by Smith, Anna
‘I kind of don’t know what to say to you, Adrian,’ she said. ‘I’ll miss you . . . I . . . I . . .’ What she wanted to say was that she had feelings for him but didn’t know what to say or do about them in case he didn’t feel the same way. The words wouldn’t come. She felt disarmed and stood looking into his eyes.
Adrian nodded.
‘I’ll miss you, too,’ he replied.
There was an awkward silence, and Rosie looked at the ground. Suddenly, to her surprise, she was choked.
‘Sometimes I wish it could be more than this,’ she ventured, her eyes flicking at Adrian and then away. ‘What I’m trying to say, Adrian, though I’m not saying it very well, is that I’ve so loved being with you these past couple of weeks, that I wish . . . I mean, I know it’s impossible because of how we live . . . But I wish we could . . . well . . . be more like that.’
Adrian gently touched her face and half smiled.
‘Is the same for me.’ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘But . . . is not easy . . . And I think . . . is hard for a woman like you to stop your life and be with somebody. I can see that, Rosie. I . . . I respect you for that. Is very important. You . . . you are very important to me. But also . . . I’m not good at these things . . . I don’t know sometimes where my head is . . . so much of me is in my past.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I want . . . Maybe we can see each other again . . . Like in Sarajevo. I see you then and you are different, away from all this . . . I think you were happy there. No?’
‘Yes, I was, Adrian. Really happy. But I know myself. And after a while I’d be wanting this again.’ She gestured with her hands. ‘All this crazy shit I do.’
‘That is good. It is you. I like that. You are my friend and I love you . . . all of the things I see about you.’
Rosie swallowed. He had mentioned the ‘love’ word. Not commitment and love like TJ, just the love of a friend. Yet they’d been more than that. She couldn’t quite get her head around it. But she had a feeling this wasn’t over.
She looked at her watch.
‘I need to get back, Adrian. The editor is waiting for me. We have a big hit in the paper tomorrow, so I have to see it through tonight.’
Adrian stepped forward and took her in his arms. He kissed her on the lips for a long time and she could feel him holding her tight against his body. Then he released her.
‘I must go. I will call you tomorrow,’ Rosie said, her eyes searching his face.
He nodded. Kissed her one more time, ran his hand through her hair.
‘Goodbye, Rosie. I will see you. Be careful.’ His lips brushed her cheek again, then he turned and left. She watched him as he made his way across the concourse to the platform for the London train, hoping he would look back, because if he did maybe it would mean something more, that he wanted more, that he felt deeply. She willed him to look back. But he didn’t.
Her mobile rang and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket. It was McGuire.
‘Where are you, Rosie?’
‘On my way back.’
‘Hurry up.’
*
‘You’ve to go straight through,’ the night news editor said, peering over his pince-nez reading glasses as Rosie stepped on to the almost deserted editorial floor.
The day-shift reporters had all gone home and there were only a couple of night-shifters working quietly at their desk. Rosie glanced at the back bench, where the editors were working on their screens, and she squinted to see if she could catch a glimpse of anything that looked like her story. There was nothing. On screen was a picture of some bimbo model and a kiss-and-tell football story. They must be saving her story for the final edition, which they often did with a major exclusive. That way it outwits the opposition, who aren’t able to steal it from the front page and claim it as their own in the morning. The door was open in McGuire’s office and she went straight in.
Hanlon was sitting at the conference table, and next to him was the boss of the legal firm. Fair enough, she thought. It was a big story; it needed a lot of attention. But there were glum faces all round, particularly from McGuire.
‘Sit down, Rosie.’
‘You’re all right,’ she said, glancing around at everyone. ‘Is there a problem? Copy okay?’
‘Copy’s great, Gilmour.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘We’ve had a call from Westminster. About the government minister.’
Rosie’s stomach sank a little. She knew what was coming. She looked at the managing editor, who was sitting next to the Post’s managing director.
‘And?’
‘Sit down,’ McGuire said again, this time a little more sternly.
Rosie sat next to Hanlon and he gave her a troubled look. She’d been here before.
‘But first of all I’ve got something to tell you. That Rygate – the guy you fronted up in London. The corrupt civil servant who faked the licence?’
‘Yeah?’
‘He’s been found dead in his flat.’
‘Jesus. When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘I only saw him this morning.’
‘Well. Might have been not long after that.’
‘What happened. Suicide?’
‘Christ knows. Trussed up like a turkey and zipped into a hold-all.’
‘Christ almighty! What . . . like Harry Houdini?’ Rosie almost smiled.
‘Well, not quite. Harry Houdini always managed to get out. This guy didn’t.’
‘Well he certainly didn’t zip himself inside a fucking hold-all, Mick. I mean, who the Christ does that?’
‘Well, the cops are saying it might be one of these sexual asphyxiation things. A fetish.’
‘A fetish? Where you zip yourself into a hold-all and there’s nobody around to get you back out? Absolute crap. First, you couldn’t actually zip yourself into the hold-all, not completely anyway, and secondly, you just wouldn’t even if you could – no matter how perverse your sexual fantasies were. But hey, it makes for a right good front page.’ She glanced around the room. ‘The spooks have bumped this guy off. No doubt about it. This story gets better every minute.’
‘It does. And you need to get it done pronto.’ He paused. ‘But that’s not all.’ McGuire fiddled with his tie then looked at Hanlon.
‘This stuff about the minister and his involvement. It was years ago, Rosie, and though we’ve nailed it down, he’s apparently claiming that the company at the time of his involvement was completely unblemished. It was totally legit. We had a call from Westminster an hour ago.’
This time Rosie did laugh.
‘Now there’s a surprise. Well, I hope you’ve told them to take a flying fuck to themselves.’
Silence.
‘Mick. You have, haven’t you?’
The managing editor piped in.
‘It’s not as simple as that, Rosie.’
‘Yes it is,’ Rosie snapped back.
‘It’s not,’ the managing director said.
Rosie looked from Hanlon to the MD and then to McGuire.
‘Mick, it is as simple as that. And I’ll tell you why. It’s okay with Westminster and the cops and the Special Branch if we’re exposing the gangsters and helping stick the guys behind this in jail. In fact, the cops have even turned a blind eye to bodies lying all over Glasgow so they can nail these bastards. But when it comes to the shady bastard at the top, they think that’s going a bit too far. Come on! For Christ’s sake, guys! This is staring you in the bloody face. We have to be able to link the minister. He’s part of the story. Can’t you see that the government wants to cover up the shit trail because it leads right to them? They’re sacrificing everyone to save their own skin. Tom Mahoney . . . Gerard Hawkins – murdered in his bed. Now Harry Houdini in a fucking hold-all? But when it gets too close to them we have to back off? Tell them to fuck right off, Mick. You have to.’
‘They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest, Rosie,’ the managing editor said. ‘F
or withholding evidence about the deaths in the Polish girl’s apartment. And for not naming your contact.’
‘They can piss off with that,’ Rosie blazed. ‘When did the bastards do that?’
‘Around the same time I got the phone call from Westminster,’ Mick said, disconsolate.
Rosie stood up.
‘Shit! And we’re all just going to wet our pants because of that? Are you kidding me?’
‘They’ll arrest you, Rosie, and you’ll go to jail. If you lie in court you’ll commit perjury,’ the MD said.
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the managing editor.
‘Well, if it does, we’ll cross that bridge when it comes.’ She looked at the editor, whose face was flushed. ‘Mick, we need to tell this story. All of it. And then we worry about what happens. That’s what we do. Christ, guys!’ She turned to the others. ‘That’s why we’re here at this time of night working, that’s why we take the risks. If we don’t fight back now we can shut up shop and forget it. We can’t bow down. If we let them get away with this, next thing is we’ll end up running every bloody story past them for their approval. Christ, guys!’
Silence. Rosie looked at all of them.
‘We can leave the minister out,’ the managing editor said. ‘The story will still have impact.’
‘But it’s not the whole truth.’ Rosie heard her voice go up an octave.
Silence. She took a deep breath. She needed to get out of here now, before she said any more. Maybe they were right, maybe she would see sense in the morning.
She looked each one of them squarely in the eye.
‘Okay. Do what you like. I’ll phone in copy with a few paragraphs about Houdini in the zipped-up hold-all. You guys can just sit here and try to find each other’s balls. I’m out of here.’
She strode off and downstairs, out of the revolving door, her eyes filled with tears. When she got home and closed the door of her flat, she poured herself a glass of wine, lit a cigarette then went out onto the balcony and stood staring across the city. Then she dialled the copy-takers at the Post and began relaying the story off the top of her head about Ryegate in the hold-all. It would be the new nose to the front page – whatever the watered-down story that followed it would be.
She stood for a while until the evening chill forced her off the balcony, then sat staring at the television for the best part of an hour, her mind racing through all the events of the last forty-eight hours. She drained her glass and was about to pour a refill when her mobile rang. It was McGuire.
‘Gilmour. Where are you?’
‘Well, I’m not in the pokey. Not yet anyway.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In my flat. I’ve sent the copy over. What’s the problem?’ She was deadpan.
‘Right. Listen. Get yourself out of there tonight and booked into a hotel, and in the morning make yourself scarce for a couple of days.’
‘Why?
‘Because all sorts of shit is about to hit the fan when the story comes out tomorrow. The full story. Not the abridged pish they were trying to sell me in my office an hour ago.’
‘Christ, Mick!’ Rosie felt her face smiling. ‘You’re really using everything?’
‘It’s my shout. I’m the editor. Fuck Westminster and these bastards who think they can call the shots if it gets too hot for them.’
‘I do love you, Mick. You know that.’
‘Aye. Fine. There goes my fucking knighthood, and maybe even my job.’
‘That won’t happen, Mick. You’ll get huge kudos from it. Everyone will follow our story.’
‘Listen, Rosie. You’ll be getting lifted by the cops in the morning, so get the fuck out of there until we come to some kind of agreement with them about what they’re going to do.’
‘Okay. Will do.’
Rosie put down the glass, phoned a taxi and was out of the flat in five minutes.
Chapter Forty
Rosie stood in the shower, the cold water taking her breath away. It had been a restless night. Her fevered dreams were a collection of everything that had happened – from the beatings in the warehouse, to the body flying through the air and crashing on to the concrete at Olenca’s flat. She woke up unable to breathe, panicking that she was suffocating inside a zipped-up hold-all. Jesus! That brought a new dimension to her nightmares. Her mobile rang as she came out of the bathroom and she saw Ruby’s number. She’d told her last night that she was leaving early and wanted to say goodbye. Rosie asked her to come to the car park of One Devonshire Gardens, the discreet boutique hotel where she was holed up in case the cops came to her flat to arrest her.
She saw Ruby standing by the car as she came out of the hotel door into the morning sunshine. Rosie peered into the car. Roddy Thompson sat in the driver’s seat. He nodded to her. Judy was in the back and Rosie waved to her, but she didn’t really register her, just stared out of the side window.
‘Hello, Ruby.’ Rosie came forward and hugged her. ‘Great to see you. All set?’
‘Yep.’ Even in her casual tracksuit bottoms and a baggy sweatshirt, Ruby still looked stunning – apart from a few bruises. ‘Can’t wait to get out of here. Christ knows when or if I’ll ever come back. New life for me now, Rosie.’
‘How’s Judy?’
‘She’s good. She might look like she’s miles away, and she still is a lot of the time, but we’re working on it. I’ve got a really good therapist lined up in France. I’m gradually getting her back. I always knew she was in there. Maybe I won’t get the same person back, but Christ – I’m not the same person. Judy didn’t even get a chance to grow up. We have a lot of years to make up.’
‘I’m so glad for you. It’s taken a lot, Ruby, for you to get this far.’
‘Yeah.’ She sighed. ‘I saw your story this morning. Blew me away. Nearly choked on my coffee.’
Rosie smiled.
‘There’s a warrant out for my arrest. They want me to give up Adrian. But I can’t do that.’
‘Good on you. They’re all fucking gangsters – cops, politicians . . . all of them. It’s only the likes of us who gets shat upon from a great height. No wonder so many kids turn out the way they do. Angry and hitting back.’
Rosie nodded.
‘So what will you do now?’
‘Just live my life in France. I’ve made enough money. I’ve siphoned off plenty from those thieving, robbing bastards who did my mother in. I made them pay, all right, and I’ll be fine. I gave my statement to the cops about what I saw that night, so Tam Dunn will get jailed for life. Fuck him.’
They stood in silence for a long moment, then Rosie looked Ruby in the eye.
‘Did the cops question you about the fire in the house in Spain and in Ayrshire at Malky Cameron’s house?’
‘Of course they did. They’re not that thick.’
‘And what did you tell them?’
‘I told them not to be so stupid. That I wasn’t daft enough to even think about bumping them off.’ She turned to the car. ‘Listen, I need to get moving.’
Rosie couldn’t resist it.
‘But you did, Ruby. You did kill those two bastards.’
Ruby gave her a long, hard look, then shrugged her shoulders.
‘And your point is?’
She turned and walked towards the car. Rosie stood watching as she got in, turned to Judy and said something that made Judy wave a hand. Then they were off, and Rosie watched as they drove out of the car park and onto the road.
Rosie’s phone rang. It was McGuire.
‘I hope you’re out of the way, Gilmour.’
‘Yeah. I was in One Devonshire last night, and I’m going down to Loch Lomond today. Stay somewhere smart.’
‘Well, don’t mind my fucking expenses.’
‘Don’t worry, Mick, I won’t.’
‘And Rosie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Great paper today. We stuffed every bastard. But there’s a shitl
oad of trouble coming our way. The cops are looking for you.’
‘Tell them I’ve gone AWOL. I’ve had a breakdown or something.’
She hung up, a satisfied smile spread across her face as she walked back into the hotel.
Acknowledgements
It’s a strange old life being a writer – euphoric and lonely in equal measure – and always rewarding.
I count my blessings every day. Especially having so many people around me – family and true friends who are always there in some form. So this is a chance to say thanks to them.
To my sister Sadie, my rock, and without her I’m not sure how I’d function; my brothers Des, Hugh and Arthur, and all their children and grandchildren, who spell out the bright future.
Thanks to my niece Kat Campbell – my PR guru – and Matthew Costello along with Paul Smith for the website wizardry and great banter. And Christopher Costello who makes me laugh.
A Cold Killing involved a bit of research into the Eastern Europe of old, and for that I thank Eve Rosenhaft, Professor of German Historical Studies at the University of Liverpool.
Thanks also to Andrew Gumley, Professor of Psychological Therapy at Glasgow University, for his advice on the effects of childhood emotional trauma. Thanks also to Dr Iain Campbell, Clinical Psychologist.
And thanks to the great friends who have stayed the course. Here are a few of them who have been with me through the best and worst of times.
Eileen O’Rourke, Liz Dorman, Anne Sharpe, Annmarie Newall, Helen and Irene Timmons, Sarah Hendrie and Alice Cowan.
All the Motherwell Smiths – and the Timmonses and the McGoldricks.
Mags, Annie, Mary, Phil, Helen, Barbara, Donna, Jan, Louise, Si, Lynn, Annie, Maureen, Keith, Mark, and Thomas.
In Dingle, thanks to Mary, Paud, Siobhan, Martin, Cristin, and Sean Brendain.