by Anna Smith
‘Yep. I’ll be there.’
‘And you wouldn’t be bringing any polis or anything?”
‘I’m a newspaper journalist, Janey. I don’t bring the cops when I’m going out to interview people. I’ll be there at two.’
‘How will I know you?’
‘The Alpen Lodge? You’ll know me, don’t worry. I know what Helen looks like anyway.’
‘Her hair is different.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll see you there.’
The woman hung up. Rosie looked at McGuire, all wide-eyed. ‘Helen Lewis. Fucking seriously?’ he said.
‘Yep. She wants to meet.’
‘Dancer! Take Matt with you – have him hanging handy for a snatch pic.’
‘I will. This could be interesting, Mick. I wonder what she’s got to say about the bold Frankie Mallon.’
‘Maybe she’ll confess she shot him. How good would that be?’
‘Yeah. Well don’t hold the front page till I see what she’s like.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to grab a bite, then head up there.’
‘Phone me as soon as you come out. There might also be queries on your spread, once they start working on it.’
‘Fine.’ Rosie was out of the door, her last big story now a piece of history at this moment, and her mind on her next splash.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rosie and Matt had entered the bar separately, Matt arriving a few minutes earlier so he could clock Helen Lewis and her mum once Rosie came in. From his perch at the bar, he gave Rosie a yes-this-is-really-happening look as she came through the door. It was exactly two in the afternoon and there was a karaoke in full swing. She glanced fleetingly at Matt, keeping her face straight as she took in the scene. The old guy on the karaoke microphone was belting out the Sixties classic ‘King of the Road’. ‘Trailers for sale or rent, Rooms to let . . . fifty cents . . . I’m a man of means by no means . . . King of the road . . .’
The last line brought a couple of tables of middle-aged couples to their feet, raising their glasses as though the song was their mantra. King of the road. Aye right, Rosie thought. Depends on how long you’ve been in the pub and how many drinks you’ve knocked back to make you feel like a king in this part of the town. But what the heck, they were happy, singing, and at least they weren’t fighting. Well, not yet. The Alpen Lodge was a peculiar name for a pub bang in the city centre, and where the only resemblance to anything remotely Alpine was that it was freezing cold. It had always been a mystery why they named it that, and even more peculiar was the thick Artex snow-effect on the outside wall, to make it feel like you were in some Swiss mountain hideaway. It was the kind of place you could easily go in to, and after a few drinks and karaoke, lose all sense of time, emerging blinking into the daylight the worse for drink, feeling it should be night. A very strange place to arrange a meet, Rosie thought. And it was packed to the rafters. Christ. She strained her eyes in the darkness and saw two women, one older and one strikingly good-looking younger one, in the corner. That had to be them. Helen Lewis was brunette in the photographs in the paper, but she was blonde here. They looked up, and after a few seconds, Rosie went across through the tables and stood by them.
‘I’m Rosie.’ She bent down, her voice low, not that anyone could hear much above the din. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Hi. It was me who phoned you. Janey. This is my daughter, Helen.’ The older woman looked up with a face that had been around the course a few times.
‘Hi, Janey,’ Rosie said. ‘Thanks for getting in touch.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You look a bit different – the hair. But not that different. I recognised you from the photographs. What you having?’
‘Jack Daniel’s for me, please,’ Helen said, ignoring Rosie’s remark about her hair.
‘Vodka and cranberry,’ Janey said.
‘Coming right up.’ Rosie turned back before she went to the bar. ‘A bit noisy in here, is it not – I mean, to talk.’
‘It’s fine,’ Janey said. ‘We had to find somewhere kind of out of the way. In case we bump into anyone we might know.’
‘I see,’ Rosie said. She went to the bar, ignoring Matt, who stood there sipping his pint. She returned to the table with a tray of drinks – a soda for herself. She set the drinks down and pulled up a chair beside the women, sitting close to Helen.
‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her drink. ‘Good to see you. I’m glad you got in touch.’
There was a bit of a lull in the music as a woman murdered an old ballad, and Rosie glanced over her shoulder as she leaned in.
‘So, how are you, Helen? How’ve you managed to stay out of the way of the cops? They’re all over the place looking for you.’
‘The cops are the least of my worries.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
‘Listen, Rosie,’ Helen said. ‘It was my ma’s idea to talk to you, but I’m not that sure. But I’ve been reading your stories in the Post and, well, I need to make some things clear here.’
‘Of course, Helen. Whatever you want to say. I’m here to listen to you.’ She winced as the music started up again. ‘But this is a helluva noisy place. Are you sure you want to talk here?’
Janey looked at Helen, who glanced beyond Rosie and past the toilets.
‘There’s a wee place at the back of the bar, with a pool table. It wasn’t busy when I went to the loo. Let’s go up there. It’ll be quieter.’
They picked up their drinks and headed for the back room. It stank of beer and cigarettes. But at least it was empty, apart from the pool table and a few old-fashioned wooden chairs and three tables next to some wall seating.
‘That’s better.’ Rosie plonked herself on a chair, and they sat with their backs to the wall. She leaned across the table, looking from one to the other. ‘So. You were saying about my stories. It’s been a bit of a revelation – all this scandal about the charity is awful. Unbelievable, really.’
She was about to ask if any of it rang true, when Helen interrupted.
‘That’s got nothing to do with me. I didn’t know anything about it. It’s all gone mental. And now this charity boss is found murdered. Christ! Makes me wonder who’s going to be next.’
‘Did you know him – Morgan?’
‘I met him. Once. Over there. With Alan.’
‘Really? Of course you’d have no reason to think he was involved in stuff like selling babies.’
Helen puffed. ‘Are you kidding? Of course not. He seemed like a nice guy. I don’t even know if he was involved in anything. I mean, how would I know that?’
She was defensive and flapping.
‘Maybe he didn’t know,’ Rosie said. ‘What about Alan?’
She bristled. ‘Alan? Christ! What about him? He wouldn’t do that. I can’t believe he’d be involved. No way.’
‘But you see from our story he was the charity’s accountant. He would see the books.’
‘Aye. Well, if he did, none of that shit would be there, would it?’
‘But what about the wine-importing business? From my story, if you saw it, the wine business is a front for the adoption agency. I’ve been there. To their offices. The charity’s office is in the same building, on the same floor. They’re all connected. Some of the people on the adoption agency are named as directors of the wine business as well.’
‘I know. I’ve been there. I was there when the partners in the wine business had some kind of wee reception for local businessmen. The town hall was there, and the police bosses.’
This was going better than Rosie had hoped. Helen wasn’t holding back.
‘Who were the partners? Alan’s partners?’
‘Them,’ she said. ‘Them guys you mentioned in your story. The Russian guy. I thought he was just a businessman. I mean I had no fucking idea. Pardon my French.’
‘No problem. So Alan was in tow with this Russian guy and his company in the wine-importing business? And he’d be doing the books for them? Is that ho
w you remember it?’
‘Yeah, but I just can’t see Alan knowing that they were into that baby racket. Alan was a nice guy. A good man. I’m his wife. If I even had a sniff about any involvement in selling babies I would have reported all of them myself. I love children. I mean that. I’ve none of my own, but the very idea of selling wee unfortunate kids for money or whatever reason makes me sick.’ She swallowed, and Rosie eyed her curiously, wondering if the flicker of emotion was genuine. It seemed to be.
Rosie took a moment. Then she decided to throw something in to provoke a reaction.
‘Helen, you said there, Alan “was” a nice guy. You say that as though he was dead. Are you now coming to terms with the idea that your husband is dead? That must be really hard for you.’
Helen swallowed and bit her lip. She turned to her mother, who put a comforting hand on her wrist. It looked like a little heartbreak scene, but Rosie’s gut told her it was far from it. Top marks for performance. She was being pulled in here for their own purposes. Fair enough. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. But Helen had a story to tell, and Rosie was happy to listen, regardless of her motive.
‘I suppose . . .’ her voice faltered a little, ‘I suppose I have to think that maybe I won’t see him again. I mean, why hasn’t he got in touch? People, the police, they were looking for him in Romania, and here too. He can’t have just vanished. I know he would have got in touch if he could.’
‘So do you think he’s dead? Maybe even murdered? Is it possible he found out about the baby scam?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
Rosie was already thinking of this story in the paper, how she would write it. Helen was throwing in plenty of good lines here, but she needed a full story. From start to finish, how they met, their lifestyle. And, crucially, what had happened to Frankie Mallon in her flat. But this wasn’t the moment to bring Frankie into it. Get the full story of Alan and their marriage out of her first.
‘Tell you what, Helen,’ Rosie said. ‘I want to be able to tell your story. Your side of things. Are you living in fear at the moment? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. Definitely. Especially since the murder of that Morgan bloke. I’m worried that these guys are out to get me.’
‘But why would they be?’
Helen hesitated for a moment and Rosie studied her face to see if she was lying. She was good. She was really good.
‘I don’t know. Maybe just because Alan was my husband. Maybe because I’ve made myself scarce.’
Rosie wanted to say to her that she had only made herself scarce after Frankie’s body was found in her flat. Up until then, she was going about her normal business, playing the grieving wife every time a camera showed up.
‘Sure. I understand that. But can we go back a bit? Go back to the beginning? Your life with Alan?’
‘I just want to get my point across that I had nothing to do with this baby-selling racket. I want to let these thugs know that I didn’t know anything about it. I’m scared I might be next. If they’ve killed Alan and then this guy, I could be next.’
‘Yes. I see that. But for me to tell your story, and to allow you to say that, then I need to paint the full picture.’
Helen eyed her suspiciously, then looked to her mum.
‘I know what she means,’ Janey said. ‘You know how you see these things in the papers, where the wife or man tells the whole story – where they met, their lives together. All that stuff. That’s what you need to do.’
Rosie nodded. Janey was wide, all right, and well clued up.
Helen thought for a moment.
‘Okay. I get that. You want me to talk about my life with Alan, how I grew up and stuff? You know I’m from the Gorbals. But I went to London when I was seventeen. Did a bit of modelling and stuff like that.’
‘Yes. All of that,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s part of the story.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Then how you and Alan went over to Romania and how he became involved in the wine-importing business. Tell me as much as you know about that. And about the charity, Hands Across Europe. What did they take over to Romania? Did you ever travel with them?’
‘No. But I was there when they came one time.’
‘Did you ever see them going back? I mean the aid trucks?’
‘No. Why?’
Rosie shrugged. Her story of people-smuggling wasn’t going in the paper till tomorrow, but she wanted to see if there was any reaction to her vague question on the trucks. There was none. She was satisfied that Helen knew nothing about that, and probably, as she said, knew nothing about the babies for sale. She would know that Alan was crooked. But to look at and listen to her, Helen was probably too wrapped up in spending her husband’s money, and her trips abroad to notice.
‘To be honest, I never really asked anything about Alan’s work. He was an accountant. What was the point? I can’t even count money in my purse. I was his wife. We went places together. He gave me a good life.’
Rosie listened. But there was nothing warm about Helen Lewis. No spark coming off her that made her feel this was a woman wronged. She didn’t like her. She was a dame and a half all right. She put on a bold front, but given what Rosie had learned of her background, she was probably also an accomplished liar. Not that she could blame her for that. Growing up in the Gorbals could turn you into anything. Some people emerged from it, studied at school and went on to become high achievers. A great many did not. And some who wanted the good life just took it. They learned how to live on their wits, deal with the people who ran the show, and slashed, shot or conned their way up the food chain. Helen Lewis had been putting on an act most of her life, Rosie decided. This was just another performance. There was no wave of sympathy washing over Rosie the way it often did when she came across people like this. But for the moment, she’d have to let her talk.
‘Okay, Helen. Can we wind things back a little bit, and talk about you and Alan, how you met and your life here with him.’
Helen looked at her mum, who nodded in agreement.
‘Might as well put it all out there,’ Janey said.
‘All right. I will.’ Helen took a breath and swallowed a glug of her drink.
Rosie switched on the tape and pushed it across the table, reassuring them it was necessary for the newspaper’s lawyers. They seemed to be placated by that. Then she listened as Helen spun her story of a hard life in the high flats, leaving to go to London, then meeting Alan at a business function. Rosie noted that she left out the fact that she had been a teenage prostitute in the Gorbals and perhaps an escort in London. She decided to let it go. It was Helen’s story. Rosie would give her enough rope.
She finished talking, with Rosie occasionally prompting and asking for more information about Romania and the wine-importing business and the charity. Rosie had a good enough story. She decided it was time to talk about Frankie Mallon.
‘That’s great, Helen.’ She sat back, but left the tape on, hoping they wouldn’t notice. ‘So, there are some other things I wanted to talk to you about.’
Helen nodded, sipping her drink.
‘Fine.’
‘Frankie Mallon.’ Rosie let the name hang there for a long moment, waiting for a reaction. A little telltale flinch of discomfort flashed across Helen’s eyes. But it was Janey who interrupted.
‘Well, you’ll have seen all that in the papers before. It was a break-in. A robbery.’
Rosie watched Helen as she shifted in her seat.
‘Yes. I know he was shot. But I was wondering why in your flat? Did you know Frankie? He grew up in the Gorbals too.’
Helen examined the back of her hands, screwing up her eyes as though she was trying to recollect.
‘I knew of him. He was a bit younger than me. A bit of a wee gangster. But I didn’t know him as such.’
Lying through her back teeth. Rosie thought of Donna, and of Helen parting with five grand of guilt money only a couple of days
ago for Frankie’s baby.
‘But why your flat?’
‘No idea. Why does anything happen to anyone? Who knows?’
Rosie sensed she wasn’t going to get anything further out of this. Best to let her deny it and use her story. It might even flush out anyone in their crooked circle, or a contact of Frankie’s to say a bit more. She had her story on tape. But she had to ask the crucial question, because if she went back to the office and hadn’t asked it, McGuire would not be happy.
‘Okay. Fair enough. That’s all good what you’ve said here, and we’ll give you plenty of space in the paper. I hope the men who you think are out to get everyone involved will believe you.’
‘Yeah. Me too. I’m scared shitless.’
Rosie fiddled with the tape, checked that it was still running.
‘Just one last question . . .’ She paused for effect. ‘Did you kill Frankie Mallon?’
It was like a bomb going off. The shock on their faces as though they weren’t sure if they’d heard it, or how to react.
‘What?’
‘Frankie. Did you kill him? Shoot him in your flat? Listen, Helen, If you did, you might have had good reason. Who knows, he was a gangster anyway. I’m here to tell your story, so if you had anything to do with his death, this is the time to say it.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ She glanced at her mother. ‘What is this? I mean, one minute you’re all nice listening to my story, then you hit me with this shit? Accusing me?’
‘I’m not accusing you, Helen. I’m just asking the question. Because the word on the grapevine is that you killed him.’
Janey slammed her half-empty glass on the table before Helen could answer. ‘The grapevine?’ she spat. ‘That pish that people just make up? What grapevine? If I had to believe everything that was said about me over the years I’d have been dead years ago. Look, she’s told you enough. We’ve said everything we want to say.’
Helen nodded. ‘Aye. Too right.’
Rosie put her hands up. ‘That’s fine, Honestly. Perfectly fine. But I hope you appreciate I had to ask the question. Fair enough. You’ve given me your answer. So don’t worry. I will say what you said.’