by Anna Smith
Rosie sighed. ‘We’ll see. Right now, I just want to get it in some perspective in my mind. You know what I’m like.’
‘Yeah, Gilmour. I know what you’re like. Okay. Have it your way. Get some kip, and try to relax. We’ll talk again tomorrow. But I do worry about you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll be fine. See you later.’ She hung up, knowing TJ wouldn’t believe her bravado any more than she did.
*
She’d relaxed in the bath and then in the darkness of her bedroom, waiting for sleep to come. It did, and brought with it the usual nightmares. The one that woke her was of a young couple drowning in a loch, and she’d lain there in bed in the throes of the nightmare, unable to catch her breath. It was her body gasping for air that had woken her. The morning light streaming in the window made her fully awake, but there were no traffic sounds outside, so it couldn’t be any later than five. She got up, went into the living room and flicked on Sky News. The missing couple story was high on the agenda, with police saying they had received several calls from people who had seen the couple on their travels, and they could now map out where they had been. The last sighting was in a corner shop just before the Campsie Fells, where the newsagent had identified the young man when he came in and bought some cans of beer and a pint of milk. But there were no campsites around the area, so police were working on the theory that they had camped in a field. A search would begin today for any trace of the couple. The aerial view of the area around the Campsies was vast and pockmarked with smallholdings and farmland. They could have pitched their tent anywhere. A picture of their car flashed up and the reporter urged any motorists in the area to call in if they’d seen the vehicle in the country roads surrounding the Campsies, in case the couple had picked anyone up at any stage.
*
Rosie’s mobile rang as she pulled into the Post car park.
‘Are you in hiding, Rosie?’
It was Don.
‘No, of course not. How you doing?’
‘I tried to phone you last night, but there was no answer.’
Rosie tried to think back. She’d switched her phone off so she could relax in her bath, but forgot to put it back on again, after she flopped into bed, exhausted. It was unlike her. Even though the ring of her mobile in the middle of the night was never good news, she always kept it on.
‘Sorry, Don. I must have switched it off. I was knackered last night. Don’t tell me I’ve missed something?’
‘No, no. Don’t worry. I wanted to give you an early shout though. We got a call last night from a motorist who identified the couple’s car on a road outside Lennoxtown. He said he passed them on a farm road about three days ago, and he remembered that the car was in a lay-by and that there was a dog with them. The couple were standing outside the car drinking bottles of water, and he assumed they’d just finished a long walk. So we’ve got a fairly narrow area we’re going to be searching. We’re taking dogs out this morning, and it’ll go out on a press release but not for another couple of hours, so you might want to get yourself down there for some pictures before everyone else. They’ll be keeping the press back.’
‘So where is it?’
‘It’s a road about two miles outside Lennoxtown. Country road. Two farms on either side.’
Rosie stopped in her tracks. She didn’t want to ask Don the name of the farms – he probably didn’t know anyway. It might not be O’Dwyer’s farm, but it sounded as though it was in the vicinity.
‘Okay. I’ll get a photographer and head out. Will you be there?’
‘Yeah. For a while. I’ll be with the DCI, so don’t be approaching me. He’s not very happy with that boy of yours who asked about Boag at the press conference. He was spitting nails when he came out. The family were very upset.’
‘I thought he’d not be happy, Don. But you have to admit, the question had to be asked.’
‘Well, I’m not a reporter, so I can’t admit that. I’ll see you later.’ He hung up.
*
When they got to Lennoxtown, Matt drove past the police station, where they saw a dozen officers piling into a minibus. He drove into a side street and turned the car around.
‘Unless I’m mistaken, Sherlock, I’d say there’s a very real chance they’re going out on the search.’
Rosie watched as the van pulled out of the car park, followed by a police car.
‘Looks like it,’ Rosie replied. ‘Okay. Let’s follow them – but at a very discreet distance, because once we get into the country there won’t be a lot of cars around.’
‘No problem. There’s bound to be a bit of a high spot where we can get a look across the fields.’
They drove out of the town, glad the police convoy was heading in the right direction. Matt pulled a left up a tighter dirt track road and onto a hill. When they reached the top, they pulled into a lay-by and got out of the car. Matt scanned the horizon with his binoculars.
‘I can see where they’re headed. Look. At the far end of the road, there’s a few cop cars parked. They’re not far from O’Dwyer’s place, actually.’
He handed Rosie the binoculars and she watched as the van they’d been following drove towards the parked cars. She could see the long, low bungalow on the O’Dwyers’ land, and in the distance the other farm.
‘I can get a picture from here with my long lens,’ Matt said, ‘but we’d want to be a bit closer, see what’s going on. Let’s head down there so we get our bearings, and then just go past them like we were out for a drive.’
‘Okay.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They’ll be putting out a press release shortly saying they’re here, and the pack will descend. But swing past the O’Dwyer house again, just to see who’s around.’
Rosie scanned the area with the binoculars, homing in on the O’Dwyer place while they were still a good distance away. She could see a pickup truck and two other cars in the yard. One of them looked like the red Jaguar she’d seen outside the court that day. She zoomed in as close as she could and could see the big, burly figure of an older man. He resembled Rory O’Dwyer, only older, so it could be him. The pictures she’d seen in the library were at least twelve years old, when he’d been cleared in court of the attempted murder of a man from another travelling family during an illegal bare-knuckle boxing match. But there was no mistaking the man who had been slapping the Kosovan around. He looked like a younger, fitter version of the pot-bellied man, and she assumed it was one of the sons. The other was a weedy-looking guy with collar-length, greasy hair, smoking a cigarette furiously and nodding as the older man spoke. Rosie looked across the yard and stopped when she spotted the Kosovan coming out of a workshop and walking towards the three men. As the older man spoke, the Kosovan turned around, towards the direction of the police cars in the distance. Then he moved away and she watched as he went across the back of the house and out of the field onto the road ahead of them.
‘That’s our man, Matt. The Kosovan. He’s walking up in the direction of all the activity. Looks like he’s been instructed to go there. I wonder why? Let’s get up to that area before he gets there and watch him from the other side. See what he’s doing.’
They drove on and pulled up close enough to see the police activity. Rosie watched through the windscreen as officers with tracker dogs took to the fields, accompanied by at least a dozen other cops with long sticks. She watched as the Kosovan crossed the field behind the O’Dwyer house and stayed close to a clump of trees that separated the field from the road.
‘Our man is looking a bit shifty, Matt. Look.’ She handed the bins to Matt, who looked through them, then put his camera up.
‘I can see him better through this, and I’ll get a picture in case we need it. Yep. He’s kind of hiding in among the trees, but watching what’s going on. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. He’s obviously working for the O’Dwyers, doing what he’s told.’
They watched for another few minutes, Rosie’s eye trained o
n the Kosovan, intrigued by what his role was in among a family of gangsters. Especially as she’d seen him abused by one of the sons. Then, eventually, the Kosovan came out of the shadow of the trees and returned through the field.
‘Drive back down a bit, Matt. Til we’re nearer that field.’
‘What for?’
‘Just . . . I want to try something.’
‘Oh, Christ! Here goes. Gilmour, don’t do anything daft.’
‘Would I ever?’ Rosie said, as the car turned around and drove a few hundred yards. ‘Here. Stop here.’
She opened the door and got out.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I’m going to approach him in the field. Before he gets within eyeshot of the house.’
‘What if he’s a nutter?’
‘What if he’s not?’
‘Jesus! Will I come with you?’
‘No. I’m sure he clocked my face that day leaving court. I just want to make contact. Better if I do it on my own. I’ll only be a minute.’ She turned around to climb the fence. ‘Don’t go away.’
Rosie was in the field and approaching the Kosovan quietly from behind. When she was close enough to call out, she did.
‘Excuse me? Hello?’
The Kosovan stopped in his tracks and turned around, bewildered. Rosie walked as briskly as she could through the field towards him, hoping she hadn’t got it wrong, and that this was the same guy she saw in court. When she got up close to him, she was positive.
‘Sorry,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
He looked at her, confused, then she saw a flash of recognition. He took a step backwards.
‘Excuse me,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s Tadi, isn’t it?’
He looked at her, then over his shoulder, frightened. She took in his hollow cheeks and the shirt open at the chest, exposing his puny body. He was underfed and weary-looking. Hard to say what age, but he could be anything between twenty-five and thirty-five. He shook his head.
‘You’re Tadi, aren’t you? I remember you from court. The seagull case. I saw you being taken in the car that day. You remember. Do you speak English?’
He swallowed, his eyes full of fear.
‘W-what you want? I am not Tadi.’
‘But I saw you. A few days ago. You were with one of the O’Dwyer boys. I thought it was scandalous that you were even in court. You understand what I mean? I . . . I wanted to help you.’ Rosie paused. ‘I’m a reporter. From the Post. You know. The newspaper? My name is Rosie Gilmour.’
His face kind of crumpled and he bit his lip and shook his head. ‘Please. You cannot help me.’ He backed away.
‘Please, Tadi. I can help you. Let me try. I can see you are worried. Do you work for the O’Dwyers? Listen to me. I have been in Kosovo, during the war. I saw people like you, frightened people. Will you talk to me?’
‘No. Please. I . . . I cannot speak.’
‘Can I come and see you at your house?’
He shook his head.
‘Why are you up looking at the police here? Do you know what they’re looking for?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I don’t know anything. Please. You must go away from me. I . . . I’m afraid. My . . . my family.’
‘Your family? Are they here? On the farm? Do they live with you?’
He shook his head and his lip trembled.
‘No. Please, I must go.’ He backed away, then turned and almost broke into a run.
Rosie was tempted to pursue him, but it was too close to the house. She couldn’t risk it. But she knew she was onto something. She had seen fear like that in the eyes of people who were afraid to speak because of what may happen to them. She had to find a way to get to him, but he was clearly terrified of the O’Dwyers. She watched as he scurried across the field, stumbling in potholes, eventually climbing the fence back into the yard.
Chapter Eight
The Tavern was jumping by the time Jonjo and Mary arrived in the Merc driven by Aldo, his oldest mate. They got out of the car and stood for a moment, the music blaring into the street. A young man came outside, then rushed back in when he clocked Jonjo. Another man came out and stood for a second, a smile spreading across his face.
‘The whole place is turned out for you, Jonjo. I knew it would be.’
Jonjo took a deep breath and smiled at Aldo. They’d been pals since they were twelve years old in the Drum, robbing sweets from the local shops, before they graduated onto beating the shit out of the bullies. They’d started running their own little protection racket by the time they were teenagers. It was small-time, but it paid, and got them noticed. Aldo Jaconelli was small, Italian and looked like he belonged in the Sicilian village that his grandparents had left two generations ago in search of a better life. Aldo used to joke that they thought they’d got on a boat to America, so were well pissed off when they ended up in Ardrossan.
Jonjo took Mary’s arm and ushered her in through the swing doors. As soon as they came in, the whole place erupted in cheers. The drummer played a three beats and clash on the cymbals for added measure. First up to greet him was Danny McLoughlin, another old buddy who he hadn’t seen since his last visit to jail a few weeks ago. Big hugs followed more hugs and back-slapping among his closest associates. Other people who knew their place came up a few minutes later to wish him well, and Jonjo shook their hands. Danny and Aldo ushered him to the bar where a corner was cleared for them, and they were served large drinks. Jonjo declined all the drink, saying he’d been off it and was now teetotal, which was met with looks of disbelief. He drank water, shook more hands vigorously, and listened to the homage being paid to him. He scanned the room. The place was buzzing. Everyone here was either in the firm or knew someone in the firm, they were working in his bars, renting his property or running his security firm. All legit jobs, through the books, and only they knew what went on behind the scenes. Jonjo had made his big money back when he was a haulage contractor on paper, but in reality it was running container loads of cannabis through Morocco and Spain. It had set him up and made him a millionaire, but now he had moved on, and he invested in property, bars and security firms. He looked across and saw Mary sitting with friends who he knew had looked after her over the years. These people were the salt of the earth and he was glad to be home. Eventually he stood at the bar with just Aldo and Danny.
‘So, Jonjo. How was it? I mean, coming back home. Into the house and all that. I . . . I know it must be hard.’
Aldo’s mouth tightened, and Jonjo knew that he meant going into the house without Jack being there. Aldo was his godfather and had taken his murder almost as badly as Jonjo himself. He adored the boy and Jack, even though he was always going to be educated and never a gangster, adored his Uncle Aldo in equal measure.
‘It was tough, Aldo.’ Jonjo shook his head. ‘It’s fucking tough. But I’ll tell you . . .’ He looked over at Mary. ‘It’s been a lot tougher on her. Here on her own.’
‘She’s tried to be strong, Jonjo, but she just fuckin’ loved that boy,’ Danny said. ‘We all did.’
All three of them stood for a long moment saying nothing, and for a second, Jonjo remembered them eighteen years ago at this very bar for Jack’s christening.
‘So,’ Jonjo said, looking from one to the other, ‘this Boag fucker. What do you think?’
‘Hard to believe he was actually on his way to the Bar-L and now he’s out there. Some poor bastard will be his next victim.’
‘Not if we get him first,’ Jonjo said. ‘But how we going to do that? Listen, boys, this is the only show in town for me. I’m telling you.’
‘I know, man. If he was one of us, like a proper criminal, he’d be fucking easy to find. But he’s not. He’s just this anonymous wee guy and he’s disappeared into the crowd.’
‘We’ll need to find a way. What about our cops? Any of them in the mood to give us a heads-up if they’re getting anywhere near him?’
Aldo puffed.
‘Not so far. They’re in the same position as the rest of us. You’ll not have seen the town, Jonjo. It’s got cops on every corner. They’re all over the place looking for him. But he’s gone to ground. Christ knows where he is.’
‘What about the papers? Have they had much on him?’
Danny shrugged.
‘They’ve all been full of the usual stuff. Only thing was the other day, the Post had some bit from a police psychologist – you know like that Cracker guy off the telly a few years ago?’
Jonjo nodded but said nothing.
‘Well, he was saying that he might have made contingency plans – like he’s been planning for all eventualities in case he got caught. Like maybe he’s got another ID and bank account. He might even have another house or something.’
Jonjo nodded.
‘But somebody will see him eventually. His ugly face is everywhere.’
‘I know.’
While they stood at the bar, food had been served, and an hour later an Irish folk band, who were friends of Danny’s, got the party in full swing. Jonjo stopped in mid sentence when he heard the mandolin pick out the song, Every time I hear a sweet bird singing, I think of you and I, my love, think of you and I . . .
It had been their song. The band would know that and before the first line was up, the floor had cleared and Jonjo looked over at Mary. He remembered the first night they’d met in the Irish club when they danced to that song. Jonjo jerked his head towards the dance floor and Mary got up and came towards him. He held her in his arms and everyone cheered as he held her thin waist, feeling the warmth of her body. He was home now. This was what they expected. They knew he was grieving and unforgiving, but they needed Jonjo back and he had to give them this dance, the dance he’d been doing for nine fucking years inside. He held Mary close, and went through the motions. But only one thing was on his mind. Thomas Boag.
Chapter Nine
