by Anna Smith
The social worker nudged Rosie and suggested it was time to go now. Rosie got to her feet.
‘Right, Gemma,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to get back to my work. But we’ll not lose touch, even if you’re away from here. I’ll write you a letter. Would you like that?’
Gemma’s face fell. Her bottom lip trembled and tears welled in her eyes.
‘You’re going away and you’ll never see me again. I might be going far away. How will you know where I am?’
‘I’ll find out.’ Rosie choked. ‘Don’t you worry, you’ll not be that far.’
‘We never got the pizza at your house,’ Gemma said. ‘You promised.’
‘I know.’ Rosie rolled her eyes. ‘I was awful busy. But we will one day, Gemma, I promise.’ She went towards her. ‘Now give me a big hug.’
Gemma threw her arms around her and held her tight. Rosie almost had to prise herself away from her.
‘Now you be good,’ she said.
‘I will. Will you always be my friend, Rosie? Will you?’
‘Of course, Gemma. Always.’
The social worker took Gemma’s hand and told her they had to go. She wiped the child’s cheeks with a tissue.
Rosie stood for a moment and watched as Gemma left the cafe, holding the social worker’s hand. She could see she was sobbing, and the woman stroked her hair. At the door, she turned around. Rosie waved weakly as she saw Gemma’s flushed face.
‘Bye, Rosie,’ Gemma called, trying to smile.
‘Bye, Gemma.’ Rosie turned so she wouldn’t see her own tears.
Her mobile rang. It was McGuire. He told her to meet him in O’Brien’s.
Now.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
In O’Brien’s bar, Rosie sat in a booth with a glass of iced water, waiting for McGuire who was already ten minutes late. She felt irritated and decided she would give him ten more minutes then she would go. Stuff him. Rosie knew what the meeting was all about anyway, and the way she felt right now, she couldn’t be bothered with the bullshit. She knew McGuire meant well and that he thought the world of her. But this one time, a bit of soft soaping and back slapping from him wouldn’t be enough. She looked at her watch again. She wanted to get home and think. If she was going with TJ, she needed to do practical things, like get packed. Jesus! He was really going. It hadn’t sunk in yet.
She knew if she didn’t go, she would be creating the easiest way out for herself. Tomorrow, she would have another story to get her teeth into. Life would go on. But it might be for the best. No risk. Walk away while you still can.
‘Sorry I’m late, Rosie,’ McGuire said. ‘Big legal meeting. Lord Dawson’s resigned. Oh, and Gavin Fox has been suspended; Bill Mackie too. They’re finished. All of them. Word is, they’ll throw the book at them. Disposing of a body, sex with a minor if they could prove it, perverting the course of justice. They’ll get banged up for years.’ He slid into the booth.
‘It’s the jail Dawson should be in,’ Rosie said, flatly. ‘If people around me had any balls.’
McGuire said nothing. Rosie knew he would take some snash from her, but she also knew he wouldn’t take too much.
‘Anyway,’ McGuire said, turning to the waiter and ordering a mineral water, ‘we just have to live with what’s happened, Rosie. Understand that, please, will you?’ His tone was friendly but firm.
She nodded.
‘Listen,’ McGuire said. ‘I want us to draw a line under this and that’s one of the reasons why I’m here. It’s time to move on.’
Rosie swallowed a mouthful of water. For a moment she thought he was going to fire her. Perhaps she had pushed things too far yesterday in front of the lawyers . . .
‘Move on?’
‘Yeah, Rosie. You did a fantastic job on Fox. And the paedophile ring. You excelled yourself and I don’t know how I could ever replace you.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows. The bastard was going to sack her. She was ready for him.
‘But,’ McGuire said, ‘it’s time to replace you.’
Rosie moved to speak, but he put his hand up to silence her.
‘No, wait. Let me finish. I think, Rosie, that there’s only so much of this kind of stuff you want to do in your life, and I really value you as a journalist. But I want you to move on. I want to make you assistant editor, with special responsibility for investigations. The big exposés. You’ll be in charge. So you see, you’d still be involved, but not getting your hands dirty. And you’d be inside, knocking heads around at the editorial conference. You’d be influential in all the decision making.’
She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been expecting this. Assistant editor would be a perfect job for her in many ways. It would take her off the road, give her more money, more clout, and she would still be at the heart of the investigations. She could change things. She could make things happen.
‘Interested?’ McGuire sipped his water. ‘I hope so. There’s another eight grand on your salary and the expenses will stay about the same. I’d obviously have to watch my back in case you want my chair.’ He grinned.
‘If you thought I was capable of getting your chair,’ Rosie said, ‘there’s no way you would make me assistant editor, Mick. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.’
‘Well,’ he smiled wryly, ‘that’s not quite true. But anyway, do you fancy it, Rosie? Please say yes. I’ve more or less told them you would.’
Rosie drank some more water and looked around the bar as it filled up with lunchtime diners. All the suits were there. The usual movers and shakers and executives. Now she could be one of them. All she had to do was say the word. She thought about TJ. He would be at the airport tomorrow, watching for her. She wished she could call him for advice. She had always imagined what it would be like to have a real say in what was in the newspaper every day. To have a real influence on how stories were presented, and a role in the decision-making. She had longed for that most of her career, but she could never bring herself to play the political game with some of the tossers she would have to deal with at management level. Still, if she was ever in a position of power, perhaps stories like the paedophile ring would actually make it into the paper . . .
‘Yes,’ Rosie heard herself saying. ‘Okay, Mick, I’ll take it. But don’t expect me to toe the line with you every day, because I won’t. I’m my own woman.’
‘Of course,’ McGuire said. ‘If you were to toe the line with me every day, I’d be nervous. I want your spirit, Rosie. I want your fire around me. Let’s rattle a few more cages.’ He reached out and shook her hand. ‘Have we got a deal?’
‘Deal,’ Rosie said, flatly. This was a new beginning. She could throw herself into the job and put all the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks behind her. She had been turning into an emotional wreck. Maybe she just imagined she was in love with TJ. It was crazy to think about running away with him. Now she could get wrapped up in her new job, it would be a perfect way to forget.
They got up and walked out of the bar together. McGuire told her what office she would get, and how they would have a big celebration dinner tomorrow night, with just a few handpicked people. Gordon Thomson would be there, and a few executives. McGuire told her to take the rest of the day off. He laughed as she said she would shop for a power suit so she could look the part in the new job. He waved from the back of the black taxi as it sped away.
Rosie stood at the traffic lights and looked around at the bustle in the city centre. Everyone going somewhere. Everyone with a different story to tell. She would miss being on the streets, miss the buzz of meeting people and getting involved with their stories. Too involved sometimes. But deep down she knew she couldn’t go on like that, and now was the best time to move on. But nothing stirred inside her, the way it had over the past few weeks. She got into her car and drove towards her flat. She needed to be alone – to be lonely. She did lonely very well. She drove towards the West End, thinking how predictable the future was now that she had accepted the job. At least s
he would get home every night. But then what? She imagined the long nights in her flat by herself, and the sameness of the days. And no TJ . . . Not even as a friend . . . She glanced at the airline ticket. There was a niggling feeling in her stomach. Tonight she would decide.
She slowed down the car and pulled into the side of the road. She took her mobile from the dashboard, and punched in the number Father Dunnachie had given her.
‘Hallo, Father,’ she said. ‘It’s Rosie . . . Any chance you could meet me at the graveyard now? Something’s come up tomorrow and I’ll be tied up . . . okay . . . That’s brilliant. I’m on my way.’
The rusty gates to the old cemetery were hanging off the crumbling sandstone wall, and the road in was overgrown with weeds and grass. The graveyard was built on a hill at the edge of the city’s East End. Rosie remembered how, as a child, she was spooked by the eerie shadows of the headstones if she passed by on a bus in the dark. It was even more eerie now, in the stillness of a damp, chilly afternoon. She stopped her car on a path just inside and got out to wait for the priest. She sighed, looking out at the hundreds of graves, most of them overgrown with grass and weeds climbing up the grey headstones. Beloved. The word was everywhere, barely readable on some of the older, more weathered stones. But it was still there. She felt a tightness in her throat. Her mother was beloved too. By her. All her life. She turned when she heard the car scrunch on the gravel behind her.
‘Hi, Father,’ she said, when the priest got out. ‘Sorry it’s such short notice, but I’ve got something on tomorrow.’
The priest shook her hand. ‘Not a worry, Rosie.’ He motioned her to walk up the hill with him. ‘I saw your name on the big police story today,’ he said, as they walked. ‘My, my, but you’ve really set some cats among the pigeons there, all right.’ He smiled. ‘I’d say you’d better not drop a bus ticket from now on or they’ll be after you.’ He patted her arm.
‘They were rotten, Father,’ Rosie said. ‘Rotten from the core.’
They walked to the top of the hill, then further and deeper into the cemetery, until the gravestones were few and far between. They came to a spot that was about fifty square feet of overgrown grass with no headstones at all. The odd little cross, stuck into the ground, poked out of the grass. The priest stopped and looked at Rosie.
‘This is the spot, Rosie.’ He spread his hand out and sighed. ‘It’s a pauper’s grave. All of this.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘There are many poor souls buried here. That’s how it was then. They don’t use it nowadays.’ He stopped. ‘When your mother died, and there was nobody, this would be the only place to lay her to rest. Sometimes, years later, somebody would be in a position to put up an old cross or a stone, just to mark it.’ He took Rosie’s arm. ‘But if you come over here, I want to show you something.’
She followed him, trying to keep herself together. He walked a few steps, and crouched down.
He pulled away some grass and looked up at her. ‘There’s a cross here. It’s old and worn, obviously been here a while, but you can still make it out. It’s got your mother’s name on it. Come closer. See?’
Rosie stepped forward and crouched down beside him.
‘Annie Gilmour. Died September 9, 1969. Aged 37. Beloved.’ It was barely legible, but it was there.
Rosie closed her eyes. She could see her mother in the kitchen, her welcoming smile when she turned around as Rosie burst in from school. The tears came and she stood up. The priest put his arms around her.
‘Somebody cared enough, Rosie.’ He patted her back. ‘Somebody put the cross. I have no idea who, and we have no way of checking.’ He laid a hand on Rosie’s hair. ‘We will probably never know.’
Rosie composed herself. ‘Thanks, Father. It means such a lot to me. I never forgot her, Father. I never forgot her for a day.’
‘I know.’ He touched her arm, and looked at the grass. ‘And she knows too, Rosie.’ He smiled. ‘She’s always known. She still knows.’ They stood in silence. Then he looked at her, and at his watch.
‘I’m just going to leave you here now. Have some time alone. To reflect.’
Rosie nodded.
He shook her hand. ‘And now, at last, you have somewhere.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘I hope we’ll still see you at St Gregory’s, Rosie. Even if it is only on All Souls’ Day.’ He turned and walked away.
‘You will, Father. Thanks,’ she called after him.
When she heard the car drive off, Rosie shivered as the greyness of the late afternoon grew darker. Soon the gravestones would be eerie shadows again.
She crouched down and her fingers lightly caressed the words etched on the cross.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Rosie said softly. ‘I missed you. Every single day. I have missed you so much.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Rosie closed the door of her flat behind her and stood with her back resting against it. For a moment, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the peace of being in her own home, away from everything. She could clear her mind of the last few days and think about nothing but her future. She switched off her mobile phone, then went down the hall and into the living room to turn off her house phone. She looked at the television and picked up the remote control. She was tempted to put the news on, just to see what they were saying about Fox, and about Lord Dawson’s resignation. No. Forget it. She tossed the remote on the sofa and kicked off her shoes.
She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of red wine and drank a delicious mouthful. She felt better already. She padded into the bedroom, threw open the curtains and stood sipping her wine, watching the people in the driving rain on the street below. It was already dark.
‘Bitch.’ The arm was around her neck before she was even sure if she’d heard the voice. Her glass dropped to the floor. ‘Bitch.’ The hand went over her mouth and strong arms dragged her backwards. She heard herself making muffled sounds through the hand that was squeezing her mouth and nose. She couldn’t breathe. Panic. She was going to pass out. Suddenly the hand was away from her mouth and she gasped. Then she felt the coldness of the metal against the side of her head. A gun. She groaned in pain as a hand jerked her backwards by the hair. She was face to face with him, the gun still at her temple. There was a moment when she thought she recognised the face. Then she crumpled, dizzy, as the fist hit her face. Her cheek made a shattering sound. Blood poured from her nose.
‘Please,’ she managed to say. ‘Please, don’t hurt me. Please.’ The face in front of her was a blur.
‘Hallo again.’ The voice sounded in the distance. ‘Thought you’d seen the last of me, ya fucking bitch.’
Rosie blinked. She was seeing double. She blinked again. It was the fat man, whom Adrian had stabbed. Her legs gave way. He grabbed her with his other hand and dragged her across to the sofa. He threw her down and she lay there, blood gushing from her nose. Her whole body was shaking.
‘The Big Man’s no happy with his picture in the paper.’ The fat man sat beside her, leaning over her. She could hear him breathing. He smelled of sweat and alcohol. His eyes scanned Rosie from top to bottom. He traced her with the barrel of the gun, from her chest to her groin. He grinned.
‘He said I could do what I want with you before I finished you.’ He licked his lips. ‘But I just like hurting people.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then dug in his pocket and took out a small wrap. Rosie knew without looking it would be cocaine. He opened it with one hand, stuck a finger in it and shoved some up his nose. He sniffed hard, then sat back on the sofa with the gun still aimed at Rosie.
‘Your big pal shouldn’t have knifed me, you know,’ he said. ‘That was downright cheek.’
Rosie swallowed. She tasted blood and felt sick. Her stomach retched.
‘Hey.’ He moved back from her. ‘Mind the suit, bitch. If you’re gonnae boak, do it on your couch.’
Rosie tried to breathe deeply. Keep calm. Just breathe slowly.
<
br /> Silence.
Then he turned to her. He started shouting.
‘Where’s he from? That big guy? Your mate.’ He pushed the gun onto Rosie’s forehead. ‘Where can I find him? Tell me his fucking name.’
Rosie shook her head. He slapped her face. The pain brought tears.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where he lives. I hardly know him.’
‘Fucking liar.’ He stood up. He walked to the window and looked outside. He turned around. ‘Nice view, bitch. Ever seen it from mid-air?’
Rosie shook her head. Her fingers trembled as she touched her cheek. One of her eyes was almost closed.
He came back towards her.
‘Listen.’ He sat down. Then he started shouting again into her face. ‘Tell me where I can get that big fucker. Nobody stabs me and lives to brag about it, it just doesn’t happen.’ He moved closer to her. ‘So just tell me where I can get him, and maybe I’ll not hurt you any more.’
A mobile phone rang. Rosie automatically looked for hers. Then she remembered she’d switched it off. Shit. She never did that. He took his mobile out of his trouser pocket.
‘Aye. She’s here, boss. How’s the weather over there?’ He stood up while he spoke. ‘No, not really . . . No much. She’s got a wee bit of a sore face, but that’s all . . . She won’t tell me where that big bastard who stabbed me is . . . I want him, Jake. You said I could get him myself . . .’
He stood in silence. Rosie watched. He turned to her. ‘The Big Man says hallo,’ he said, grinning. Then he put the phone to his ear again and listened. ‘Can I throw her out the window, boss? We’re three up . . .’
