by Heleen Kist
Marius nodded again, but he still emitted an air of preoccupation. ‘I have no house. Where do I go?’ Those eight words brought home the vulnerability of these forced labourers. However bad their circumstances, they had nowhere else to go.
‘After you give me more information today, we will plan a raid on the wholesaler to rescue you. You and your friends will be taken to a safe house in North Glasgow and have the opportunity to give formal evidence, so we can charge the men who did this. There are other Romanians there who have been rescued like you, and people from Migrant Help whose job it is to get you on your feet. They will call the Romanian Consular Office in Edinburgh who can contact your family in Romania for you. And help you get new papers, assuming they were they taken.’ Roberts had spoken slowly for the benefit of our foreigner. It was a lot to take in for anyone.
‘Yes. No papers. When do you come?’
‘That depends on how much you can tell me today, but it could be very soon. I know it’s difficult, but you will need to be patient.’
Shaking his head, he insisted, ‘My friend Emil, he is sick. He has bad lung problem. He coughs a long time and ... how to say? ... scuipat.’ He pretended to spit, to show us. ‘They treat him bad. He must see a doctor. You must come quick.’
Roberts frowned and massaged the rear of his thick neck. ‘Well then, let’s talk. I want you to name the men on these photos.’ Marius joined him to look at the print-outs and started his journey to freedom.
When all the requisite information had been collected, Roberts confirmed they’d have enough to move. Marius was thanked and discharged to finish his delivery, but he requested one more thing. ‘When you come. I need Grace there.’
‘We can’t take civilians along. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Grace is my friend. She is there,’ he pressed, ‘I am afraid.’
‘I’ll see what we can do.’
With no promises made, DI Roberts left to re-join his colleague, Marius stepped into the van, and I was left dumbstruck—which didn’t matter, as I’d been given no say in any of this anyway.
Chapter Fifty-Six
True to his word, DI Roberts sought approval to have me along for the raid, but he received a vociferous ‘no.’ As he explained this in a call two days after meeting at the café, he also addressed his earlier promise, which was to dig into Glory’s crash.
‘Officers at the scene of the crash evaluated the condition of the vehicle to determine the probable cause for her coming off the A809. The vehicle suffered extensive damage when it flipped over on the sloped bank, so they couldn’t say for sure, but there were no signs of a second vehicle being involved, like a different colour of paintwork present.’
‘I see.’
‘That stretch of Stockiemuir Road is a known black spot. We see incidents there all the time.’
Not quite ready to give up, I asked, ‘What if someone nudged her off the road, you know, not actually hitting her?’
‘Well, I guess that’s possible in theory, but it’s difficult to accomplish in practice, particularly without leaving a mark. Unless the target isn’t a very competent driver.’
‘No. Glory was a good driver. She loved her Bug. She loved taking the boys on trips up to the Trossachs.’ I remembered joining them on a trip to Sealife, and how she’d chatted away while navigating the tortuous roads along Loch Lomond to go watch the seaplane take off. I savoured the memory, then packed it away. ‘So it really was an accident.’
‘That does appear to be the case. A tragic waste. But hopefully I’ve given you closure.’
‘I guess. Thank you.’
‘Take care, Grace.’
‘Wait. About the raid. I feel so bad for Marius. He wanted me there and I have no way of communicating with him. What if I came alone and stayed out of the way?’
‘No. I can’t possibly agree to that.’ In a less formal tone he added, ‘But then the police cannot reasonably object if a member of the public is coincidentally present where an operation is taking place at o-seven-hundred hours on Wednesday.’
That brought a grin to my face. ‘Good luck, detective inspector. Bye.’ I held the idle phone to my chest, mulling over his clever choice of words to cover his arse.
‘Who was that?’ Dave strode into my living room, freshly showered, and loaded the pockets of his cargo pants with his keys, phone and wallet from the kitchen counter.
‘DI Roberts. He says they’re raiding the place the day after tomorrow.’
‘Wow, that was quick.’
‘Yes, apparently the photos and Marius’s testimony got things moving. That, and one of the men being ill.’
‘What did he say about you going along?’
‘He told me what time to be there.’ Technically not a fib. ‘But don’t worry, I will stay out of sight.’
‘Fine. But I still think it’s a terrible idea to expose yourself like that.’
‘Breakfast?’ Anything to avoid this conversation again.
‘No, I’ve got to go. I’ll get something at Greggs.’
‘Dave. For crying out loud. How many times do I need to tell you to stay away from that junk?’
He shrugged and poked me in the tummy. ‘And how many times have I told you to stay out of trouble?’
‘Touché!’ I smiled, though my lips wouldn’t curl up as much as usual.
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing. Roberts looked into Glory’s file.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s time I accept her death was an accident.’
‘Oh babe.’ He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my hair. ‘I hate to say I told you so. But at least now you know for sure and you can move on. And think about it: even though Catach didn’t kill her, he’s still vermin and you girls will have played a part in taking him down. That’s got to count for something, right?’
Right.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Stephen responded well when I told him I wouldn’t be able to help with the kids in the morning. It had been a week since the front pages shouted about the council’s decision to reject the planning permission for the Left Bank development; and he behaved like a new man, regaining an interest in life, and in his kids after this period of crippling uncertainty.
The fear of reprisals for the planning rejection had gripped us for a few days after the announcement, but nobody came. Before Dave got the door slammed in his face for still working in the pub—when surely, the drains couldn’t possibly take that long—he had confirmed that Brian Scott’s men were too flustered dealing with anxious creditors and business partners storming the Prince William to juggle anything else.
I’d scoured the news for mentions of Brian Scott, holding a morbid fascination for details on the progress of the investigation. The police never tied Brian’s murder to Mike. And I wasn’t about to point them in the right direction.
It would soon be over. At least, that is what I thought as I put on a black outfit of jeans, T-shirt and jacket, to try to blend in at the raid. I looked for my black hiking boots—a search taking in every corner of the flat—then remembered I’d brought them to the house when I got fed up getting soggy trainers walking the dog in the perpetual damp of Maxwell Park.
My hair was fixed in a loose bun that I stuffed inside my beanie. I checked myself in the mirror and snorted that not only did I look like a prowler, but the hat’s Under Armour logo had a bit of Spiderman to it.
After some wrist flicking moves and associated ‘spidey’ sound effects the boys would be proud of, I grabbed my car keys and set out to witness justice being served.
By 6:45 I’d reached my observation point. The same place I’d monitored the wholesaler from on my first scoping visit. That felt so long ago now. When the closest I’d come to Glasgow’s underworld was dancing at The Cowshed. When white was white and black was black. And there was no doubt on which side I stood. Still now, I prided myself on standing in the lighter shades of grey; acting on what was right, what felt right.
Visibility was reasonable. The sun had been up for two hours already and the drizzle was light enough that I did not need my wipers on. There was movement in the side yard, but I was too far to make out the individuals. Being trade, the place opened at dawn, but I guessed the police must have timed the operation to catch more people on site.
As my watch beeped for the hour, four punctual people carriers parked in quick succession in front of Excelsior. White, with high-vis blue and yellow checks and ‘POLICE’ spelt in giant letters on every side, their function was unmistakable. I watched as officers streamed out of the vehicle like a disrupted wasp nest, swooping in silence to take position on the perimeter of the site. The twenty stab-vest-clad and helmeted men waited for a signal I did not hear or see, but when it came, they dispersed at once. Half of them swarmed around the building and the other half pounced inside.
My gums were nearly numb from nerves as I watched the professionals do their thing. It was suddenly very real.
An additional patrol car drove up, accompanied by two silent ambulances. DI Roberts hoisted himself out of the Vauxhall’s passenger side and took visual stock of the situation. On spotting me, he acknowledged my presence with a curt nod but also pushed his open palm down to instruct me to stay put.
Almost as quickly as they’d moved in, men returned from the rear of the property, their number swelled by their haul. My familiar ned shuffled forward handcuffed and hunched, pushed by a baton at his bum. It would have taken a trained eye to distinguish in such a hurry the skinny, pale yobs from the sickly trafficked victims, but I was thrilled to see the baddies being dragged by their handcuffs while the Romanians were being gently ushered to freedom. Marius and his friends remained calm and yielded to directions willingly. Even though they would have known their release was imminent, it must have been torture having to be patient and not knowing when.
Like an excited family member held in the glazed pen at an airport arrival hall, I waved to catch Marius’s attention from the confines of my car; but his searching eyes missed me at every turn. Until the operation was complete, I was stuck here and hoped I would be able to speak with him before the medics carried him away.
Seconds later, people poured out of the shop and the scene exploded as if someone had un-muted the volume. The mouthy cashier lady hobbled effing and blinding in unison with two equally outraged office workers being guided to the vans. A lone raider remained to guard the door. When he clipped a padlocked chain around the handles, I was struck with panic. Where was Mike? Had he escaped?
The front ambulance, with the sicker men, left straight away with its lights flashing. When the rest of the commotion had died down and the convoy drivers jumped into their seats, Roberts motioned the coast was clear. I ran across the street, straight to the second ambulance.
‘Marius! Marius, I’m here,’ I cried to prevent the doors being shut. The paramedic looked at me in confusion but made way when the DI shouted his approval.
My friend’s eyes lit up when I appeared in his sight. ‘Grace!’ He said something I couldn’t decipher to the three others, who then faced me and showered me with thank-yous.
‘I see you soon,’ he promised, glowing with happiness, when the doors folded to a close and the engine revved for departure.
I felt a large hand on my shoulder and turned to see DI Roberts with a satisfied smirk, which turned into a fatherly expression of concern when he saw me wiping away a tear.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. No ... I mean, it’s ...’ How could I explain the relief, with him unaware of the full scale of the burden I’d carried?
‘It’s a lot to process, Grace. But don’t worry. The men will be well taken care of.’
My nerves stayed on edge, however. The job wasn’t finished, as far as I was concerned, and a pulling in my chest nagged that something smelt off. ‘Where is Mike Catach? Why was he not here? Had he been tipped off?’ The barked accusatory questions took Roberts aback and his face clouded over.
‘No. We got him at home, with his wife, in a parallel raid. They’re gathering his files there and his laptop, and we’ll send someone in here today to fish out evidence. Now, go home and let us do our job,’ he said, in dismissal. ‘I can assure you we’ll get what we need.’
But would I get what I needed? The lightening from seeing Marius freed was weighted down by a visceral tension I could not shake. I resented that I missed the main event; missed being witness to the despicable man’s ripped-from-bed humiliation; missed the opportunity to stand in his line of sight to show him who had turned him in. But as I visualised my revenge through an imaginary run-through of his capture, I realised what I resented most was not getting justice for Glory’s death — as there was none to be had.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Sunday roads provided another smooth run up North, my first in nearly three weeks. My mind replayed my last conversation with Dad, in hospital. I fought every instinct to turn back and avoid such torment again and pushed the pedal resolutely to hit the permitted seventy miles per hour and stay on course.
I’d received a short, reassuring message on Mum’s release from the PRI but found it too difficult to proactively enquire about her condition; to face a possible misery it had been in my power to prevent. No. It was easier to don a shield; to hide; to stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘la la la.’
With Mike now gone, I hoped to be able to wash away the guilt. Illegally raising money for her care was no longer an option. Rationally Dad could no longer be disappointed in me for refusing. I tried to repress the anxiety I felt that our relationship may be doomed already. That my motives could never truly be considered pure: was putting the man behind bars merely a convenient sabotage?
As I exited the Broxden roundabout, I took a deep breath and exhaled to expel the grains of insecurity that scratched inside. Once past the high school I had gained comfort with the concept that I had done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite. And not only should I not be a disappointment, dammit, I was coming armed with a tale of heroism to restore Glory in his eyes.
Dad’s car stood in the drive. I had expected them to be home, but it was a relief to see it confirmed. The square patch of immaculate grass was bordered by budding pink roses and majestic feathered dahlias. A line of purple lupines stood at attention, fronting the house. Exiting the Panda, I soaked in the colourful harmony. Whatever disease or neglect lay behind the door, it hadn’t yet disgorged outside to Dad’s cherished garden.
Bracing for what I would find, I pressed the door handle and stepped inside. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, watching the tennis on the portable TV. It meant Mum was awake. Through the throbbing of my heartbeat in my temples, I hardly heard myself say, ‘Hi Dad.’
‘Hello, Egg.’
My joy leapt so high it pressed against the back of my eyes to spill out in liquid form.
Egg.
He’d called me Egg.
It instantly transported me to this same kitchen in a 1980s decor, a dark wintry sky, and the frantic preparations for a large family meal. Mum bossed the three of us around. We were running behind for her parents’ Christmas visit. Glory glazed the carrots as I peeled potatoes, one vigorous stroke after another.
There was a small spot above my right elbow where I could still, decades later, feel the nudge against the bowl of whipped egg whites for Mum’s prized pavlova. When it fell to the ground, it was as if time had stood still. I remembered how one hiccuped breath kept me going as I turned to see my mother’s eyes expand in anger. I made myself small and waited for the fall-out. Glory slid out of the room. Before the dreaded screech came, a thunderous male laugh stunned everyone. ‘Oh thank God for that. I hate pavlova.’ On seeing my mother’s puzzled face, Dad added, ‘I didn’t have the heart to tell you—you were always so keen to compete with your mother’s.’ As if by contagion, this revelation made my mother sputter and before long we all howled in glee around the spilt white clouds.
Dad had cleared
his throat. ‘Of course, that was very clumsy of you, Grace. For punishment we’ll call you “Egg” until the new year. And then forgive and forget.’
Ever since, the name Egg had become analogous with forgiveness and, as it sounded today, there existed no sweeter word. I moved in for a hug, which he gave—though hesitantly at first. In the distance someone grunted. An umpire yelled ‘in.’
‘Is Mum awake?’
‘Yes.’ He moved my hands from his shoulders and got up. ‘Come.’
Mum’s complexion was still pale and her skin looked paper-thin. But her eyes sparkled as they took in Coronation Street. Dad whispered in my ear. ‘You’ve caught her at a lucid time. They come and go, but she’s been good all day so far.’
I inched forward into her field of vision. ‘Hi Mum.’
‘Hello darling. Were we expecting you?’ She looked at her husband for confirmation.
‘No. But it’s Sunday. And I’ve decided to come see you every Sunday.’
‘Oh that’s nice. We had the grandkids over yesterday. I’m sure Stephen is doing the best he can, but Glory used to dress those boys better.’ She seemed to fish for the remote around her lap. ‘Can you turn this off?’ Her frail arms succeeded in pushing her onto her feet. ‘I’ll make us a nice pot of tea.’
‘It’s okay, Mum, I can do it.’
She batted me away. ‘Don’t fuss, Grace.’
Banished and bemused, I joined Dad on the sofa.
After a while, cautious not to jinx it, I said, ‘She’s looking well.’
‘As I said, it comes and goes, but it is a little better than before. The doctors said she had been dehydrated, which wasn’t good for her body but also accounted for the increased confusion. The nurses put her on fluids and gave me some tips on keeping her drinking. It’s not always easy.’