Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6

by Anna Smith

  As she went towards Matt’s waiting car, Rosie wanted to put her head into the farmhouse before she left, but there was a police officer on the door and the area was taped off as a crime scene. Through the window, she could see O’Neill sitting on an armchair, staring down at the floor. Euan was in the wheelchair by his side, and he looked up and raised his chin slightly to acknowledge her. She got into the car and they drove off.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  McGuire had phoned for Tom Hanlon, the Post’s lawyer, to come in to advise on how far they could go with the story of the shoot-out at the farm. As usual, Hanlon would push it as far as it could go without the paper being on a contempt of court charge. If O’Neill wasn’t charged with murder, or anything else, by the time the first edition went to bed that night, they could run with a form of the story on the splash of the bloodbath at the Bannockburn farm. They would probably get pelters from the Crown Office tomorrow for using anything at all, given the likelihood of a trial in the near future. But Hanlon had told Rosie to work on a form of words that he could legally justify. He advised McGuire to exercise major restraint on the pictures. The editor wasn’t happy, but knew that, come any kind of trial, they would be in possession of material nobody should have been anywhere near. It was a win-win situation, he declared. Not if your name was Johnny Vanner or Gordy MacLean, Rosie reminded him. Fuck them, McGuire said. He was already thinking of BLOODY BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN as a headline. Some things never changed.

  *

  It was now gone six and Rosie sat back, re-reading her story once again. It was as good as it got. She hadn’t even written up Laila’s story about the fake passports and her claims that Rabia’s husband was involved yet. One day at a time, she told herself. Her mobile rang on her desk and she saw Don’s number.

  ‘What’s happening, Don?’

  She could hear the background noise of a bar.

  ‘What’s happening, Rosie, is that it’s all happening.’

  Rosie detected a two- or three-pint swagger to his voice.

  ‘You’ve started early,’ she said.

  ‘I’m celebrating. We’re celebrating. Come on up. I’m going round to O’Brien’s once I leave the boys.’

  ‘What’s going on? Celebration?’

  ‘We’ve nailed that fucking Pakistani husband. Nailed the bastard to the wall.’

  ‘Get away!’

  ‘Nope. Straight up. We got a couple of officers to go up and interview the kid, Laila, after I spoke to you – by the way, thanks for that. The DCI says he owes you.’

  ‘I hope he remembers,’ Rosie said.

  ‘The kid was brilliant. Of course, none of it is provable, but we got enough. So we went down to see the Shah family again. I knew they’d burst if we had enough on them.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think the father knew all that much, but he was definitely shielding that bastard son of his. So we go in there and give him chapter and verse, how they’re all getting done, and that it was only a matter of time. We were pretty heavy on them.’

  ‘How unlike the police!’ Rosie knew he would enjoy the sarcasm.

  ‘Anyway, he seemed shocked that we were in possession of so much evidence. Okay, we gilded the lily a bit.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But we went away, empty-handed.’

  ‘So what’s to celebrate?’

  ‘Because less than two hours later, this Shah character appeared at the HQ with his son in tow. He asked to see the DCI, and the son spilled the whole fucking lot.’

  ‘You’re kidding. A confession?’

  ‘Yep. And we didn’t even need to pull anyone’s fingernails off.’

  ‘Confessed to what? Not to killing Rabia, surely?’

  ‘Not quite. But we’re going to get him on that. Well, we’re going to try. He confessed to the passports, to using her passport after she was dead, and said he’d been getting paid off by contacts down in Manchester to be part of the fake passport game. He told us all that. That’ll get him five years, anyway.’

  ‘What about old Shah?’

  ‘He actually handed his son over and told us that he had known nothing about it, and it was only after Rabia died that he became suspicious.’

  ‘So why didn’t he come forward?’

  ‘Protecting his son. Protecting his community.’

  ‘So why the change of heart?’

  ‘I think he just knew that we were onto them. That this won’t go away, and it could bring shame on all of them. Most Asians wouldn’t even know anything about this scam. But there are plenty of crooks among them – same as there are among anyone else, anywhere else.’

  ‘What a result!’ Rosie knew she didn’t sound as enthusiastic as she actually was. This was a real result, and she had played a critical part in it. She should be heading for O’Brien’s and sinking at least two gin and tonics for starters. But tiredness was kicking in. So much had happened today, her mind was beginning to melt down.

  ‘Come up for a drink.’

  ‘I can’t, Don. I’m tired. Totally done in. Let’s do it tomorrow, after work.’

  ‘Okay, darlin’. It’s a date. I’ll give you a shout. And, Rosie . . . Thanks.’

  ‘All part of the service, pal. Just make sure the DCI sends me a Valentine’s card.’

  Rosie hung up.

  On the editorial floor she was taking her jacket from the back of her chair when Declan signalled that he was coming off the phone in a second and wanted to talk to her. She waited.

  ‘Rosie. I wanted to show you this before you go.’ He handed her a newspaper cutting.

  Her eyes scanned over it, but were drawn to the picture of the strapping young man in the rugby strip. It was Euan. Smiling triumphantly, he was holding a trophy aloft, surrounded by his team. The story highlighted the court case, in which the man charged with stamping on his head was cleared of attempted murder. There was a photograph at the bottom of a grinning, crop-haired thug on the steps of the High Court in Glasgow. There was a quote from James O’Neill, saying that there was no justice.

  ‘And this.’ Declan handed her another clipping.

  Rosie looked it over. The headline was: MISSING. She read it quickly. It told how the man cleared of causing brain damage to a young farmer had gone missing. He hadn’t been seen since leaving the building site where he’d worked in Stepps, near Glasgow. The story was over a year old. Rosie couldn’t remember it, so she must have been abroad when it was published. Missing. She thought of O’Neill and his anger at the thug walking free from court. Could he have done something to him? Dished out his own justice? She pictured the pig pen and the big machine they’d seen inside the barn. It could probably grind down just about anything into pig feed. Would O’Neill really be capable of that, and of living with it?

  ‘Thanks, Declan. I’ll have a word with McGuire about it.’

  Rosie left the floor and went down the steps, folding the cutting and putting it in her bag. She wondered if the cops would now look into the case of the missing thug, or even if O’Neill, in his present state, would suddenly confess it all to them if he was guilty. What if the farm held a grisly secret? It sent a shiver through her. She stepped out and swallowed a lungful of the biting wind. Stuff it, she thought. This was one story she wouldn’t attempt to unravel. If the missing thug really had become pig feed, then that was good enough for him.

  *

  Her mobile rang as she was driving out of the car park. She could see from the corner of her eye that it was Adrian. There was a little twist in her gut. She stopped the car at the exit and stared at the screen. It rang and rang, but she didn’t answer. Maybe it was time to cut loose. She felt deeply for Adrian, but even now she wasn’t sure if it was lust, friendship or the fact that he had saved her life so many times. Let it go. Deep down, she knew there might be other times when she’d call on his help. But, right now, she needed to let go of whatever it was between them. The phone stopped ringing, and there was no message. />
  Rosie parked her car at the edge of Renfield Street and strolled across to the Buchanan Street precinct, aimlessly gazing in shop windows, her mind beginning to clear and relax for the first time in weeks. She toyed with the idea of going for a drink, but didn’t want to go into O’Brien’s because Don would be there by now, all euphoric and six beers ahead of her. Somehow she didn’t feel like celebrating. Unwinding with a coffee was what she needed right now, in the quietness of the cafe close to O’Brien’s where she could feel detached from the world. Then she’d go home, have a long bath and sink into bed. Tomorrow would be a good day. There were good days to come. She turned into the side street where the cafe windows were steaming up from condensation, but it looked reasonably quiet. A blast of hot air and the aroma of fresh coffee hit her as she walked in. Then, as she scanned around for a quiet corner, the room suddenly swam – like one of her vivid dreams on nights when she’d wake up crying, reaching for the image as it melted before her. He looked up, as though he felt her presence. TJ smiled and stood up.

  ‘Rosie.’

  Acknowledgements

  Writing takes up most of my time these days, and I’m privileged to lose myself in characters and create stories. In many ways I’m living the dream – even if it gets a little lonely sometimes. But when I’m not in Rosie Gilmour mode, I have a raft of people who mean the world to me, even if I don’t say it too often. So this a word of thanks to them.

  My sister Sadie is my biggest fan and has supported me even when my childhood dreams seemed far fetched. Also my brothers Des, Arthur and Hugh, who are always there for me.

  Talented nephew Matthew Costello, who’s building my new website, and Paul Smith who brings calm to techno chaos. Thanks to Christopher Costello, who’s always bursting with ideas, and to Katrina Campbell, my fashion and and PR guru.

  It’s a joy to see the children of nephews and nieces grow, so, welcome to our world, the delightful Jude Campbell, who’s finding his feet.

  My research on the rough diamond trade was made easier thanks to Dave O’Brien’s invaluable advice.

  I’m blessed with true friends I can count on, even if we don’t see each other all the time: Eileen, Liz, Mag, Annie, Mary, Phil, Betty, Kathleen and Geraldine, Anne Sharpe, Ann Marie Newall, Helen and Irene Timmons, Sarah Hendrie, Alice Cowan and Debbie Bailey.

  And here’s to my old newspaper pals, Helen, Barbara, Donna, Jan, Si, Lynn, Annie, Maureen, Keith, Mark, Thomas, Ross, Gordon and Janetta, Jimmy, Brian and Peter.

  To Cathy, and all the Motherwell Smiths – particular thanks to Maureen and Jimmy Martin, Clare and Paul McMurray, and Mairi Timmons for the golden times on our Camino de Santiago this year.

  In Dingle – thanks to Mary, Paud, Siobhan, Martin, Cristin, and Sean Brendain.

  And on the Costa del Sol, valued friends who have been constant with their support – Lisa, Lillias, Nat, Mara, Yvonne, Wendy, Jean, Sally, Sarah, Fran, Jean and Dave, Davina and Billy.

  And, of course, my friends on Facebook who support my shameless self-promotion, and make me laugh with their posts.

  Special thanks to Jane Wood, my publisher at Quercus, for her belief in me and continued encouragement and advice, and my editor Katie Gordon who picks up all my slapdashery. Thanks also to the super efficient Therese Keating, who misses nothing, and all the terrific team at Quercus who promote my books.

  And a big thanks my agent, Euan Thorneycroft, for his frank and honest advice.