by Anna Smith
‘Okay, Rosie. Give me a shout when you’re free and we’ll have a chat.’ He hung up.
Rosie went along the corridor and knocked at the door where the two refugees had gone in. No answer. She knocked again, louder, and listened for any activity inside. Eventually she heard bolts being slid on the door and the key turning. The door opened only a few inches and the face of the older woman in the lift peered through silently.
‘Hello,’ Rosie said. ‘Sorry. I’m looking for Emir’ – she pointed towards his flat – ‘The man who lives there? I’m his friend. I’ve tried to phone him, but no answer. Have you seen him?’
The woman shook her head.
Rosie looked at her. ‘Please. Could you open the door for a moment? I’d like to talk to you. I promise I won’t harm anybody. I’m Emir’s friend.’
Rosie heard footsteps in the hall and a man’s voice, then the door opened a little more when he removed the chain. The man’s expression was flat and his unshaven pale face looked grubby and pock-marked. He was smoking a roll-up cigarette.
‘What you want with us?’ He looked frightened.
‘Nothing,’ Rosie put her hands up, apologetically. ‘Sorry. I’m trying to find Emir, from the flat next to here. I need to talk to him. Have you seen him?’
He shrugged. ‘We not know this boy. Not his name. But we not see him for …’ he shook his head, ‘some days.’
Rosie watched the man and woman and as she looked past them she could see a toddler coming up the hall.
‘Can you tell me, did this boy live in the house by himself or with someone?’
The man nodded. ‘Another boy. But I not see him for few days. We don’t know them. Just hello is all. They are from Kosovo. Only came last month. Not say much. We think they are brothers, but they say friends.’
‘Okay,’ Rosie said. ‘Thanks for your help. Have you not seen any of them all weekend?’
The man shook his head.’No. I see one boy on Saturday morning. He go out in the morning, but I never see him after that.’
Rosie’s head swam with alarming possibilities. What if they’d been watching him come into the station to meet her? Surely they wouldn’t snatch someone from the street in broad daylight, whoever they were … She should have driven him home. Perhaps Don was right and Emir must have done a runner, she consoled herself.
*
It was after ten in the evening by the time Rosie arrived at The Blue Note, and there was already a decent enough crowd from what she could see as she walked into the dimly lit basement bar. The jazz club, downstairs from Enzo’s Italian restaurant in Bath Street, was more for the purists than the boozed-up punters looking for a bit of late-night live music. The burst velvet sofas and old tablecloths gave it a kind of tatty, shabby-chic look that told you people who pitched up here didn’t come for the classy decor. The Blue Note was the in place to go if you knew your jazz. It wouldn’t have been a usual haunt of Rosie’s, mostly because it was trad jazz. To her uneducated musical palate, that involved nervous breakdown-inducing continuous guitar plucking accompanied by a guy rattling a snare drum with brush drumsticks she’d have used to paint the skirting. TJ had laughed at her narrow view, but convinced her she had much to learn by bringing her on nights when the jazz was more akin to what she’d seen in the movie, The Cotton Club. And now, there was TJ, up there with his sax, playing a solo number under the spotlight, behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Rosie didn’t think he saw her come in, and she sat in the corner at one of the few little round tables available. The waiter came and she ordered a glass of red wine, knowing she shouldn’t, since she’d already had two gin and tonics at O’Brien’s with Don and still hadn’t eaten. She was glad when the waiter told her they were still serving food and ordered some chicken wings and bread to soak up the booze.
*
Rosie reflected on her conversation with Don, and was disappointed that he had offered no positives on how she could find what happened to Emir. If he’d done a runner, as Don suspected, then she just had to wait and see if he got in touch. With so little information and nobody to talk to, there was absolutely nothing the cops could do, he told her. Rosie accepted that, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. She would talk to the Refugee Council tomorrow to see just what goes on with refugees and how they keep track of them.
Don also told her that some well-known Glasgow ned, Tam Logan, had disappeared and cops were looking into it. He said Tam was a grass who he’d worked with down the years, and even though he was a vicious little bastard who would slash anyone if the money was right, he was useful enough. Now he hadn’t been seen for the past five days, and that was not how Tam operated. His wife had already reported him missing, but to most cops he was just another toe-rag who had disappeared off the radar. The general consensus was that he would turn up, and if he turned up dead, nobody would give a damn. Rosie told Don she might have a word with the wife just to see if there was a story in it, but it wasn’t a priority. She tried to switch off and sipped her glass of wine.
*
‘Thank you TJ,’ the guy with the guitar proclaimed to a ripple of applause as TJ finished his solo spot. ‘And now, let’s give a good old Blue Note welcome to the lovely, the supremely talented Kat Shaughnessy …’
Rosie didn’t hear the last part of the announcement. Her eyes were fixed on the redhead in the skin-tight jade-green satin dress, sashaying from the darkness onto the stage. She almost spluttered her wine. She hoped she hadn’t said ‘Christ!’ out loud. So this was Kat, tousled, titian hair tumbling onto her shoulders like a lion’s mane, and now winking sexily at TJ who shot her a warm smile back. Rosie swallowed hard as TJ’s sax blew out the slow dreamy intro while Kat stood eyeing the audience. Full red lips pouted without even trying. It wouldn’t matter a damn if she sounded like Lucille Ball on speed. Everyone was knocked out even before she opened her mouth.
Then came the voice, all husky and oozing sex – as if it would be any other way.
‘It’s that old devil, called love again … Gets behind me … and givin’ me that shove again …’
Christ. Rosie’s stomach hit the floor. This was Kat, the woman TJ had gigged with in New York while she was at home pining for him. No wonder he didn’t get in touch. She was struck as much by Kat’s voice as her beauty, and all through the song, she told herself to get a grip before the number ended; she had to be all smiles to her when the band had a break. She took another gulp of wine in a bid to snuff out the rabid jealousy coursing through her veins.
TJ spotted Rosie as the break came up and he gave her a wave and a smile. Was it as warm as the one he just gave to Kat? Rosie slapped herself to behave. TJ was coming over, and behind him, Kat and the guy who played the guitar. A threesome in Manhattan. Don’t even go there.
‘Hey, sweetheart. You’re late – again!’ TJ pulled Rosie to her feet and kissed her on the lips, giving her a little squeeze.
‘I know. I was in O’Brien’s with a cop contact.’
He smiled, and half turned to the redhead and the guitar man.
‘Rosie, this is Kat and Gerry I told you about.’ He stepped to the side to let them through.
Rosie stood as tall as she could and stuck out her hand to Kat who shook it warmly.
‘How you doing, Kat? Some voice you’ve got there.’ Rosie turned to TJ and touched his arm. ‘And hey – you weren’t so bad yourself in that solo.’
‘Gerry.’ The guitarist shook her hand. ‘So this is the famous Rosie?’ He gave TJ a playful punch on the arm. ‘You’ve kept her under wraps, you rascal.’
‘She doesn’t get out much,’ TJ joked. ‘She’s always working. You know what these hacks are like.’
‘True,’ Rosie said. ‘I wouldn’t normally be in here. But tell you what, it’s got a great atmosphere tonight. And the jazz trio are not half bad either,’ she said, smiling as they all sat down.
The waiter came over and they ordered drinks. Rosie ordered another glass of red wine and some b
ottled water. The owner of the bar shouted across to TJ, and he excused himself and went to see him. Then he beckoned Gerry, leaving Rosie and Kat alone.
‘So, it must be a fascinating life you have as a journalist,’ Kat said, drawing on her cigarette, her voice laced with transatlantic tones. She tossed her fringe away from her forehead, and her bright-green eyes sparkled like gems. ‘TJ told us some of the scrapes you’ve been in to get a story. Sounds amazing, but a bit dangerous, I’ll bet.’
‘Yeah. It’s great,’ Rosie said, finding it hard to concentrate. ‘It’s tough sometimes. You work funny hours, and you get to see a lot of things other people don’t. A lot of it bad. I mean, it’s good in a lot of ways, but hard too. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything else … Don’t think I could hold down a steady job.’
‘Yeah. I can imagine. Must make you a bit crazy.’
Rosie glanced at the piercing eyes and a little paranoia kicked in. She couldn’t make her mind up if Kat was mocking or patronising her, or if TJ had actually told his singing partner how nuts she was. Either way, she didn’t like it.
‘So how is it with you?’ Rosie changed the subject. ‘You were really good up there. It must be hard to crack though – I mean in terms of making it big. Is that what you want to do?’
Kat looked at her and then stared at the table for a second. She took a deep breath.
‘Yeah. Like everyone else bashing their brains out in clubs like this all over the world – I’d love to really make it. But I’m not stupid. Things like this, I make a living, and I can get a fair bit of travel out of it. But to be honest, unless someone walks in here and signs me up to a record label, this might be as good as it gets.’ She stubbed out her cigarette.
Rosie felt a little twinge of sympathy for her, even though she wanted to dislike her.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but there’s worse ways to earn a living.’
TJ came back and they sat for a few minutes chatting about work and telling some stories about clubs in New York where they’d played together. Rosie felt a little out of the loop with their jokes and tales, and she could see TJ watching her. Now and again, he brushed his hand against her arm or ruffled her hair, and Rosie could see Kat glancing at them and looking away. As they went back up to start the second set, TJ kissed Rosie again.
‘You coming back to mine?’ he whispered.
‘I shouldn’t,’ Rosie whispered back. ‘But you’ve sweettalked me into it.’
‘Good.’ He went back onto the stage.
CHAPTER 7
Frank Paton took a swig of the Jack Daniels and felt it burn all the way down. He hoped the alcohol would numb his gut to the constant nervous churning. He drained his glass and ordered another from the barman, then climbed onto a bar stool and swivelled round to watch the floor show, where the skinny blonde in the G-string was now wrapping her thighs around a pole.
Time was when Frank wouldn’t have been seen dead in a place like Glitz – the city’s newest lap-dancing club where you could live out your wildest fantasies, and still be home in time for tea. Glitz promised you thrills and anonymity amid the glamour of its sensuous surroundings. In reality, it was a sticky-carpet basement dive, where saddos got their rocks off watching strippers writhe on a tiny stage, or stuffed a tenner into the pants of some scantily clad bird while she shoved her tits in their face. You could look and you could slaver, but you mustn’t ever touch. If you did, one of the gorillas would emerge from the shadows and throw you out, blinking into the sunlight of a back alley in the Merchant City – probably minus your wallet.
And yet here Frank was, now catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror and feeling a stab of disgust at just what he’d become. How in the name of Christ had it come to this? he asked himself, not for the first time in recent months. How did it get this far? He swallowed another mouthful of his drink, looked at his watch and hoped big Al Howie would turn up soon.
*
Frank had been jittery enough since Tony’s suicide and the subsequent questions by cops probing why a successful lawyer like Murphy would do himself in. But now he felt as if the walls were beginning to close in. He had managed to hold it together for the hour before he came here while Tony’s widow Millie wept on his shoulder over some letter that had arrived in the morning post. It was almost a week since he’d killed himself, so how could a suicide note turn up now? Frank had had a skinful of booze at Tony’s funeral yesterday and was nursing a hangover when Millie called him, bawling down the phone. He’d gone straight out to Murphy’s house, where he found her weeping on the sofa, clutching a letter. He was as baffled as she was he told her, while he read the few short lines … I couldn’t go on with any more of the lies …
The words had swum in front of him on the page and he had to sit on the sofa to steady himself. It was definitely Tony’s handwriting.
‘What lies?’ Millie had sobbed. ‘What lies, Frank? He must have been having an affair.’
Frank had spread his hands out, apologetically.
‘I don’t think so, Millie. Look, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, but I don’t think so.’
Millie was inconsolable. ‘Then why, Frank? What does he mean? What lies? He must have had a woman.’
Frank had held her as she cried on his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say. If Tony had a bit on the side that was more serious than the occasional illicit shags the pair of them had got up to down the years, then he didn’t know about it. But what the hell: Let Millie think he had a woman. As long as she thought her husband had been betraying her, she wouldn’t suspect anything else, but she’d insisted on phoning the police despite his protests that bringing the cops in would only prolong the anguish. If he was having an affair, the woman might be out there, and even if she was tracked down and found, what would be the point of dragging it all up, Frank told her. It wouldn’t bring Tony back, and it might just pile on the agony for Millie and the kids. But she was having none of it.
She phoned the cops, and he had to sit there and listen while the two detectives who had been at his office that morning quizzed him again about exactly what he saw when he arrived at the office. He told them again. Only the cleaner Tanya was in the office when he arrived. It was she who found Tony hanging. There was nothing on his desk, because the first thing he had looked for was a suicide note, but there was nothing. He had even said to Tanya at the time that he didn’t know what he was going to tell Millie. He was as bewildered as the cops as to where the note had come from. They asked him if the Tanya woman could have taken the note, and Frank dismissed it. She was just the cleaning lady who came in for an hour in the morning. And no, Tony was not having an affair with the Ukrainian office cleaner. He was certain of that much.
*
He ordered another Jack Daniels. It wasn’t whether or not Tony was having an affair that made his guts churn, but the idea that there was a letter from Tony at all. What if there were more letters? He wondered if one would arrive at his house or office – if it did, he certainly wouldn’t be calling in the cops. But right now there was an even more pressing matter: striding towards him with a face like thunder was big Al Howie, flanked by two of his henchmen.
‘Frank.’ Big Al looked down his nose at him, his eyes narrow with contempt. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll see you up in the office. Got a phone call to make first.’
Frank nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Al – cocky bastard that he was – was gone before he had time.
Al Howie was always tipped to be the man who would take over Big Jake Cox’s mob if it ever came to the crunch. He’d grown up under Jake’s watchful eye, coming into the family as a tearaway teenager with balls like coconuts, who was as handy with a knife as he was with a gun. After the statutory stints in young offenders’ institutions and graduation to a stretch in jail, Jake had used him as an enforcer for drug debts and watched with pride as his protégé carved out a reputation for violence that even he would struggle to match. But Al was an even bigger psycho than
Big Jake, and with Jake now more on the sidelines since his near-fatal shooting in Spain last year, the word on the street was that there would be a bloodbath if Al were left to run Jake’s turf. He wasn’t old school like Jake. Frank shuddered involuntarily. He knew exactly what Howie was. Big Al had no boundaries, no lines he wouldn’t cross; he was one of the most chilling bastards he’d ever encountered. Added to that he was a total cokehead, and since he wasn’t yet forty, he still had a lot of damage to do.
Frank waited and looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes and still no call to go upstairs. He watched another stripper and sipped his drink.
‘Nice tits.’ Clock Buchanan, one of Al’s henchmen came up beside him. ‘You’ve to go up.’ He stood facing Frank, with one hand in his jacket pocket.
Frank looked at him, and glanced at the hand in his jacket. Clock’s real name was Billy, but the nickname came from a birth deformity that had left him with a withered left hand, much smaller than the right. In the Glasgow housing scheme where he grew up, they weren’t big on sympathy towards anyone who stood out from the crowd, even if it was because of a physical handicap. So they nicknamed him Clock, on account of his big hand and wee hand. Clock had told Frank the story himself, and said that as long as his good hand could pull the trigger of a gun and handle a knife that was all that mattered.
‘Come on,’ Clock said. ‘I’ll take you up, but I’ve got to go out to get something for Al.’
Frank got off his stool and followed Clock along the front of the stage into the darkness of the musty hallway and up the tight stairway.
*
‘What’s this pish I’m hearing, Frank, that you don’t want to work with us any more?’
From behind his desk, Big Al motioned him to sit down. ‘By the way, sorry about Tony. Fuck’s sake, man.’
He sniffed and touched his nose. ‘Got to be better ways to top yourself than hanging from the ceiling.’
Frank didn’t answer. His mouth was dry. He sat down.