is a lawyer.’
‘Who asked you to get involved in this?’ Rosie’s heart was beating fast.
Quigley sniffed again and flicked his cigarette end away.
‘My boss. Duncan Davidson. He’s the manager of the home.’
Rosie and Matt exchanged glances. She hadn’t expected this.
‘The manager of the home organises for the children to be passed around paedophiles? Is that what you’re saying?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Jesus,’ Rosie said. ‘I was told it was the manager, but I didn’t believe it.’ Another lie.
‘Who told you about this?’ Quigley asked.
Rosie told him there was no way she could tell him that. ‘Listen, Paddy. ‘We’re well down the line with this investigation, but we do need your help. As I said, it’s not you we’re after. Would you be prepared to wear a hidden tape recorder when you talk to your boss while he’s arranging a meeting at the big house?’ She didn’t know what she would say if he refused, but she knew he’d run out of choices a long time ago.
Quigley stared into the middle distance. Then he turned to Rosie. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay. I’ll do it.’
Bingo! Done up like a kipper. Nothing could stop them them now. And even if he walked away there and then, Rosie had their entire conversation on tape. At least that was something. She asked Quigley for a phone number and gave him her mobile. They would meet tomorrow and she would give him the wire and tape.
‘Okay, Paddy.’ She stood up. ‘We’re going now. It’s up to you what you do. You can walk away and tell your boss everything, but it won’t stop the story. It’ll just put it off. And remember, you’re up to your neck in it but I can give you an out. I hope you understand that? I hope you’re going to help us. Then you can disappear.’
Quigley nodded.
‘I’ll help.’ Tears came to his eyes again. ‘As long as I can get out of here with my laddie.’
Rosie shook his hand, greasy from the fish, then turned and walked away, Matt following her. She had no idea if there was any way to save Quigley’s skin. Part of her felt a twinge of sorrow for him, for the shitty deals that life sometimes threw at people. But right now, that was not her problem.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Gavin Fox filled up Bob Reynolds’s whisky glass, and poured a little into his own and Bill Mackie’s. He winked when Bill caught his eye, as Reynolds protested that he didn’t need any more whisky. Foxy felt smug. The hourlong session with Reynolds had gone even better than he had anticipated. He sat back in his leather chair and stretched out his long legs, admiring the shine on his shoes.
‘I fully understand, Bob,’ Foxy said. ‘I can see why you feel pushed out.’
Reynolds swigged from his glass. His face was flushed and his speech slurred a little, but he still seemed coherent enough. He was talkative, and Foxy was glad of that. In truth, he hated Reynolds as much as he despised all the journalists he’d ever met. Parasites, he called them in private, even though he’d often been seen lunching or dining with the hierarchy of the newspapers during his career. He knew they thought he was slippery, but once they’d spent a couple of hours having their egos bolstered by him, most of them were putty in his hands.
Reynolds was easy meat. He was so keen to be first on all the major crime exclusives, he would have sold his granny. Foxy and Bill had thrown him some big stories over the past fifteen years, and Reynolds always made sure the cops came out smelling of roses, even if it meant massaging the truth. Reynolds had already called Bill earlier in the week to mark his card that Rosie Gilmour was working on something about Jack Prentice’s suicide. Fox’s only agenda was to find out what Gilmour was doing and what evidence she had. That business with the two heavies Big Jake had sent to Edinburgh after her meeting with Alison had been well fucked up. One of them nearly got stabbed to death by Gilmour’s big minder, and Jake was not happy. That reporter was too fucking smart for her own good. Foxy would make sure she’d be sorry. If he didn’t, he knew Jake would . . .
‘The way I see it, Bob,’ Foxy said, ‘is you’re just being frozen out altogether, pal. Maybe they’re looking to get rid of you and this is a ploy. Keep you in the dark about stories. That’s what it seems like to me.’
‘I know, Foxy,’ Reynolds said. ‘It’s been like that for the past two years. Any time there’s a big investigation going on it’s always that bitch Gilmour that’s running the show, and I end up playing some bit part. You know something? I was doing this job when she was wearing gym knickers. It makes me sick.’ He shook his head.
‘Know how you feel, Bob,’ Foxy said. ‘But she’s reading something into all this that just isn’t there. I mean, what the hell is she looking at Jack Prentice’s death for? What’s that got to do with anything? We all loved Jack, but we knew he was going round the twist for months.’
‘I know, I know.’ Reynolds drained his glass.
Foxy put on his gravest expression. He explained to Reynolds that they had information that Gilmour was planning to run a story about corruption inside the police force. A story that would name himself, Bill and Jack as rotten. Apparently, it was based on a letter written by Jack Prentice before he died. The fact was, it was all a set-up by a rogue cop with an axe to grind against Foxy. He had already been quietly dealt with and moved to a rural police station in the back of beyond, but it was important that this crap didn’t come out – for the good of the force. But the story, Foxy emphasised, was absolute rubbish. There were allegations about prostitutes and drugs, and the Big Man. And even some nonsense linking them to the wee hooker that washed up on the shore. All shite.
If Gilmour and the Post came out with that story, he said, they’d be fielding off lawsuits from everywhere, especially from him. Bob would be doing his editor a favour if he warned Gilmour off. The editor would be grateful in the long run. Reynolds seemed delighted to get this much information. He promised he’d sort it for them. He’d lean on Gilmour, tell her the story was a setup. That would probably be enough for her to have doubts about it. Her ego was too big to be brought down by something that wasn’t watertight.
Foxy stood up.
‘Right, Bob. So let’s see how it goes. That’s all we can do. But the story is just a farce, Bob. A total farce. Mind you, we would get the last laugh if the Post printed it because one thing’s for sure: that wee bitch Gilmour would be out of our hair for good.’
They all guffawed.
‘Might be worth just letting her go with it,’ Bill said, as Foxy shook Reynolds by the hand and slapped him on the back.
‘Don’t you worry, Bob, you’re still the kiddo up here. You’ll always be welc
ome here. The only man we can trust, eh, Bill?’
‘Absolutely,’ Bill said.
Foxy walked Reynolds to the door with his arm around his shoulder.
‘Right, Foxy. I’ll be in touch. You can count on me.’ He walked out of the door, and Foxy closed it behind him.
He looked at Bill. ‘Prick,’ he said.
Across the city, in a smoke-filled basement room, four men sat around the poker table. There was twenty grand in the pot, and Big Jake Cox was almost gleeful as he reached across the table and dragged the hundred-pound bundles towards him. His straight flush had put them all out of the game and it couldn’t have felt any better – especially sticking it right up that wanker Tam Ryan, who once took thirty grand off him during a three-day poker game at York races. The silence hung in the air, thick with tension. All four men glanced from one to the other, then all eyes rested on Tam. A slight redness rose in his neck. Then Tam’s belly shook a bit as he seemed to simper to himself.
He looked at Jake. ‘Fuck me, Jake. You’re some fuckin’ man. Some fuckin’ man.’
Jake chortled. ‘You fuckin’ better believe I am.’ He knocked back the remains of his Jack Daniels and Coke in one.
When the players left, Jake told his minder to wait outside while he made a phone call. He keyed a number into his mobile.
‘Bob,’ Jake said, when he heard the voice. ‘Jake Cox.’
He waited for DI Bob Fletcher to answer. Eventually, he heard a curt hallo.
‘Bob? Listen, big man, I’m gonnae make your day.’
Silence.
Jake spoke. ‘Call it a wee payback for that cunt Hamilton you never managed to bag for that murder. I know you were never in any doubt what happened, big man. But it had to be done. Big Foxy fixed it for me.’
Silence.
‘So, it’s like this, Bob. I’ve got something for you. A wee package. I hear you’re now in Internal Affairs, so this will give you a hard-on. You can bury Foxy and Mackie. No need to worry about that dead prick Prentice. Listen: that wee bird that washed up? I’ve got stuff to give you on it. But I want guarantees, big man. Guarantees.’
