by Anna Smith
‘I think you’re right.’ Rosie said.
‘I know for sure, Rosie,’ Tanya said. ‘The men said it to me when they slap me. They said, “you’ll get the same as your fucking blackmailing boyfriend.” Then they hit me. They said was I going to blackmail them too.’
Rosie ordered a latte and another black coffee for Tanya. She told her about going to her house and the man who attacked her. Then, quietly, Tanya told her what had happened to her.
The men who burst into her flat had bundled her into the car and driven her towards the city centre. She pretended to be unconscious in the back; both men were in the front seat. When they stopped at the lights outside Queen Street station, she made a run for it. She smiled, saying they must be stupid because they didn’t even lock the door. She ran past the taxi rank and up into the station, then downstairs to a platform. She had no idea where she was going, but she just jumped on a train that was about to leave. As the train pulled away from the station, she saw one of her attackers arrive at the bottom of the steps. But he was too late.
‘You had a very lucky escape,’ Rosie said. ‘Good for you, Tanya. You are much tougher than you think.’
‘I thought maybe they would come after me, but I know they wouldn’t be able to find me. I stayed on the train for almost an hour until it went to the coast, a place called Helensburgh. I found a small guest house and stayed for a few days.’
‘Where are you staying now?’
‘In a small hotel in the city. Is okay for now.’
‘You should really talk to the police,’ Rosie said. She wanted to say the police could protect her, but she knew they couldn’t.
‘No,’ Tanya said. ‘I cannot do that. They maybe know I took the letters. I only going to stay here for a few days. I have a friend in London who will give me a room. I can go back to working with the escort agency there. It’s money.’ She stubbed her cigarette out and looked at Rosie. ‘I will survive, Rosie. I came all the way from Ukraine for a better life, and one day I will find it here. If not here, maybe Spain, maybe Italy, or Amsterdam. I will work in anything until I get enough money. But these people won’t win. They won’t kill me.’
Rosie looked at her and her mind flipped back to Mags Gillick. She wanted a better life too, but she didn’t get the chance. They sat quietly, and Rosie wondered if she was going to ask her for money.
‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Tanya?’
‘No.’ Tanya shook her head and looked at the floor. ‘I wanted to see you to say thank you … for listening to me and understanding.’ She put down her cup. ‘I hope you find them, Rosie. The men who are killing the refugees. That is what they are doing, isn’t it? That is why the refugees are gone?’
Rosie nodded slowly. ‘I think so, Tanya, I am working on it. I will get them, but it’s going to be tough.’
Tanya stood up, and Rosie walked with her out of the cafe, surprised and moved that she wanted nothing.
‘Well,’ Tanya smiled. ‘Goodbye Rosie. Maybe we can keep in touch some time.’ She took a step forward and put her arms around her.
Rosie hugged her back.
‘Of course. Good luck, Tanya. Be safe.’
They parted, and Rosie saw that Tanya’s tears had spilled onto her bruised cheek. She looked lonely, despite her defiance.
‘I must go,’ she said, sniffing and turning away.
Rosie watched until she disappeared up the road and turned off into one of the rows of tenement-lined side-streets where you could be anonymous in the melting pot of colour and cultures in the West End of the city.
CHAPTER 26
The flat where McGuire had moved Rosie to for safety was one of those fashionable minimalist jobs in the West End. Rosie sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table, looking around at the ordered, squared lines of pale wood furniture and pastel sofas – the kind of place where if you left a newspaper on a chair it would ruin the entire sterile karma. She wondered what kind of people would want to live in a place like this, and she was already missing the clutter of her own flat, where little remnants of what she’d been doing, wearing, reading were scattered around every room. But at least this felt safe – four solid bolts on the front door and double locks on every window. She’d joked to McGuire it was so secure it probably belonged to a drug dealer.
After a restless night, she had been up from the first signs of daylight, her mind buzzing with the phone call she’d taken from Mickey Kavanagh when she got home. It had answered a few questions.
Mickey told her that word had reached him from his Special Branch connections in London that there were already rumblings at government level over what was going on up in Glasgow. They’d had intelligence in the past that Raznatovic was involved with gangsters and that he may have gone to Glasgow, but the trail had gone cold some months ago and they did nothing more. He mentioned the name PD Pharmaceuticals and the deposed Environment Secretary Tim Hayman who was on the board of directors.
There was potential embarrassment for the government if anything dodgy was exposed about PD: not only because of the former Secretary of State’s current involvement with the company, but also the fact that government had given them a five million-pound grant to come to Manchester – where they’d created four hundred jobs as part of their much-vaunted industrial regeneration programme. If there was something rotten, even if it did seem far-fetched, Mickey said, they wouldn’t want it to get out. Rosie told him about Emir and how he’d been shot, but he’d already heard it on the grapevine. He told her to be careful, but the word was that Raznatovic had vanished.
Rosie was getting ready to leave the flat when her mobile rang.
‘Rosie.’
It was Adrian.
‘Adrian. Good to hear from you. You all right?’ She pictured his face, always so serious, smudges of sleeplessness under his dark eyes.
‘Yes, my friend. I can talk only for a minute. I have good information.’
‘Great. What’s happening?’
‘He is here, the Serbian. In Belgrade, my people there tell me. He is hiding. Protected.’
Rosie’s stomach tightened a little.
‘Serbians tell you this, Adrian? But they were your enemies during the war.’
‘Yes, Rosie, that is true. But before the war we were neighbours, friends. I still have contacts with some old friends who do not like what happened.’
‘Do you think we could get to him?’
‘He is a wanted man. War crimes. The authorities also will be trying to find him.’ He paused. ‘I think we can get him, Rosie, but is dangerous. I don’t know if you should come.’ He paused again. ‘But I also think you may be in danger even in Glasgow. These people have many connections that can stretch across countries.’
Silence. Rosie remembered the last time she saw Adrian, and the shoot-out in the car park in the Costa del Sol as he’d rescued his sister from the people-traffickers who had trapped her.
‘I want to come, Adrian.’
‘Then come, Rosie. We will work together. I must go now.’ The line went dead.
*
‘Right, Gilmour,’ McGuire said, as Rosie walked into his office. ‘I’ve got a plan. Sit down.’
She sat down, saying, ‘Before you start, Mick, let me tell you about a couple of phone calls I just took.’
She told him what she’d heard from Mickey Kavanagh last night, and about Adrian’s call this morning. She left out what he’d said about the danger.
‘Shower of bastards,’ McGuire said. ‘That explains a lot. They’ve obviously not been busting a gut looking for this evil bastard Raznatovic because of the potential embarrassment.’ He took his reading glasses off and tossed them on the desk. ‘How can they ever justify that? Well, fuck them, Rosie. We’re going to give them it with both barrels.’
Rosie nodded, raising a finger in warning.
‘Agreed, Mick. But if we just blast everything into the paper now, the rest of the media will be on us like flies round the proverbial, and the c
ops will be all over us.’
‘I know. I’ve already thought about that.’ McGuire got up and started pacing the room. ‘Right … The big story of the day is Emir getting shot while in police custody. That’s a live, running story and everyone is covering it because there’s an inquiry. The cops know they look inept at the very least.’
‘Yeah, at the very least,’ Rosie said.
McGuire turned and faced her, spreading his hands as he explained.
‘Everyone will be reporting the story straight. But nobody will have what we have – Emir’s own story. So what I want you to do, Rosie, is get his piece written up. We tell the inside story of the murdered refugee. How he came to us for help, his claim about him and his friend being kidnapped and taken to this slaughterhouse. That will blow it open a bit. We don’t say anything about what we did …’ He pointed to Rosie, half smiling. ‘Er … you did.
‘We don’t go in with what we know, what we saw inside the place, but we just pose the question: what happened to his friend who he never saw again? That’s all provable, because his friend would be listed with the Refugee Council. Then we can print the list of the refugees taken from Paton’s office who have also disappeared. We’ll ask the question, where are they?’ He paused. ‘That might be a bit dodgy because cops will wonder how we got the list, so we’ll just invent something for them if they ask.’ He went back behind his desk, and stood looking down at Rosie. ‘By the way, firstly we need to get you out of here, so you and Matt are off to Sarajevo in the morning. Once this hits the front page, the cops will be right in here with their jackboots on.’
‘Definitely,’ Rosie agreed.
There was a knock at McGuire’s door, and Marion came in.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mick, but there’s two detectives at the front door.’ She looked at Rosie. ‘They want to speak to you, Rosie’
‘Fucking terrific,’ McGuire scowled. ‘With timing like that they should be on the stage. Get them to come up.’
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘They’re probably going to try to monster me.’
‘Aye, that’ll be right.’ He dialled Marion. ‘Get Hanlon down here, and give the coppers a coffee. Tell them Rosie’s busy and she’ll be with them shortly. Tossers can wait.’ He put the phone down.
*
Half an hour later, when Marion ushered the two detectives into McGuire’s office, he got up from behind his desk and greeted them, stretching out his hand. The company lawyer, Tommy Hanlon, seated with Rosie on the sofa, gave her a dig in the ribs with his elbow and they both stood up and shook hands with the cops. McGuire motioned them towards the long oak table in his office where he held his twice-daily news conferences.
The big detective introduced himself as DI William Craig, and Rosie made eye contact with the woman detective at his side, whom he introduced as DS Shirley McIntyre. She had a po-faced expression that said she’d be glad to bundle Rosie into the back of the police car by the end of the interview. Fat chance, Rosie, thought, glancing at Hanlon.
Hanlon opened a notepad, took a gold Mont Blanc fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket and wrote on the page. Rosie smiled to herself. Who uses a fountain pen in this day and age? A maverick young QC like Tommy Hanlon, that’s who. Someone whose self-belief in his ability and swashbuckling style in the courtroom made him the most sought-after brief in the business. When Hanlon strutted into court, he already knew he had his case won even before he cross-examined the first witness. Rosie felt safe.
The DI cleared his throat, and opened a folder he’d put down on the table. He glanced around at everyone.
‘As you know, we are investigating the death of Emir Marishta, the Kosovan Albanian refugee.’
‘The murder,’ Rosie interrupted.
The DI reddened. ‘The murder.’ He nodded in Rosie’s direction. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, Miss Gilmour.’
He took a deep breath and was about to speak, when Hanlon interrupted.
‘Detective Inspector Craig. I want to point out to you that my client will be very limited in what questions she will be in a position to answer today.’
The DI shifted in his seat and his face flushed even more. The words ‘fuck you’ were stamped on his forehead.
‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Hanlon.’ He glared at him. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ll proceed for the moment.’
Hanlon scribbled ‘prick’ on his notepad and turned it towards Rosie. She tried not to look at it.
‘Right,’ Craig said, addressing Rosie. ‘So, Miss Gilmour …’
‘Call me Rosie, please, Inspector. I am under fifty,’ she said, deadpan.
He let her smart-arse comment fly over his head. ‘Ahem … Rosie. So. I understand you had met and were in contact with the young man Emir. You had initially met him at the Red Road flats, I believe. During the demonstration?’
‘Yes. That’s right. I met him and we had been in touch. I’ve told your officers that Emir told me his friend Jetmir had been kidnapped.’
The DI nodded.
‘And you didn’t come to the police to report that information at the time?’
‘Inspector, if I came to the police every time someone made an allegation or a claim, I’d never be doing anything else.’
‘But you took it seriously?’
‘I did. But then he didn’t contact me again for a few days.’
‘And when he did?’
Rosie lied. ‘Well, you know the rest, Inspector. I handed Emir over to the police who listened to his claims and promised they would protect him.’ Rosie paused. ‘Which, as you also know, they clearly did not.’
The DI clicked his pen a few times.
‘Can you tell me what else he spoke to you about, regarding the lawyers Frank Paton and Tony Murphy?’
Hanlon put his hand up.
‘I’m sorry. My client can’t answer that.’
The DI glowered at him. ‘We are investigating a murder here, Mr Hanlon. It’s very important that nobody is withholding information from any aspect that may assist the inquiry.’
McGuire cleared his throat.
‘Then perhaps the first place you should be looking, Detective Inspector, is how a man who was assisting the police was murdered while he was under the protection of officers from Strathclyde’s finest. Should you not be asking how this happened?’
‘That’s a matter for internal investigation.’ The DI said, his mouth tight.
‘And this is a newspaper, Inspector.’ McGuire, leaned forward. ‘We write stories. Our job is not to find murderers. But I’ll tell you this: we will find out how this man was murdered.’
The DI responded through gritted teeth. ‘Withholding information from a police investigation is a very serious matter, Mr McGuire.’
‘Yes. I’m sure it is.’ McGuire pushed his chair back. This interview was over.
The DI got to his feet and the DS quickly got up and stood at his side. ‘I don’t think there’s really much point in continuing with this interview,’ Detective Inspector Craig said. ‘I can see we are getting no cooperation.’ He looked at Rosie. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ He looked at the editor, now heading towards the door to open it, adding, ‘And we may also have to speak to you in due course, Mr McGuire.’
McGuire held the door open for the cops.
‘What a wanker!’ he said when they’d walked out and closed the door behind them.
CHAPTER 27
‘Your ears must be burning, Gilmour.’
Rosie took Don’s call on the mobile as she made her way to the restaurant to meet TJ.
‘What?’
‘Big Bill Craig is calling you for all the bastards of the day after that interview in your office. Said he felt like a right prick.’ Don was clearly relishing it.
‘Well, maybe that’s because he is one,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘He came in here like a fiend, kicking a bin in the corridor on the way into his office, saying you and the editor and that Hanlon made a right tit of
him.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t have been his best interview.’ Rosie chuckled. ‘But what the hell did he think we would do? Sit down and compare notes?’
‘Yeah,’ Don said, ‘know what you mean. But don’t be surprised if he makes more of it. He’ll be asking the boss if they can pull you in for withholding information. He knows you’re holding out on him.’
‘He knows bugger all, Don. If I’m holding out on him, then he should ask himself how come he doesn’t have the information in the first place?’
‘I know, but he could make trouble for you, Rosie. Just saying. I’m marking your card.’
‘Thanks, Don.’ Rosie changed the subject. ‘Any more word on the slaughterhouse or that Serbian guy?’
‘Not really. Looks like he’s done a runner. But the word is that there’s a bit of political involvement and the cops will not be releasing any information about them hunting for a Serbian.’
‘Wonder why.’ Rosie was glad the police wouldn’t mention the Serbian – it meant she had it all to herself and it gave her time to try to track him down.
‘If I get any more, I’ll give you a shout.’
‘Cheers. Oh, and Don … any news on who it was on the inside that gave Emir up to be murdered?’
He paused. ‘Not yet, Rosie. Will let you know.’ The line went dead.
*
Rosie was glad by the time dinner with TJ was coming to an end. They’d been making small talk, with her keeping him up to speed about the investigation and frisson with the detectives. But there had been an underlying atmosphere throughout the meal, and Rosie wasn’t sure if it was just her guilty conscience because she was about to tell TJ she was off to Bosnia the following day, or whether there was something else going on with him. She watched him suspiciously as he split the remainder of the bottle of red wine between their two glasses. The waiter came over with coffees and they both declined liqueurs.
‘TJ,’ Rosie took a sip of her wine. ‘I’m going out of town.’ She paused as he looked at her over the top of his wine glass. ‘To Belgrade. Well, going to Sarajevo first. Then to Belgrade.’