by Anna Smith
And now, the armed robbery of the old Jewish couple – the Cimmermans – out in Giffnock, was the latest story everyone was chasing. It was this story that brought Rosie to the press conference – she’d normally have left Declan to cover it. But McGuire was incensed at the way the old couple had been bound and gagged in their own home and left to die. The husband, Aron, was clinging to life at the Southern General Hospital. Today, the police were putting the wife, Berta, up to make an appeal at the press conference. It was risky, brave, and McGuire wanted Rosie all over it. The couple were well known in the Jewish community, respected jewellers who had come here after the war. They were both refugees who had survived Nazi prison camps, but had never spoken publicly about it before, from what Rosie had been told. That they should survive all that and be brutalised like this had stuck in McGuire’s throat, and he told Rosie he wanted every word that the old woman said during the press briefing.
The buzz of conversation came to a halt when the door opened into the room, and the Assistant Chief Constable came in with assorted high-ranking officers, and a woman police inspector assisting the old lady. Rosie watched the frail, diminutive figure limp in, clutching the police officer’s arm. She looked up as the cameras whirred and the flashguns popped, and Rosie caught the panic in her face. She glanced anxiously at the policewoman for support, and was gently guided into the chair. The room fell silent as all eyes and cameras were trained on the old woman, her grey hair loosely pushed back into a bun. The ACC spoke first about the horrific attack, describing the details as everyone listened intently. He announced that Mrs Berta Cimmerman would make her own appeal, but would be taking no questions. Rosie saw a lump in Berta’s scrawny throat, and her hands trembled as she tried to push back a strand of wispy hair. Then she spoke, gazing across the room full of journalists.
‘Please. I want to appeal to the people who came to our house.’ She paused, and swallowed, her lips tightening. ‘I want to tell you that you took everything we have. All we have that is precious to us that we have treasured over the years. It was everything we had.’ She swallowed. ‘My Aron is very sick in hospital. I don’t know why you do this to us. We are good people. We try to help people all our lives. Because we suffered so much in –’ her voice broke off – ‘in the camps. But we survived, and that is the most important thing.’
Rosie glanced around the room, choked, and could see hard-bitten journalists trying to be stony-faced. Then Berta went on.
‘If taking our things makes you happy then keep them. You need them more than us. But . . . but . . . please. In the safe was a photograph. This is what breaks our hearts. It is a very old photograph, and it is of no importance to anyone. It is a picture of our son.’ She stopped, bit her lip, as the journalists looked at each other. ‘It was back in the ghetto, before they took us to the camp. It was the last picture we had of us together. He was only four years old. They took all of us a few days later, but they split us up. I didn’t see my husband for three years. And . . . I never saw my son again. I cried so much then. All my life I have been crying for my son. But like so many other people, we live with the pain.’ She stopped for a moment and dabbed her eyes. The police inspector gave her arm a comforting squeeze, and she continued. ‘All we have are the memories of our lives before they took my Saul . . . We only have the photograph. But it is gone. Why? Why you take a photograph? Is nothing to you? Please . . . please give it back. I ask for nothing else. Give me back all I have left of my boy. Please.’ Tears streamed down her face, and the inspector put an arm around her shoulder and glanced at the Assistant Chief Constable.
He intervened.
‘As you can see, this is a very difficult time for Mrs Cimmerman, and I thank her for her courage in coming forward today. We’ll not be taking any questions under the circumstances, but you can direct them to the press office. Thanks for your patience and understanding. Please get in touch even with the smallest piece of information that could assist us in this investigation.’
He stood up, then Berta was helped to her feet by the inspector, and she shuffled out, dabbing her cheeks. A hush fell over the room. Normally after a press conference people would rush out, but everyone sat in respectful silence as the old woman disappeared.
‘Christ, that was a choker, was it not, Rosie?’ one of the grizzled hacks from the Sun puffed as he got to his feet.
‘Sure was,’ Rosie agreed. She wanted to be out of here.
*
McGuire shook his head in disgust when Rosie told him about Berta’s photograph.
‘What kind of bastard steals a family picture? A picture that would tear the heart out of you. It doesn’t get much fucking lower than that.’
‘Maybe they were just emptying everything from the safe and it ended up in the pile among the jewellery. The robbers probably don’t even know they’ve got it. They might have chucked it away,’ Rosie said. ‘You should have seen the poor woman, Mick. It broke my heart to listen to her.’
‘Well, I want you to bleed all over your copy, Gilmour, because these robbing bastards have to be found. There must be somebody out there who knew this was happening. What are the cops saying?’
‘Not a lot. There were no questions, just the woman’s appeal. Guaranteed to get everyone’s attention. But I’m not sure if they have a clue who’s done it. I’m meeting my detective contact for a drink shortly, so I’ll ask.’
‘Well, while you’re at it, tell him that the plods are beginning to look like the arse is falling out of the empire all around them. And that bastard Boag has disappeared off the face of the earth. I mean, what are they actually doing about it?’
‘I think they’re well aware that the heat is on them.’
McGuire stood up. The meeting was over. The cops weren’t the only ones feeling the heat. She didn’t need reminding that Boag was still out there. She went back to her desk and began writing about Berta’s appeal while it was still fresh in her mind.
*
Tadi was surprised but glad to be in the O’Dwyers’ kitchen again. He’d been working all morning in the garage, trying to keep his head together, trying to quell his growing anguish. Big O’Dwyer’s laughter was still ringing in his ears and he’d hardly slept a wink last night, worrying about when he would see Ava again. He didn’t even know if he would see her again. They were using her against him, pulling him deeper and deeper into their criminal world. And he could do nothing. It had taken him all his time to keep the other workers who had helped him bury Bo from going into meltdown, because they were freaking out at all the police activity in the field. Today, the O’Dwyers had gone to a machinery market and would be out for the afternoon. He’d been surprised when it was Mrs O’Dwyer who shouted him in from the garage when he dropped off the keys after fixing her car. She’d made a pile of cheese sandwiches for the workers, but told them to keep quiet and never, ever mention it. While they ate outside, Tadi sat at the table, eating the brown bread sandwich and drinking from a mug of tea. He’d been feeling sick and didn’t think he’d be able to eat, but once he made the effort he realised how hungry he was. Mrs O’Dwyer was working at the sink, peeling potatoes. The television buzzed in the background as the BBC lunchtime news came on. Tadi glanced up at it. Then he froze when he heard the words ‘the robbery of a Jewish couple’. He put his mug down and concentrated, trying to understand what they were saying. He immediately saw the old woman’s face, and remembered the terrified look in her eyes. He could feel his hands shaking as he listened hard.
She said something about a concentration camp and then about a photograph. It was of her son, she said. Tadi felt sick. She described the picture. He heard her saying that she’d never seen her son again after they took them to the camps. That picture was now under his pillow. It had kept him awake last night. ‘Please give it back. I ask for nothing else. Give me back all I have left of my boy. Please.’
‘Terrible carry-on, that,’ Mrs O’Dwyer declared without turning around. ‘After everything they’ve been
through.’
Tadi was only half hearing her, his head swimming, trying to stop himself from shaking. He pushed the plate away. But suddenly, he covered his face with his hands.
‘Whatever is the matter with you, Tadi?’ Mrs O’Dwyer turned around and wiped her hands on a tea towel. She stood looking at him.
Tadi couldn’t tell her. He dare not. He shook his head, sniffing.
‘I miss my wife,’ he sniffed. ‘My little boy. I miss them so much.’
Mrs O’Dwyer looked at him for a long time and then at the television, but said nothing. She turned back to peeling potatoes.
‘Come on now. Eat your lunch. You’ll be fine.’
Tadi tried to compose himself, nibbled at the sandwich, and lifted the cup with two hands. He felt weak, exhausted, broken. And now this. He sat for a while in silence, staring into space, then suddenly, the silence was broken. Mrs O’Dwyer turned and looked at him, her face like flint.
‘It was you, Tadi, wasn’t it?’
He looked up at her, bewildered. He said nothing.
‘That robbery. It was bloody Finn and the others. You were with them. Weren’t you?’
Tadi said nothing.
‘Did you take the picture?’
He looked at her, then at the floor.
She sighed.
‘Oh, Tadi.’
He stood up.
‘I must go now. I have work. Thank you for the sandwich.’
As he was going out of the back door, he heard her calling after him. Then she came towards him and took hold of his arm.
‘They’ll see the news when they come back, Tadi. So they’ll ask you if you took the picture. Listen to me. Don’t tell them anything. Just deny it. Deny everything. You’re in a lot of trouble now.’
Tadi glanced over his shoulder at her face, flushed with anger.
‘Wait there,’ she said.
She went into her bag and took out a piece of paper. She wrote down an address, then crossed to the door, handing it to him.
‘Go and get your family, Tadi. Go now, before they come back. Run, Tadi. Take your family and run, and never come back here. Ever.’
He took the paper and left without saying a word.
Chapter Thirteen
Don was already in the bar when Rosie walked in. He looked even more craggy than usual, as though he’d been sleeping in his crumpled suit for the past couple of days.
‘You look like you’re on the run, Don,’ Rosie joked as she gave him a playful pat on the shoulder.
‘I feel as if I have been. I’ve had about four hours’ sleep in the last two nights.’ He sighed. ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘No. Glass of red wine will be fine.’
She was going for dinner later with TJ.
He signalled to the barman and ordered the drinks, then turned to Rosie.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if we were actually getting somewhere, but we’re not, just plodding along in the dark. Nothing on the murdered students, and fuck all on Boag.’
‘What about the old couple?’
‘Well, nothing much there either. Christ! But we’ll get something on that, hopefully, once the robbing bastards try to shift the jewellery. Actually, we’ve got a wee snitch who keeps his ear to the ground for us, and he phoned one of the lads this afternoon saying he’ll get a name for one of the guys involved. Says it’s something to do with travellers. So not sure if it’s someone up from down south or settled travellers here.’
Rosie was suddenly interested.
‘Is it not settled travellers who live quite close to where you were digging the last couple of days, where the student bodies were found?’
Don looked at her, curious.
‘I don’t know, actually. How do you know that? You been sniffing around there?’
Rosie shrugged. ‘Not really. Someone must have said it around the press pack. It’s one of the farms nearby. They’re these guys who build driveways and stuff. But the boss is Rory O’Dwyer. That’s the guy you tracked for me when I gave you the number plate outside the court that day. Remember?’
She didn’t particularly want to part with this information so soon, as she was still doing her own groundwork. But it was Don who had led her to O’Dwyer, so she knew she had to play fair. It might not have been much interest to him as the robbery, though cruel and brutal, wasn’t number one on the agenda – Boag was. But Rosie held back on the fact that she’d met the Kosovan in the field the other day, and that he seemed to be lurking around, trying to see what the police were digging up.
‘I’ll get someone to poke around, see what’s going on with them.’
‘I thought the old woman’s appeal would have flushed out something,’ Rosie said.
‘I think it will. Early doors yet. Our wee snitch saw the press conference and he said he’d pull out the stops for us. Some lowlife gangsters would literally rob their own granny, but most draw the line at hitting old people. So whoever did this has no scruples. We thought at first it was junkies, because they’ve got no qualms about kicking in the door of some blind pensioner and beating seven shades out of her for the few quid in her purse. But the robbery looked like it had been planned, more professional. We’ll get them, Rosie. Same as we’ll get the bastard who did the students. And Boag. We’ll get him too.’
‘But what about the other bodies in the grave – the woman and baby? We can’t get any further with it in the paper unless we get a newer line.’
Don looked at her, and then leaned closer.
‘Okay, listen. You didn’t hear it from me, but there are no records of the woman. No dental records, nothing. We’re thinking she might have been a refugee or people-trafficked. Maybe she was in Glasgow or something and was murdered and brought out here. Looks like the bodies have been there for over a year. The forensic people are trying to piece together some kind of profile, genetic or otherwise, to see if she was from here, but my guess is she wasn’t. Surely someone would have reported a woman and a newborn baby going missing. It was a baby girl.’
‘Do you really think she could have been trafficked?’ Rosie asked. ‘Why murdered though? Why kill her baby? And why bring her all the way out here?’
Don sighed, draining his pint.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Rosie.’ He sniffed and ran a hand through his mop of greying hair. ‘You up for another?’
‘No. That’ll do me.’
‘Okay. I’m going home to my bed. I’ve to be back out by eight in the morning, so I need some kip.’
He gave Rosie a peck on the cheek and she watched as he went towards the door and out into the night. She sipped her wine, intrigued by what he’d told her about the corpse of the woman and baby. The Kosovan came to mind, the shifty way he was when she saw him. Was he frightened or guilty-looking? Rosie decided he was frightened, but that may have been because she always felt empathy towards immigrants. Nobody chooses to up sticks and leave their homeland with nothing unless they are in danger. And they end up here, like the Kosovan, trapping a seagull to eat because he was hungry. She finished her drink and left the bar to head home before going out to meet TJ. As she walked up the road towards Charing Cross, the early evening traffic was thinning and the sky looked a promising blue. Her mobile rang, and she assumed it was TJ. When she fished it out of her pocket, she stopped in her tracks. It was Adrian. She stood looking at it for a long moment as it rang and rang. The last time he’d rung, she didn’t answer. She’d decided to let go of whatever it was they had. He would know that, so if he was phoning her now, it was to tell her something. Maybe a story. Without another thought, she pressed it to her ear.
‘Adrian.’
‘Rosie. I hope I am not disturbing you.’
‘No. Of course not. Great to hear from you. Are you okay? I mean, is everything okay with you? We haven’t talked in a while.’
The silence seemed longer than it was. Eventually, Adrian spoke.
‘Yes. I know. I tried to call you after I left. I’m sorry I left with
out saying goodbye. It . . . it was just the way my head was thinking. I’m sorry.’
Rosie didn’t answer. She didn’t want to explain to him that she’d seen his call that day and left it unanswered. Life had been a little less complicated in recent months without him in it, but he was never far from her thoughts.
‘I’m coming to Glasgow tomorrow for a few days. Maybe a week or so.’
‘Really? How come? You were saying the last time that your importing business was going well. Are you coming for a break?’
‘My friends are getting married. You know, the people I have known for a long time, that settled here in Glasgow. They love the life, and they invited me to their wedding. So I am coming.’
‘That’s great,’ Rosie said, not really knowing what else to say.
‘I . . . er . . . I wanted to invite you to come as my guest at the wedding, Rosie. Would you come? I would like to see you again. Very much.’
Rosie said nothing for a moment. The answer should be no, she thought. But why should it be no? she asked herself immediately. This was one of her greatest friends, he had saved her life. So, they had become lovers in the heat of the moment. But that was in the past.
‘Yes. I’d love to,’ she heard herself saying.
‘Good. The wedding is next week. So maybe we can have dinner. Are you free to do that?’
To do what? Rosie wondered. Was she free? She didn’t know. It was a tough question. In her mind and the way she lived her life, Rosie was always free, even when she was involved with someone she loved as much as TJ. Her relationship with him was better than before, because they were not tearing into each other’s lives. TJ wasn’t constantly reminding her that her job had taken over her life, and that she should look to get out of the newspaper. There were no borders drawn in their relationship, not officially anyway. But there was the understanding that they were together. She saw it that way. So yes, she was free to go to the wedding. But that was all.
