by Anna Smith
‘Well,’ he beamed. ‘Can you imagine what story these birds have to tell?’
The rest of the piece told of how Foxy and his cohorts had been involved with Jake Cox, the Big Man. It listed details of various convictions, where the men serving time in jail had always claimed they were innocent and had been fitted up by the cops. Prentice’s confession revealed that they had been framed, making those convictions unsafe.
All they needed now was to doorstep Fox and Mackie. It had to be done simultaneously, and in the next half hour, so that their pictures and reaction could be used in the first edition. Rosie had asked for Matt to go along with her. They had already had a useful night on Friday, going back to the judge’s house in Peebles a second time and witnessing the children arriving, driven by Quigley.
Rosie couldn’t believe how well everything was going. She was nervous that the way the story was being presented hinged on that phone call from Bob Fletcher about the mobile, and also the damning photograph. But she knew in her gut it was true. She was eager to see the Foxy story in the paper, not just to bring him down, but for Mags’s sake – for the shitty, horrible way she died, for Gemma, and for the other prostitutes used and abused by guys like Fox.
But even more, perhaps, than the Foxy exposé, Rosie wanted to get the judge’s story published. It was even bigger, and would rock the entire system, from the social work department to the judges and lawyers at the very top of the legal establishment. And now that she had witnessed the kids going to Lord Dawson’s house twice, and had the taped conversation with Woodbank’s head from Quigley, she was certain the story was ready to go. Tomorrow, first thing, she would write the paedophile ring copy.
‘Okay,’ she said, turning to McGuire. ‘I can’t wait to see the look on Foxy’s face.’
‘Go for it,’ McGuire said.
‘Mind you,’ she said, ‘it will be nothing to the look on the face of Lord Dawson when we knock on his door.’
McGuire smiled but said nothing. Rosie thought she saw him throw a fleeting glance at Hanlon, but perhaps it was her imagination. She left the office and met up with Matt at the lift. McGuire had arranged for one of his most trusted senior reporters, Joe Garret, to doorstep Bill Mackie. He had taken him into the office earlier in the afternoon and briefed him on the whole story, swearing him to secrecy. Joe had called to say he was already on his way.
‘Is your tiny heart all aflutter?’ Matt held open the door to the car park.
‘Just a tad,’ Rosie said, ‘but it’s a good flutter.’
They drove into the tree-lined avenue, where Gavin Fox lived at the end of a row of red sandstone houses. You needed money to live here. Some of it was old money, houses passed down the generations from when they had been occupied by industrialists and bankers. Others were owned by football stars and the nouveau riche. Foxy’s house was a turreted mansion with a long driveway leading up to it.
‘Christ,’ Matt said, when they got to the huge pillars at the open gate. ‘Look at this. Bastard must be minted. Crime pays, all right.’
But Rosie didn’t feel like cracking jokes. Her insides were churning. ‘Just drive right up, Matt. Get out and stand behind me, but don’t take his picture until I tell him what the story is. I want to see his face fall.’
They drove up to the house and got out of the car. A soft light burned in one of the front rooms, but there was no sign of life. Two cars sat in the drive. One was Foxy’s Jaguar and the other was a 4 × 4 which they presumed was his wife’s. Rosie felt her palms sweaty as she got out of the car and went towards the huge oak door. She rang the brass bell, which made an echoing sound. A light came on in the hall, behind the stained glass door, and a figure approached. The door opened. It was Foxy. His face blanched when he saw her.
‘Chief Superintendent Fox?’ Rosie spoke almost chirpily but her mouth was dry. ‘Rosie Gilmour, the Post.’
Foxy tried to smile but Rosie saw his lip tremble. ‘I know who you are, Rosie. But what on earth are you doing at my house?’
‘Chief Superintendent Fox.’ She would take her time, this was her show now. ‘I’m here to ask for your reaction to a story we’re running in the Post tomorrow. It concerns yourself, Detective Superintendent Bill Mackie and Detective Chief Inspector Jack Prentice. The story is the result of a lengthy investigation into corruption inside Strathclyde Police. Corruption led by you, Mr Fox.’ She raised her arm. Matt started taking pictures.
‘Hold it,’ Foxy said, his eyes blazing. ‘Hold it right there, Miss Gilmour. I don’t even know what you are talking about, but you’re talking about a very good friend of mine who has died. Now could you please get away from my doorstep. I’m not having any of this.’ He stepped back.
But Rosie persisted. ‘Chief Superintendent, we have pictures of yourself, Mackie and Prentice with prostitutes on your boat. And we have a signed confession by Jack Prentice that the three of you have spent a lifetime taking bribes from Jake Cox and being involved in crime at every level. We have evidence that you fitted people up on cases, and that you used prostitutes and took drugs.’
She was longing to say that she had heard the message on Mags’s mobile, and that the cops would be knocking on his door in the morning.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Foxy managed to look as if he was about to burst out laughing. ‘What’s this all about? Let me tell you, you’re in serious trouble. I don’t have a single clue what you’re talking about, but rest assured there’ll be legal action if you even embark on such absolute nonsense. For God’s sake! Poor Jack wasn’t well in the head before he died.’
‘We’re using the story tomorrow.’ Rosie stood her ground. ‘Is that all you want to say? Have you anything to add?’
‘Get away from my doorstep.’ He moved to close the door. ‘I’m now about to phone your editor.’
‘Fine.’ Rosie stuck her foot in the door. ‘But what can you tell us about the fourteen-year-old girl who died on your boat and was washed up on the beach at Troon? Tracy Eadie? And what about the murdered prostitute Mags Gillick, Chief Superintendent? What about that?’
Matt was able to get in one last frame as Fox closed the door. They got into the car and Matt made a swift turn before they sped out of the drive.
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘I’m nearly wetting my pants here with excitement.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Me too, Matt. Let’s go.’
They raced back to the office.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rosie knew that she had to see TJ tonight and talk to him, or run the risk of losing him. She knew him well enough to understand that if his mind was set on leaving a place, then in his heart he had already left it. Trouble was, this was the only life she had known for the past sixteen years. She had never even considered packing up and leaving. She couldn’t imagine her life without her work. Everything had been built around it, and it suited her. That way she didn’t have time to think too deeply about life, but now TJ was forcing her to do that. The prospect of a leap in the dark was as terrifying as it was exciting. She could live without that. But then she would have to live without TJ . . .
She had called him when she got back to the office and was pleased to hear that he sounded his usual friendly and sarcastic self. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps he would give her some more time to think. She hoped so.
McGuire had practically done cartwheels when she and Matt returned from Fox’s house. Joe Garret was already in his office and told them that Bill Mackie just closed the door as soon as he got in the first line of his question. As the story was ready to go, the chief press officer from Strathclyde police was on the phone to McGuire. That was followed by one of the top lawyers who acted for the police force. Both were informed that the Post was running the story as planned. McGuire had put the call on a conference phone so they could all hear as he fended off their threat. Afterwards, as the paper was put to bed, he cracked open a bottle of champagne. When they were leaving, McGuire walked Rosie to the door. He shook her hand.
‘Thanks, Mick.’ Rosie couldn’t handle McGuire being all sweetness. ‘I’m spending the day at home tomorrow writing the paedophile, so it’s ready to roll.’
McGuire agreed, and told her Garret would handle all the follow-up flak from the Foxy revelations. She walked out of the office into the crisp night air. She hadn’t felt this good in weeks.
Outside TJ’s flat, Rosie pressed the buzzer. She was looking forward to a glass of wine and, she hoped, some understanding.
‘On my way down.’ TJ’s voice came through the intercom.
‘Okay.’ Rosie looked at her watch. The paper would be coming off the press in two hours. She would be able to buy it at the late night paper shop, close to Giovanni’s where she and TJ were headed.
‘Hi, scoop.’ He smiled as he opened the door. ‘I take it you’re about to ruin the lives of some of Glasgow’s finest.’ He kissed her on the lips and smiled.
‘I’m afraid so.’ She touched his face. ‘And hopefully over the next two days, our top judge and a few cronies will bite the dust.’
TJ shook his head and put his arm around her shoulder as they walked towards the bistro.
‘Successful day then?’
‘And how. The paper will be out in a couple of hours and arses will be falling apart everywhere.’
TJ looked at her, then straight ahead. ‘Good. Then what?’
Rosie knew what he meant, but she wanted to discuss things over a glass of wine.
‘We’ll see. Come on, I’m dying for a drink.’
They could see the lights of Giovanni’s restaurant ahead, and Rosie hoped that TJ wouldn’t say any more until they’d got to the table and had a drink in their hands. She needed to relax.
Rosie hadn’t even noticed the man coming across the street towards her. All she was aware of was TJ grabbing hold of her and throwing her to the ground. Somewhere in that instant she heard a loud bang, like a car backfiring. But she had hit her head on the pavement and for a moment felt dazed and confused, with TJ lying on top of her. She thought she heard him groaning, followed by the sound of a car screeching off.
‘Shit,’ TJ said. ‘I’ve been shot, Rosie.’
His face was close to hers and she wriggled out from under him.
‘That bastard who crossed the street,’ TJ said, his face contorted, ‘he was going to shoot you. I saw the gun.’
‘Jesus.’ Rosie pulled out her mobile and dialled 999. Suddenly Giovanni and others appeared from the bistro and started running towards them. Rosie managed to pull herself up to a kneeling position. She could see blood pumping out of TJ’s leg.
‘Aw Jesus, TJ,’ she said, shaking. ‘You’ve been shot in the leg.’ As Giovanni approached, she shouted, ‘Quick. He’s been shot. Somebody help. Please.’
‘It’s okay,’ Giovanni said, out of breath. ‘Someone is phoning the ambulance. Don’t worry.’ Then he noticed TJ. ‘My God, TJ. It’s you. My God. Don’t worry, my friend. You’ll be okay.’ He knelt down beside him, and told one of his waiters to run to the restaurant and get a towel.
Rosie knelt by TJ, holding his head off the ground.
‘Oh TJ . . .’ She was sobbing. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. You saved my life.’
‘I’m okay, Rosie,’ he said. ‘It’s not that bad. It’s painful, but I’ll be all right. It’s okay.’
‘I’m so sorry . . .’ She held his hand as they waited for the ambulance. In a couple of minutes it was there, followed by two police cars. People came out of their houses to see the commotion and cars stopped nearby. The paramedics came with a stretcher. It was like slow motion.
Rosie stood up slowly and unsteadily as a policewoman came towards her and took hold of her arm.
‘He’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘He’s in good hands. Come this way.’
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘Please. I’m going with him. You can talk to me at the hospital.’
A burly police sergeant nodded to the policewoman, as the paramedics lifted TJ’s stretcher. Rosie followed, trying to compose herself.
‘This is a fine mess you’ve got me into, Gilmour,’ TJ croaked, and forced a smile. His face was ashen.
She fought back tears. He had saved her life. She shook her head and he reached out for her hand.
‘Now just relax,’ the paramedic said, kneeling beside TJ in the ambulance. ‘You’ll be fine. There’s a lot of blood, but it looks more like a flesh wound. You can tell your mates you were in the war or something.’
TJ laughed and squeezed Rosie’s hand.
‘Enough. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m fine.’
She sniffed, wiped her tears.
‘But,’ he said, ‘this is what I mean, Rosie. This is enough.’
She held his hand tightly. If ever she needed proof that enough was enough then this was it. If she could walk away right now and be with TJ for the rest of her life she would. But, even in the midst of this, she knew that she had better get on the phone to McGuire and tell him what had happened. And there was a part of her mind that was already thinking of how she was going to get through tomorrow writing all the copy on the paedophile ring.
TJ looked at her as though he was reading her thoughts. ‘You’d better phone your boss,’ he said. ‘You’ll be a big star in the morning.’ He smiled.
Rosie felt a sharp stab of guilt.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Rosie’s eyes were stinging from lack of sleep. She sat drinking another mug of coffee and working at her screen. She had almost finished the first day’s instalment of the paedophile story. It would reveal how kids from a Glasgow children’s home were driven every Friday night to the home of one of Scotland’s top High Court judges. Hanlon had warned her that the story had to be written ultra carefully. There had been arguments about that straight away. The kids were photographed in their underpants, she had told Hanlon. What more evidence did he need? But he still insisted that it had to be very carefully written. They had agreed on a form of words, but the pictures in themselves were damning enough.
She also knew that the information from Gemma and Trina about sexual assault could not be used because it had been obtained illegally. McGuire and the paper’s lawyers had made a decision to not even touch that. In the tape of Duncan Davidson talking to Quigley there was no mention of sex. McGuire said it was one of these stories that didn’t need acres of words. You just had to print pictures of these kids, saying they were being driven to Lord Dawson’s home, and that would be enough. People would make up their own minds.
Rosie was frustrated, but she knew that the only way they could get any kind of story in the newspaper was not to spell out the obvious. McGuire had said that ultimately the safety of the kids was paramount, and that after the revelations there would be serious action taken to protect them. So, as she wrote, Rosie sailed as close to the wind, legally, as she dared.
She rubbed her eyes. She had spent half the night at the hospital being interviewed by police about what she saw at the shooting. By the middle of the night they had already seen the newspaper. Rosie told them that as far as she was concerned, the attempt to shoot her was connected to the exposé on Gavin Fox. The detectives had remained poker-faced when she said that, and arranged for another interview with her the following afternoon.
After the cops left, she sat with TJ while the doctors assessed the damage to his leg. He had laughed when they told him he was lucky. But they emphasised that the bullet had merely skimmed the top of his thigh and, miraculously, had not torn any muscle or bone. The wound was minor, despite the blood, and they stitched him up and suggested he remain overnight for observation. But TJ insisted on going home. Rosie helped him to hobble on crutches into the waiting taxi. Inside his flat she sat him down on the sofa and poured them both a glass of wine.
‘I feel as though I’m in the wrong movie.’ Rosie shook her
head. She turned to TJ and hugged him. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you for what you did, TJ. Never.’
He smiled and kissed her.
‘Jesus, I’m so tired, Rosie.’ He lay back, his face pale. ‘Too much excitement at my age. I need to crash out.’
‘I know.’ Rosie helped him to his feet. ‘Come on. Let’s go to bed.’
TJ grimaced as he tried to walk. He looked older, with dark shadows under his eyes. Rosie thought she could see fear beneath the bravado.
‘Just don’t be making any sexual demands on me,’ he said, as he lay down on the bed. Rosie smiled and helped him off with his trousers. He put his head on the pillow, his eyes already closing. She took off her clothes and got into bed beside him. She put her arms around him and snuggled up close.
‘I love you, TJ.’ But TJ was asleep. Tears came to her eyes.
Now, as she burned a third disc of the paedophile story, Rosie just wanted to get through the next couple of days. Then, she promised herself, she would have a long hard think about her future. She reminded herself that she would have to phone Quigley to warn him the story was coming out. She would keep her promise so he could make himself scarce before the inquiry started. McGuire had expressly told her not to do that, but Rosie drew her own lines on how to deal with people. Regardless of whether or not he deserved to go to jail for his part in the paedo ring, Rosie was making her own decision. She would give him a break.
Her mobile rang. It was McGuire.
‘Rosie?’ His tone was businesslike. ‘Can you get in here. Now.’
‘Yeah, I’m actually about to leave. Copy’s done. Is something wrong?’
‘Talk to you when you get here.’
She pulled on her jacket, finished her coffee and headed for the office. She had taken a call earlier from Father Dunnachie to say that he had located the spot where her mother was buried, and she’d arranged to meet him later tomorrow, once she got the Lord Dawson story off her plate.
From the moment she entered the car park, she could see the waiting press pack and TV cameras. They turned towards her when she got out of her car. Photographers she’d known for years took pictures of her and reporters from other newspapers and television approached her for quotes about the shooting and about the Gavin Fox revelations. One asked her about the cocaine charges. She had been so busy over the past few hours it hadn’t occurred to her that the press would be waiting for her. She couldn’t understand why McGuire hadn’t mentioned it. Rosie told everyone she had to speak to her editor and the company lawyers before giving any interviews. She waved them away and went through the swing doors.
