by Smith, Anna
‘They were the gang who were buying the arms. Dunn is J B Solutions. But you must know that. It was his guys who were doing the deal with Russians.’
He said nothing, appearing to gaze out of the window in some momentary reverie, then spoke without looking at anyone.
‘So tell me this. Where are you on the Mahoney investigation for your newspaper? The last time I was here, you told me that the information and documents you’d been given access to were no longer accessible. Is that still true?’ He gave Rosie a look; he was toying with her.
Rosie said nothing. McGuire folded his arms.
‘Okay,’ the superintendent continued. ‘What I’m hearing here, and correct me if I’m wrong, is that you have some bird who launders gangsters’ money, and her sister has been snatched. You don’t report that crime to Strathclyde Police. You don’t call the police because you’re protecting her. Which, of course, is breaking the law. Am I right so far?’
Rosie’s stomach tightened.
‘And you want us to swing into action like the cavalry and rescue her – in, presumably, an SAS-style operation worthy of a tabloid front page.’ He almost smirked at the captain, who remained poker-faced.
That was exactly what Rosie wanted them to do, but when he put it like that in his clipped tones it sounded ridiculous.
‘You watch a lot of movies, do you, Rosie?’ The superintendent smiled.
Rosie felt her face burn. He was making an arse of them. She looked down at the table.
‘Now . . . tell me this, Rosie. I’ll ask this question again. As a matter of interest, are these documents, which you couldn’t give me access to the other day, still not available? Or have they now suddenly become available? And what incriminating stuff do they contain involving government departments?’
He gave her a don’t-piss-me-around look.
Rosie could either lie or take a chance. She swallowed hard.
‘We have information that someone inside the MoD was assisting this gang with export licences, enabling J B Solutions to continue selling arms abroad after their licence had been revoked over the sale of arms to Nigeria.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘But I’m sure you already know that.’
His face was blank.
‘So why haven’t you printed that?’ He turned to McGuire.
‘We’re not there with it yet,’ McGuire replied, straight-faced. ‘We haven’t quite tied down all the ends. We’re still investigating. But to be honest, the main thrust of our story has shifted slightly. We’ve been digging around on Tam Dunn and J B Solutions and we now have incriminating evidence against them. Our own evidence. So we have two stories, so to speak, both connected, in that they involve what happened to Tom Mahoney. But also they are stand-alone stories.’
Another stony silence. After what seemed like an age, the superintendent spoke.
‘Right. I’m not a newspaper man, but right now you have one story. The story of J B Solutions’ involvement in arms dealing and how you as a newspaper can nail them down, help put them behind bars. Okay? Let’s say you have that. Are you still planning to use the MoD and the corruption line? By that, I mean, do you plan to use the MoD line as a big factor in your exposé?’
‘We’re not quite there with it,’ Rosie said, glancing uneasily at McGuire.
‘So ditch it.’ The superintendent’s mouth turned down.
‘What?’ Rosie glared at McGuire.
‘You heard me. Ditch it.’
‘Ditch it?’
‘Yes. Dump the MoD line, give me the documents that I know you have . . . and forget that side of the story. Then we simply forget we ever met.’
Rosie looked at McGuire, then at the superintendent.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Listen, dear . . . I’m so serious I came all the way up here on the instructions of Whitehall to get this documentation that we know Tom Mahoney had, and I now know you now have, but failed to turn over to me when I asked about it. But that’s my problem. Well . . . it was my problem until you and your editor suddenly need my help to get the sister of your money-laundering contact back from the kidnappers. I’m sure you get my drift.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘So this is fairly straightforward, as far as I’m concerned.’ He turned to McGuire. ‘You dump your MoD scandal story, and we’ll get your sick girl back to her sister. And we’ll all live happily ever after.’ He looked at his watch.
‘Now . . . if I were you, I’d make my decision quickly, for two reasons. One . . . this girl is being held by the kind of evil bastards we’ve been dealing with, and if she’s not released soon, she’ll be dead – if she’s not already dead. Two, if you’re not going to do it my way, then the good captain and myself have a table booked for dinner at eight, and he’s paying . . . So make your mind up.’ He folded his arms.
Rosie was seething. Boswell-Smith had just steamrollered over them. This wasn’t about truth or police work, it was about defending the establishment at all costs. That’s why he’d been sent from London to find out about their investigation. His demand was about selling out everything she, McGuire and the paper had always fought for – their right to unmask the liars and the cheats and the crooks, whether they were in housing schemes, banks or government departments. They were almost there on a massive story that might even spark resignations at Cabinet level. They couldn’t just let that go. How could they? She thought of Ruby, the shitty start she’d had in life, not unlike her own, and so many of the souls she’d encountered over the years, from Glasgow to Kosovo, who had to scrap and fight for everything they had. Judy was all Ruby had. Her eyes met McGuire’s and he looked away. He had already made his decision.
The superintendent looked at his watch again and fiddled with his gold cufflinks. McGuire put his pen down on the table and stood up.
‘We have a deal, Superintendent.’ He looked at the captain. ‘Now, let’s get that poor girl out.’
Rosie felt her shoulders sink, a wave of disappointment and anger hitting her like a punch in the gut. Tom Mahoney had been murdered because he was about to expose corruption and greed at the heart of the MoD. More than that, he died because he was able to reveal how someone, with the stroke of a pen, could allow a lowlife like Tam Dunn and his outfit to sell guns and ammunition that could kill and maim innocent people in Nigeria who were already disenfranchised, who had already lost hope. And the profits that these gangsters here made were ploughed into their stinking drug empires in the housing schemes, in towns and cities where heroin helped blot out their shitty existence for too many people. Everything that underpinned Rosie as a journalist was enshrined in the determination of her newspaper to expose this kind of greed and corruption. Now that very principle was being trampled upon in front of her eyes in the editor’s office. If she couldn’t unmask these kinds of people, there was no point in getting out of bed in the morning. But she knew that by handing over her dossier she might save one life – Judy’s. There was no choice.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Don was already at the bar when Rosie walked through the swing doors into O’Brien’s. He eased himself off the bar stool as she made her way through the usual throng of early-evening, well-heeled punters, either in for a drink on the way home from work or getting tanked up to go out on the town. A noisy bunch of designer-smart, twenty-something blokes in party mode were knocking back champagne. Rosie picked her way through them towards the bar, conscious of them eyeing her up. One of them stood in front of her, blocking her path, then moved to block her again, a big, daft grin on his face as she attempted to squeeze past him. It might have been amusing for a nanosecond the first time, Rosie thought, as she forced a smile, but she was not in the mood for it when he did it the second time. She made a give-me-a-break-guys face at him and he moved to the side. Whatever he’d said as she slid past him sent the rest of them into guffaws of laughter.
‘Just what I need’ – Rosie leaned in to give Don a kiss on the cheek – ‘a bunch of bloody hooray Henrys.’
‘Stag party,’
Don said, nodding to the barman. ‘Obviously a rich one. They’re on their third bottle of Dom Perignon and they’ve only been in an hour.’
‘They must be cops,’ Rosie joked as she climbed onto a stool.
‘Yeah, right.’ Don replied. ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘You bet. I need at least one.’
He offered her a cigarette and she put it to her lips as he flicked the lighter. Watching Ruby chain-smoke for the past two hours had put her in the notion for a fag. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the buzz of her first cigarette in a few days, then swallowed a mouthful of her drink, feeling better already.
‘That’s more like it.’ Don scanned her face. ‘You sounded a bit wired on the phone.’
Rosie puffed out smoke. ‘I passed wired about two o’clock today.’ She screwed up her face as the stag party erupted into more raucous laughter. ‘Christ! They’re a noisy bunch of twats. I can’t hear myself think.’
‘They’ll be going shortly.’ Don looked over her shoulder. ‘I see one of them asking for the bill.’
‘Good.’
‘So what’s the story, pal?’ Don ran a hand over his chin and loosened his tie.
‘I’ve got something for you. Big time, Don . . . But whatever I say in the next few minutes goes absolutely nowhere until I give you the nod. Understood?’
Don’s craggy features barely moved a muscle.
‘Sure. Goes without saying.’
Rosie took a moment to decide where to start. She’d spent all morning in the West End at Ruby’s flat, ploughing through a pile of paperwork she’d printed off earlier at the Post. Ruby had taken a bit of convincing last night that the only way to get Judy back was to work with Boswell-Smith and the captain. Even though she wouldn’t have to meet them in person, Ruby was still suspicious she was being led into a trap. But she’d made up her mind to go along with it after she’d phoned Tony again to arrange to hand over all the bank details and documents. He kept changing the goalposts. He’d said flatly that he would decide when he had time – probably in a couple of days. He told her to be ready. Then hung up. Ruby was inconsolable when she’d come off the phone, weeping that Judy was probably already dead and that Tony was just being an evil bastard. She vowed again to kill him with her bare hands. Rosie had to convince her that she was the only one who could crucify Tony and his mob by turning him in, along with all the bank details. She knew where all the bodies were buried – in financial terms. She could ruin all of them. Not only that, she had witnessed Dunn kick a girl to death. Eventually, fired up, Ruby agreed. And to Rosie’s astonishment, she even decided she would make a statement about the murder of the prostitute, as long as she could be assured that she’d never have to appear in court. But she would only make the statement once she was safely out of the country – hopefully, with Judy. If it worked, it would be a major coup for the cops, bagging all the main players – and Rosie would have a massive exclusive for the Post. But they were a long way from that. McGuire remained sceptical, but when she’d told him she had the bank accounts and paperwork in her hands, he was in. All she had to do now was test the water with Don and get reassurances. She knew the pitfalls of passing information to the police, especially the statement about the prostitute’s murder and not bringing in the eyewitness. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
‘Okay.’ Rosie swivelled around in the stool so that she was facing Don. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. ‘Listen. If the information I have is accurate, I can deliver Tony Devlin . . . and no doubt a few of his cohorts . . . including all their dirty money and assets. Everything. Straight into your hot little hands.’
Don stopped in mid-draw, his mouth dropping open a little.
‘Have you been at the drink?’
‘I’m serious, Don. And I mean bank accounts, statements, company names, directors, details on how and where they laundered their money. Everything. I can give you all that stuff, then it’s up to you to move on it and start breaking down a few doors, pulling in the bodies.’
Don pushed his hand through his greying hair, his eyes narrowing.
‘How? I mean how the fuck can you get your hands on that? We have teams of people from the Serious Crime Squad to the Fraud Squad trying to track that kind of shit all the time, but everything is so well hidden these days.’
‘I know. But Devlin, as you know, has companies all over the place. All sorts of businesses, from property to petrol stations. The money moves around them all, getting cleaner the more it’s laundered. Then most of it goes abroad.’
‘So how can you get this information?’
‘Put it this way’ – Rosie looked at him, then away – ‘I have access to the person who set up the companies, the bank accounts . . . the whole shooting match. Even going back as far as Rab Jackson’s day.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nope.’
‘So this person is either terminally ill, or they’re about to be.’
‘No. Just very angry. It’s all about retribution.’
They sat for a long moment, Rosie watching Don gnaw the inside of his jaw, his brain ticking over. He signalled to the barman for two more drinks.
‘Retribution?’ he said. ‘There are a lot of poor bastards buried in the foundations of the Kingston Bridge who thought they could dish out retribution to Rab Jackson and his mob.’
‘This is different. This is here and now. I’m talking bank accounts that can show money moving all over the place. I’m not an expert on that kind of shit, and frankly, balance sheets make my eyes glaze over, but I have access to the actual person who has legitimized all the business.’
He looked at her, incredulous.
‘Would they meet us? Totally off the record? Guarantees up front they’d be protected?’
Rosie shook her head.
‘Not a chance in hell. No way.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask, Don.’
‘It’s obviously someone on the inside then?’
Rosie said nothing, stared through him.
‘Fuck me, Rosie!’ Don shook his head, a smile almost coming to his lips. ‘This could make a huge impact, pull the rug from these bastards, if we could get our hands on that kind of paperwork.’ He grinned. ‘I think I’m getting a hard-on.’
‘I thought it was just the way you were sitting,’ Rosie snorted. ‘But seriously. There’s more . . .’ She pushed her hair back, fiddling with her earring. ‘My contact witnessed the murder of a young prostitute. Eastern European.’
Don screwed up his eyes.
‘We don’t have a prostitute murder.’
‘Yes, you do. You just don’t know about it yet.’
‘Fucking hell! When?’
Rosie hesitated.
‘Recently.’
‘How recent? A month, a week, a year?’
‘Very recent.’
‘So why no body?’
‘My contact said it was disposed of . . . And there was another girl who also witnessed it. A hooker – also Eastern European. Don’t know where she is, but I’d be surprised if she’s not dead too.’
‘Shit, Rosie. You need to give me more.’
‘I can’t. I’m not in a position to. Not right now.’
‘So what does this contact want from us?’
‘Nothing. The contact will disappear, no questions asked. You will get a full statement on the murder but they will absolutely not testify in court. So be clear about that.’ She paused. ‘Let me put it this way, the murder is so recent and so bloody, Forensics will find enough DNA once you get the location.’
Don was silent for a few moments, as though he was trying to work out all the rivalry between Rab Jackson and any of his cohorts over the years.
‘I can see you’re trying to figure who the traitor is.’ Rosie looked at her watch and pulled her bag onto her shoulder.
‘I am. I’m all over the place here.’ He puffed. ‘When can we get this stuff?’
‘Soon. In a few days. But you
can’t mention it right now. Not to anyone. Just be ready, because we’ll be doing something about it in the Post before we hand over the full dossier. And when the time comes you can tell your bosses not to even think about kicking the editor’s door in and demanding to know who the contact is, because that’s not going to happen. Understood?’
Don nodded.
‘It’ll have to be discussed at the top level.’
‘I don’t give a toss if you consult Christ himself. The deal is totally anonymous, or forget it. No names, no pack drill. It’s not up for discussion. And forget even trying to track down the contact, because whatever else they may be – they are not stupid.’
Don drained his glass.
‘Okay. Deal. I’ll wait for your call.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘Oh, by the way, how’re things going with the Mahoney murder? I liked your piece about him being a spy and all that. Good read.’
‘It’s ticking along,’ Rosie lied, keeping her face straight. She finished her drink. ‘I’d better head home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
Don got off the stool.
‘Me, too. But I’ll be up all night now trying to figure out who the “Deep Throat” contact is. You drive me nuts, Gilmour.’
They walked out of the swing doors and into the evening drizzle.
‘You’ll not be saying that when you’re the head honcho in the CID . . . By the way, I hope we can continue to have our wee drinks if you do ever get to the top of the heap.’
Don leaned down and kissed her cheek.
‘Any time, darlin’. I miss you when I don’t see you . . . . You stayed in Bosnia too long.’
‘Yeah,’ Rosie said, glancing beyond him into the rain. ‘You’re probably right, there, pal. Too bloody long.’
She waved down a black cab and headed off.
*
As the taxi pulled into her car park Rosie thought she saw a figure on the steps of the entrance to the flats. She rubbed the steamed-up side window with the back of her hand and peered through the rain. Ever since the death threats last year she’d been twitchy whenever she came home in the dark. She peered again and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Adrian. She paid the driver and got out, a little puzzled, as it was unlike Adrian to turn up at her home unannounced. But she was glad to see him.