by Anna Smith
Sitting on the sofa watching some stupid old movie she was on the verge of tears again, when she heard the door buzz and got up to answer it.
‘It’s me, Rosie,’ TJ said.
Rosie pressed the buzzer to let him in. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, eyes puffy and face red. She wrapped the robe around her and waited until he knocked on the door. When she opened it, he stood there with that way of looking at her that completely disarmed her.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie. Truce?’ He produced a bottle of red wine and a takeaway from behind his back.
Rosie shook her head and smiled, choking the tears back.
‘Look at the state of me.’ She opened the door and stepped back as he came in.
He walked behind her into the kitchen and put the takeaway on the worktop.
Then they stood looking at each other.
‘I’m sorry too.’ Rosie said.
He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight. Then he kissed her neck and cheek, easing the robe back a little to kiss her shoulder. TJ let her go and took her face in his hands, kissing her passionately on the lips. Rosie could feel her legs weak as he opened her robe and ran his hands across her breasts.
‘I love you, Rosie,’ he whispered. ‘Please believe me. I never stopped loving you.’ He put his arms around her lifting her up, pushing her against the wall. ‘I love you.’
*
In the morning, Rosie was up and showered while TJ lay sleeping in her bed. She watched him as she got dressed, promising herself that from now on things would change.
She didn’t even know herself how much she wanted from the relationship. They were friends first before they were anything else. All she knew was the gut-wrenching feeling that had washed over her last year when she suddenly realised he could be gone forever, and the torment she’d been in since she saw Kat outside his flat. She’d told TJ all of this last night while they ate the takeaway a couple of hours after he’d arrived. He pointed out that it was she who had said no when he asked her to move in with him a few months ago. She wanted it both ways, he told her, even though she knew it was unreasonable. That was her style. He accepted her the way she was.
Her mobile rang.
‘I don’t suppose that will be for me,’ TJ said sleepily.
‘Don’t think so,’ Rosie said, going over to the bed and running her hand across his head. She put the phone to her ear as she walked out of the bedroom.
‘Hey, Mickey. How the devil are you?’ It was her old friend Mickey Kavanagh, the ex-cop private eye she’d called for help the other night.
‘I’m good, Rosie, but I’ll tell you this, pal. You don’t half get mixed up with some dodgy characters.’
‘All part of the fun, Mickey.’
‘Aye right. You’ll not have much fun if you cross this particular bastard – this Milosh Subacic, as you called him.’
‘Yeah?’ Rosie was impressed. She’d only given him the brief information after Jan had told her the name.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Mickey said. ‘Listen, Rosie. I spent some time on this yesterday, talked to a couple of mates in London about this guy. So I’ve got a few things to tell you. Best we meet for a drink or something later?’
‘Sure, Mick. I can’t wait.’
‘Great. One thing though, Rosie. This guy is not who he says he is. His name’s not Milosh Subacic.’
‘Really? Come on, spill it. I’m dying here, Mickey.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you one thing. He’s a Serb. Former army officer. As bad a bastard as they come.’
‘Christ! What time are you free for a meet?’
‘Not till early evening. I’m waiting for some more intelligence to come up on him today. You can buy me a bowl of pasta later.’
‘Sure,’ Rosie said, glancing into her bedroom guiltily, knowing that she’d already arranged to have dinner with TJ.
CHAPTER 14
Frank Paton was hung over – big time. He hadn’t even made it home, and his mobile had already been red hot with angry messages from his wife, Sally, about how he’d missed the school run, among other things. Dropping his daughter at school was the least of his worries, he felt like telling her, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to keep up the front that the reason he’d been hitting the booze was because he was grieving for his best friend. He’d phone her, he decided, and attempt to make the peace once he got his first cup of coffee down him. He lifted the cup, but his hands trembled so much, he put it back down on his desk and sat back, staring darkly out of the window.
‘What the fuck are you doing to yourself, Frank?’ he murmured to himself as he rubbed his face vigorously. ‘This can’t go on, man.’
He was tired and frazzled from the bender which had begun at O’Brien’s over a few drinks with some of his lawyer pals. They’d been talking about Tony and reminiscing about the old days when they’d all been at university together. As they downed bottles of expensive champagne they laughed about their youthful high ideals and how they’d been going to change the world, plotting revolution at the smoky bar in the students’ union over pints of beer and cannabis joints. Look at us now, Frank had said to them, as the high of the champagne somehow began to dip, turning him morose and moody. They’d scoffed at him for thinking too much, and told him what he needed was a few lines of coke to perk him up. He didn’t need much coaxing and followed one of his pals to the toilet at O’Brien’s. By the time they spilled out of the bar at nine o’clock, he was high as a kite again. He knew it could only ever go downhill from there, but by that time it didn’t matter. Once they’d got to the lapdancing club it was a case of anything goes, and they ended up with a couple of slappers back at one of the guys’ flats. It had been a waste of time and money, because Frank couldn’t even raise a smile, and the girl had disappeared in a taxi, leaving him to sleep it off.
He stood up and paced the office, then sat back down again and puffed as he made another attempt to drink the coffee. This time he was successful and managed a mouthful. He felt the walls were closing in on him, and realised that was how Tony must have felt as he was rigging up the rope to the beam in his office.
The pair of them had already been in too deep by the time Al Howie pitched up to their office nearly a year ago and told them what he wanted them to do. They’d been horrified at the very idea of it. Handing over refugees to a monster like Al Howie? It was business, Al told them. Refugees were big business, and not just for lawyers like him and Tony to milk the system in legal fees while fighting their deportation orders and asylum cases. Refugees meant money. Nobody gave a fuck about them, Al had said. Who’s counting them? he’d shrugged. It was happening in all the big cities, from London to Liverpool, and was probably also going on in Europe. All they’d have to do was provide two or three a month. Like weeding the garden, Al had said. It’s not as if they wouldn’t be replaced by other weeds. Al’s parting shot was that it wasn’t a request. He left a hold-all full of money on their desk.
They could have done something about it there and then, gone to the police, the Special Branch. But they couldn’t really, because it had been a long time since Paton and Murphy had been the upright bastions of the law they’d dreamed of being when they were at Glasgow University. Those principles had been ditched the first time they’d put ten grand into a coke deal set up by Al Howie. They’d double their investment, Al had promised, and they did – several times after it. They’d crossed the line. There was no going back.
The office door opened and the temp came in with a pile of mail and left it on his desk, giving him a shy smile. Tony and Frank had never employed a full-time secretary in the last few years because temps were easier to get rid of and weren’t interested in anybody’s business but their own. When you had staff who became part of your life at work, they knew about all your clients and all your dirty secrets, and that made them dangerous. Temps were in and out, passing through on the way to better things or just churning out a few hours for extra cash. They didn’t need to k
now what file was what and where anything was kept. They just typed the letters and clocked off.
He opened a couple of letters, one or two from the Scottish Refugee Council informing him of the status of some asylum-seeker clients. He placed the letters in a wire tray. The junk mail he didn’t even open. He was about to throw anything he didn’t recognise into the bin, when he came to a large brown envelope marked ‘photographs’ in black felt pen. Curious, he slid his finger across and opened it, stuck his hand in and pulled out what felt like a photograph.
He only got it out half way, then dropped it on his desk as though it had just bitten him.
‘Oh fuck!’ he said. ‘Oh fuck, no.’
His chest felt tight, and a flush rose from his toes to the roots of his hair, making his head pound. He lifted the envelope with trembling fingers and began to ease the photograph out. The wispy blonde hair and the gaptooth smile that lit up his life: his daughter, Louise. He had to put the snapshot down on the desk because his trembling hands couldn’t hold it.
‘Oh fucking hell.’ His hand went to his mouth.
It was obvious the picture had been taken by someone opposite the school gates as the kids were coming out. There were other kids in the picture, but the way it had been blown up, Frank could only glimpse them. Whoever had done this had pulled up the picture of Louise for effect. He looked in the envelope for a message, but there was nothing. Before he even got time to think what he was going to say, he had already rung his home number.
‘Sally,’ he said when he heard his wife’s voice.
‘Where the hell have you been, Frank? What the fuck do you think this is?’
‘I’m sorry, Sally, I’m really sorry.’ He could feel the tremor in his voice.
‘Sorry, Frank? Sorry’s not enough. You said that last week when you didn’t come home. I was on the verge of phoning the police when I couldn’t get hold of you on the mobile.’ Her voice was shrill in his fragile ears. ‘I’ve just about had it with this, Frank. I’ve told you before, I don’t need this any more. No. Actually, Frank, I don’t want it any more. I don’t want this for Louise.’
‘I’m sorry, Sally. Listen, where is Louise?’ His throat tightened with emotion.
‘What do you mean, where is Louise? Christ, Frank, are you still pissed? You’ve got a bloody problem, you have. Louise is in school. Where do you think she is at this time of the day?’
He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Did you take her, Sally? Did you see her go in?’
‘What? What do you mean, did I see her go in? She got out of the car and went in the way she always does. You take her most days, you know the drill. Why are you asking a stupid question like that?’
‘Nothing,’ Frank said quickly. ‘I … I just hate missing the school run. I love taking her in the mornings and listening to her patter.’ He put his hand over the receiver and uttered a desperate ‘Oh God’ to himself.
‘What?’
‘Nothing Sally. Nothing. I’m just so … so down about Tony. I feel my life has almost stood still since this happened.’
‘Look, Frank,’ she said, her voice a little softer. ‘I know you’re struggling with what happened to Tony. I know he was your best friend and your partner at work for years. But we are your family, Frank. Get your priorities right.’ She paused. ‘Get them right, Frank, or lose them.’
‘Yes,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry. Things are going to change, Sally. I promise.’ His mobile rang, and his stomach dropped when he saw the name on the screen.
‘Look, I’ve got a call coming in. I’ll see you tonight.’ He put the phone down and lifted his mobile.
‘Al.’ Frank said, his heart thumping in his chest.
‘Frankie boy. You all right?’
‘Yeah … well, bit rough, actually. Overdid the drink last night.’
‘Aye. I heard you were down in the club with a few mates.’
‘All got a bit late.’
‘You want to watch that, Frank,’ Al said, slowly. ‘After all, you’re a family man aren’t you. It’s a daughter you’ve got, isn’t it.’
Frank felt sick. With effort he managed a ‘yes’.
‘Lovely wee thing, I’m told. About ten is she?’
‘Nearly eleven.’ He thought he was going to burst into tears.
‘Well, Frankie boy. You want to look after a wee beauty like that. You want to give her the best don’t you, Frank? A girl always loves her daddy.’
Silence.
‘Listen mate, you know the score. You need to get some of your clients off your list. We need some spare parts. Get my drift? Get it sorted, Frank. I’ve got too much on my plate to think about people not pulling their weight. Just get it done.’ He hung up.
Frank put the mobile down and picked up the photograph of Louise. Suddenly his mind was flooded with images of his little girl. He remembered her first steps, how he taught her to swim on holiday in Portugal, how she still climbed on top of him on his chair at night and cuddled into him. Tears stung his eyes.
‘Oh Christ,’ he said, sniffing, afraid to let the floodgates open. He got up and went across to the safe in the corner and pulled out the file. He sat back down and went through the papers, reading backgrounds, establishing how long people had been here, who was with them, who they had back home in whatever country they had fled from.
He came across a couple of refugees that looked perfect. One was in his twenties, from Somalia. He checked the background again and rang the mobile number that was on the list and a voice answered. Frank told him to come to the office, that he had some part-time work for him. The Somali man sounded really pleased. Frank put the phone down and looked at his daughter’s picture. He did the same with another refugee, a woman from Afghanistan. Then he made another call. This time to Al. He had no choice.
*
Rosie and Mickey Kavanagh sat in semi-darkness in the corner of La Lanterna restaurant, sipping wine, deep in conversation. Rosie glanced around, thinking anyone who didn’t know them would have assumed they were a couple out for a romantic candlelit dinner because they looked so easy in each other’s company. Though if diners at the nearby tables had eavesdropped, they’d have found the conversation was far from romantic.
Rosie covered her half-empty glass of wine to stop Mickey filling it up. She knew she could never keep up with him in the red wine stakes, so she wasn’t about to try. Apart from anything else, she had a lot of work to do in the next few weeks and getting wellied with Mickey wasn’t an option.
‘You know what, Rosie,’ Mickey took a long, slow drink, his eyes twinkling. ‘You’re looking a million dollars. What’s going on? You in love or something?’
Rosie gave a little laugh. ‘Don’t ask, Mickey. You know my life. Always the complications.’
‘Well, something’s agreeing with you. Whatever it is, hold onto it.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows indignantly. ‘Oh, cheers Mickey.’ She lifted her glass. ‘So are you trying to tell me that all the time you’ve known me I look like shit or something?’
‘I was paying you a compliment,’ he shrugged.
‘Well you need to go to charm school.’
Mickey smiled. ‘No, you know what I mean, Rosie. Sometimes you’ve looked a bit wrecked. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean you’ve always been easy on the eye.’
Rosie put her hand up. ‘I think we might change the subject, pet. You’re digging a hole for yourself. If I look wrecked when I’m with you, it’s probably because I’ve been trying to keep up with you at the drink.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Talk to me, Mickey, about this Milosh duker.’
The waiter arrived with the food and set it down. Before Mickey started to talk he sliced off a chunk of lasagne and shoved it in his mouth.
‘Christ, that’s burning!’ He gulped some wine.
‘That’s the idea, eejit,’ Rosie giggled. ‘It’s just out the bloody oven.’
Mickey put down the fork. ‘Okay, Rosie,’ he said, lowering his voic
e, ‘here’s the lowdown. This Milosh guy, as I said to you on the phone, he’s a Serbian. His real name is Boris Raznatovic. Captain Boris Raznatovic, to give him his correct title – or at least that’s who they think he is. In fact, they’re more or less sure that’s who he is. He was a soldier in the Serbian army, and a big player in the siege of Sarajevo during the Bosnian war and some pretty sickening stuff that went on after that. He was right in there at the forefront when they were shelling the towns and villages, getting rid of all the Muslims. You know the story. You were there for a while, were you not?’
‘Briefly,’ Rosie said. ‘I wasn’t there long. It was an aid convoy I went on, and to be honest we didn’t get to see much of the conflict. Just getting food and help to people. Kind of in and out.’
‘Yeah, but you know what they were doing. The ethnic cleansing.’
‘Of course. It was awful. Villages and towns just cleaned out, and all those people just going missing. The time I was there was in the aftermath of Srebrenica. It was heartbreaking.’
Mickey chanced another forkful of lasagne and washed it down with wine. ‘Good scran in here by the way.’
Rosie nodded. ‘Go on, Mickey.’
‘So,’ he said. ‘He’s on the run. Raznatovic is a war criminal.’
‘Christ!’ Rosie could see that splashed all over the front page.
‘Yep,’ Mickey continued, ‘there are loads of them. We always only hear about the main players, the ones who were running the show, but the authorities are still looking for dozens, maybe even more, of Serb soldiers who burned and mutilated and massacred their way through places. Loads of them have just disappeared off the radar screen. Same way the Nazi soldiers did after the war. But some of the things these Serbs did – Christ almighty!’