by Anna Smith
Silence. Big Jake looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty.
‘If you’re as smart as you think you are you’ll meet me now,’ he said.
‘Where?’ Fletcher said.
They sat in the corner of the deserted pub next to Jake’s club, and the barman brought drinks to their table. Fletcher sipped a straight whisky, and Jake enjoyed watching him, savouring the fact that Fletcher had come running.
‘You know it was Foxy who made that knife disappear in the Dick Hamilton murder case, don’t you, Bob?’
Fletcher didn’t answer. It had been his first big murder investigation, ten years ago, and he’d been convinced he had Hamilton nailed down for stabbing the young woman who’d fallen to her death from the balcony of the high flats in Petershill.
It had appeared at first to be suicide, but the stab wounds in her chest told a different story. Hamilton, one of Cox’s scumbag enforcers, had been seen by a witness running from the building, and a fingertip search of the area by police found the bloodstained knife the following morning. Most of the blood had been wiped off, but there were traces of Hamilton’s prints all over it. Gavin Fox was Fletcher’s DCI at the time, in charge of the case. He had instructed Fletcher to bring Hamilton in, and charge him with murder, but, by the end of the week, the knife had disappeared from the police station. There had been an inquiry into how a bagged and tagged possible murder weapon that would be used as a production in the trial, could simply disappear. But nobody ever found out.
‘He gave it to me,’ Jake said. ‘Hamilton is an arsehole. No bottle. I couldn’t afford to have him standing in the witness box singing like a fucking canary. He knew too much. Of course he was well out of line for killing that wee bird, but I dealt with him myself.’
Hamilton had gone missing after he was released from custody when the Crown Office decided not to prosecute. It was eighteen months later that Spanish police discovered the remains of a dismembered body in a suitcase in the Sierra de Mijas hills, above the sleepy white village of the same name near Malaga on the Costa del Sol. The remains turned out to be Hamilton.
‘That’s in the past.’ Fletcher looked at his watch. ‘What have you got for me, Jake?’
Jake looked hard at him. ‘I need a guarantee from you right now, before I tell you anything, that I will be nowhere near this. I’ll be in Spain by the time it all kicks off, but I need a guarantee.’
‘You’ve got it. Tell me.’
Jake told him about the trips on Fox’s boat, and how he had twice brought hookers for Fox, Prentice and Mackie. He had taken pictures when they were all drunk or coked up – a bit of insurance, he told Fletcher, because if he ever needed to get out, it was always his intention to shop Foxy to save his own skin.
Fletcher listened to the story; his face showed nothing.
‘Where’s the stuff?’
‘You’ll get it. Wait for my call.’ Jake beckoned the barman and told him to phone his driver.
‘You need dropping off somewhere?’ Jake grinned at Fletcher.
The DI stood up. ‘From you? Aye. Like a fucking hole in the head.’ He looked down at Jake who was finishing his drink. ‘Phone me.’ He turned and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was almost midnight by the time Rosie typed the final sentence into her laptop. She stabbed the full stop key, sat back in her chair, put her hands behind her head and took a deep breath. She called up on her screen the three articles she had written over the past twenty-four hours, holed up in the flat. There was enough material here to run the scandal of Gavin Fox and his cop cronies over three full days. The revelations in Prentice’s suicide note – that they fitted up men who were serving time for crimes they didn’t commit – could make a day’s coverage in itself. These convictions could now be deemed unsafe, and there would be appeals flying all over the courts. All she had to do now was to let McGuire see the copy before it was shown to the lawyers.
Rosie turned away from her screen and stared out of the window, rubbing her eyes. She took a long gulp of tea from her mug. She was knackered, but there was still a long way to go. The lawyers would baulk at the revelations, but with the photograph of Big Jake on Fox’s boat, and Fox in the background, plus the letter from Jack Prentice, the story was copper-bottomed and safe. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Fox’s face when she door-stepped him with the allegations. McGuire had decided that they would not take the story to the press office in the usual way; that the showdown would be done at Fox’s home, with a photographer there on the doorstep to snap him as his bottle crashed. Rosie relished the thought of it. She put a disc into the laptop and burned the three stories onto it, then another disc for a back-up copy in case anything happened to the first. Just because you were paranoid, the hacks used to joke, didn’t mean they weren’t out to get you. She had already made two extra discs of the photograph and Prentice’s letter. They were safely tucked away so that McGuire wasn’t the only one who had the material.
She lifted her mobile, intending to call TJ for a chat, when it rang. Reynolds’s name came up on the screen. She was immediately on her guard.
‘Rosie. Howsit going, darling?’ She could hear the sound of traffic. If Reynolds was out and about at this hour he had to be drunk.
‘Bob?’ Rosie was chirpy. ‘Jesus, you’re late on the road tonight. Don’t tell me they’ve got you working.’
‘No, no, darling.’ His voice was slurred. ‘I’ve just been out with a few contacts. You know . . . pressing the flesh.’
‘Good.’
‘So what’s happening, Rosie? You’ve been missing for a few days. What’re you up to? Some secret squirrel mystery?’
Alarm bells went off in Rosie’s head. Someone had been talking. Reynolds never phoned her at this time of night. Slimeball was fishing. ‘Okay.’ Reynolds sounded irritated when she didn’t answer. ‘Look, doll. No sweat. Anyway, I know what you’re doing, and I’ll tell you something, Rosie. I’d be right on your side if it was true. But it’s not, darling. It’s not.’
Either Reynolds was just chancing his arm, or he really knew something.
‘Look, Bob,’ she said. ‘It’s midnight and I’m ready to go to bed. What do you mean, you know what I’m working on? Well? So tell me then, smart arse.’
‘Foxy,’ Reynolds whispered. Rosie could hear him breathing.
Shit.
‘Foxy?’ She tried to sound surprised.
‘Oh come on now, Rosie. You know. Gavin Fox, the chief super. It’s me you’re talking to, Rosie. Don’t come the wide-eyed bird with me.’
‘Reynolds. Words like fuck and off are coming into my head.’ She tried to keep calm.
‘Come on, Rosie. I’m your mate.’
‘Bob, listen. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re obviously half-pissed so I’m not going to waste my time. I’m going to hang up now.’
She waited.
‘You’ve been set up,’ Reynolds blurted out. ‘The whole thing’s a set-up. That letter from Prentice. It was all a set-up, I know who did it.’
Silence. How did he know about the letter? How could he have known? It couldn’t be a set-up. The picture said it all.
‘Everything was a set-up, Rosie.’ Reynolds said as though he was reading her mind.
Rosie felt light-headed. She took a deep breath.
‘Reynolds. What the hell are you on about? Listen, I’ve no time to talk to you.’
‘Rosie,’ he persisted, ‘listen, darling. I admire and respect you all the way, but you’re wrong on this one. You’re sticking your neck out and it’ll ruin you. Rest assured, you’re making a big mistake.’
She snapped. ‘Reynolds! That sounds like a fucking threat!’
‘No, Rosie, not a threat. I’m telling you. I’m doing you a good turn. You’ve been set up.’ The phone clicked.
Rosie stood looking at her phone. Her first instinct was to call McGuire, but she stopped herself. She sat down on the sofa and tried to put Reynold’s call into perspect
ive. He had obviously been got at by Fox, and the ploy was to create doubt in her mind. Could the whole thing really be a fake? Even the picture? Perhaps they had been set up by some prostitutes to extort cash from the cops. Or perhaps the hookers had been sent there by some gangster so that he would always have something on Foxy. Jesus. Maybe Prentice’s suicide note to his daughter wasn’t even written by him, but she immediately dismissed that. Alison would have recognised his handwriting, unless someone else had gone to elaborate lengths to make it look like Prentice’s.
She wondered how Fox found out that it was she who was doing the investigation . . . Perhaps Mags had blabbed to another hooker before she was killed – prostitutes were notorious for being unable to keep secrets, and many of them were used by police for information. The only other person who knew the details was McGuire, and he was desperate for the story to come out. And TJ, of course, knew, but he was one hundred per cent reliable.
She went over to her desk and opened her laptop again. She called up the stories and put them in the trash and emptied it. Then she took a copy of each of the CDs, including the pictures and the letter, and went into the bathroom with a screwdriver. She levered off the bath panel and hid the CDs behind it, then replaced it so it looked like it had never been disturbed. She wanted to talk to TJ, but decided it was too late. Tomorrow she had to see McGuire with the story and get everything ready for the lawyers. She was tired but she knew now she wouldn’t sleep. She poured herself a large glass of red wine and ran a bath.
* * *
She was in a fairground at night, clutching the strong hand of a tall man with tousled black hair. Her mother took her other hand, and smiled at Rosie the way she did when she was happy, her eyes wide and shining. She was dressed in the lime-green print dress with the roses splashed along the bottom. The pattern seemed to dance as her mother sashayed along, proud with her family. Rosie was always afraid in fairgrounds, especially at night, with the din of the rides and the flashing lights. But she was safe in the grip of her father’s strong hand. She was eating candy floss, and her mother leaned over and wiped the side of her cheek with a handkerchief. Everyone seemed to be laughing.
They went into the hall of mirrors and suddenly they were all shapes and sizes. Rosie’s father looked squashed like a midget. Her mother guffawed when she caught her image all lanky in another mirror. Everywhere they walked in the hall, their faces were a different shape. Rosie could hear the sound of her father giggling, and shouting to her mother to come and look at him. But Rosie felt afraid in the eerie corridors. Suddenly, she looked around and she couldn’t see them any more. She ran along the narrow, dark hall and came to a small corridor. When she turned into it, she could see her father and mother’s image in a mirror at the end. They were smiling at her. Rosie was shouting, ‘Where are you, Mum? Dad?’ But they just kept on smiling. No matter where she looked she only saw herself in the mirror. Dozens of different images of her, there was nobody else. Then she heard a phone ringing and ringing, and she was back in the house looking up at her mother’s body hanging from the rope. The phone rang and rang, but she couldn’t answer it.
Rosie was drenched in sweat when she awoke to the sound of her own phone ringing. She reached out to her bedside table and lifted the receiver, still not sure if she was dreaming.
‘Rosie,’ the voice said. ‘It’s Matt.’
She looked at the clock on the table. It was eight o’clock. She had been sleeping for nearly seven hours.
‘Matt?’ Rosie was surprised to hear him. ‘What’s up?’
‘Rosie. I’ve just been listening to the news on the radio. It says two wee girls have gone missing from that children’s home. From Woodbank.’
‘Jesus!’ Rosie sat up. ‘Christ, Matt. Did they say any names?’
‘No, no names. Just that they’ve been missing since last night.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Matt. I’m just getting organised. I’ll see you in the office.’
On the drive from the flat, Rosie had the radio on waiting for the news bulletin, but she didn’t need to hear the names. She knew it would be Trina and Gemma. When she came into the office, she called up the news wires on her screens. The names Gemma Gillick and Trina Houston flashed on the story of the massive police search. Rosie sat back in her chair, trying not to catch Reynolds’s eye. She buzzed through to McGuire’s secretary and asked to see him urgently.
‘Rosie,’ McGuire breezed, as she went into his office. ‘The very woman. Did you get your copy done yesterday? I’m itching to get my hands on it.’
‘I did.’ She handed over the CD and sat on the sofa.
‘A CD? Why not send it to my private email in the usual way?’
‘Too dodgy, Mick. The tighter we keep this the better.’ She was about to tell him about the phone call from Reynolds last night, but thought it best to let him know that the girls were missing.
‘Listen, Mick,’ Rosie said, swallowing. ‘There’s a problem.’
He looked up from his computer, where he had been trying to insert the disc.
‘I hate it when you say it like that, Rosie.’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Those two wee girls on the paedophile story? They’ve gone missing from the children’s home.’
‘Fuck me!’ McGuire sank back in his chair. ‘Jesus, Rosie. There was a line on the radio this morning as I was driving in, and it did cross my mind. Do you know any more?’
‘Don’t know exactly, just a couple of lines on the wires, but there’s a big search for them. Shit, Mick. What if something’s happened to them?’
He ran his hand across his chin, anxious. ‘Did you give your name at the desk when you went to see them? Tell me you didn’t give your own name, Rosie?’
She told him the false name she’d given.
‘Thank Christ,’ he said. ‘The law would’ve hung you out to dry for that.’
Rosie was irritated. Two girls were missing and all he was worried about was how it affected him and his paper.
‘Don’t worry.’ Her face burned. ‘If I’m in the shit, Mick, I’ll make sure that I tell them you didn’t know anything about it. Which is true, anyway.’
McGuire softened. ‘Look, Rosie, I’m sorry. Listen, of course I wouldn’t let you hang out to dry. I was just trying to look a few steps ahead, that’s all.’
Rosie looked away from him. ‘Yeah, sure, Mick.’
‘Well.’ He stood up and began to pace. ‘The thing is, we’re in possession of information that could have something to do with the girls’ disappearance.’
‘I know. But my main worry at the moment, Mick, is what has happened to these kids. I mean, what if they’ve been abducted or something? Or worse?’
McGuire looked intently at her. ‘We can’t tell the cops anything,’ he said. ‘Not just yet. Let’s give it twenty-four hours.’
‘But what if something happens to them?’
McGuire bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Shit, Rosie. I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
‘We have to let the cops know. We have to.’
‘Listen,’ McGuire said, ‘if we tell them anything, we have to tell them everything. Simple as that. And that blows our whole story. I mean, we’re not even there yet on the Lord Dawson stuff. Are we?’
Rosie told him about the meeting with Quigley and that he had agreed to wear a wire for evidence. McGuire was surprised, but delighted. She told him that Quigley had agreed to help in return for an escape route before the story was published. McGuire rolled his eyes upwards when she told him that part.
‘Shit.’ He put both hands on his head as though he was going to tear his hair out. ‘We’re on the verge of breaking the biggest story this paper has ever seen, and it could all fall apart. Fuck. We’re fucked, Rosie.’
‘I know.’
‘Okay.’ McGuire went back to his desk and sat down. ‘We have to tell the cops, nothing else for it. The bastards will string us up. We’re in for a very bumpy ride, Miss Gilmour.’ He grimaced. ‘But don’t worry,
I won’t run out on you – unless, of course, I’m going to lose my job.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
Rosie tried to smile, but her heart sank to her boots. As soon as she made the call to the cops everything would be over. Gavin Fox and co would be down upon her like a ton of bricks because she spoke to children in care. She would be discredited to the point that the story about his web of corruption would be so weakened, it would never be believed. She looked at McGuire. He shrugged sympathetically, but there was nothing more to say.
Rosie’s phone rang in her pocket. She fished it out.
‘Rosie?’ It was Matt. ‘I see they’ve got the wee girls. They’re all right.’
‘Jesus, Matt. You’re kidding! Are you sure? What happened? Where?’
‘It’s just been on the radio news. They were on a bus to Stirling, and the driver spotted them. Apparently they were going to see one of their mothers in the jail. No other details of where they were from the time they went missing. Silly wee bastards. I need to go now.’ He hung up, and Rosie blinked back tears of relief.
‘They’ve found them, Mick. The girls. They’re fine. They were going to Cornton Vale. Trina’s mum’s inside for shoplifting and assault. Jesus! Can you believe it?’
‘Oh thank Christ,’ McGuire said. ‘I could kiss you, Rosie. I could fucking kiss you.’
They both laughed.
‘Let’s not get carried away.’
‘I hope you appreciated how I was going to stand by you,’ McGuire said. ‘Even prepared to ditch my two big stories for you.’
‘Actually,’ Rosie said. ‘I was only testing your loyalty. To see how far you could be pushed.’
McGuire laughed again and went back to inserting the disc into his computer.
‘Right, fantastic. We’re back in the driving seat. Now fuck off while I read this crap you’ve taken a whole day to write.’ He waved her away and turned his eyes towards his computer screen.
