by Anna Smith
Rosie hoped the wire Matt had put on her was picking this up. She sat in an armchair, opposite Helen, facing her so that her hidden camera could also pick this up on video. She glanced at Matt sitting by a table and he winked. He would take pictures later, if things worked out.
‘So what did you want to see us about? I thought we said everything the other day. You’ve had it all in the paper.’
Rosie took a breath, waited.
‘There’s some other things I wanted to put to you and ask you about.’
‘What?’
‘It’s information that has come to us in the last day or so. About Alan and his disappearance in Romania.’
‘I’ve been over that a million times, with the cops and the press at the time. I’ve no idea why he would disappear, leave me high and dry like this. Maybe he’s with one of his floozies. I wouldn’t be surprised.’
Rosie waited a moment and watched her, then asked, ‘Do you think something has happened to him?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Why would you say that? Do you?’
Rosie ignored the question.
‘Helen, I want to ask you about Frankie Mallon and how he came to know Alan.’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘I’ll come to that in a minute. But did Frankie do some work for Alan? I know you met him through Alan – you told me that yourself – but did Frankie work for him?’
Helen hesitated, and looked as though she was trying to remember if she had said this in past interviews with the police, in case she was incriminating herself.
‘I can’t remember.’ She brushed it off. ‘I think he did some work for him, but you know, Alan never told me about his work other than that it was boring accounts for companies. He only ever talked a bit more about the wine-importing business he was getting involved in, but he only told me that because he was going to be travelling to Romania a bit. And I went with him too a few times.’
Once more, Rosie waited and watched.
‘Do you remember Frankie Mallon ever going with him? To Romania?’
The words seemed to sting Helen, and she shot Rosie as calm a glance as she could muster. But Rosie could see the little flush rising on her neck. She was rattled.
‘I honestly don’t know. But I don’t think so.’
Rosie flipped back the pages of her notebook and screwed up her eyes.
‘What about in September last year?’
‘What about it?’
‘Did Alan go to Bucharest?’
She looked surprised. ‘Yes. Of course. That’s the last time I saw him. Why are you asking me that? It’s well documented.’
‘Did Frankie Mallon go with him?’
Now it was an icy glare she shot Rosie.
‘What? No. I . . . I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know. I mean, why would he?’
‘Well, maybe he was working with him in other areas you didn’t know about.’
Helen put her hand up. ‘Hold on a minute. What are we talking about here? Are you saying Frankie was working with Alan in this babies scandal? Is that what you’re getting at here?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you trying to say?’
Rosie took a moment.
‘I’m asking because some information has come to us that Frankie was in Bucharest at the same time as Alan. That they were seen together.’ Rosie paused to watch it registering before she added, ‘They went out fishing in one of the lakes.’
Helen blanched and she glanced at her mother.
‘What is all this? Why are you suddenly asking all this crap? What does it matter anyway?’
‘It’s just information we’re trying to look at.’
‘Well I don’t know anything about that.’
Rosie waited. She knew she wouldn’t get too much longer before Helen exploded.
‘When did you last see Alan?’
‘Aw, for Christ’s sake. I’ve told that a million times. I last saw him the day he was leaving here to go to Bucharest. Last September. You can read that anywhere. What is all this?’
‘Is that really the last time you saw him? Are you sure you want to say that?’
‘What?’
Rosie let the silence fill the room, the air crackling with tension. Janey looked at the floor.
‘Alan is alive, Helen.’
‘What?’ She managed to look genuinely shocked. ‘Alan’s alive? B-But . . . how? I mean, how do you know?’
‘You know how I know, Helen.’
‘What?’
‘You saw him yourself. When he used his key and walked into your flat three weeks ago . . . And Frankie Mallon was lying on the floor, shot in the chest by you. Frankie was trying to blackmail you, because you had hired him to kill your husband. Does that sound about right?’
Helen looked as though she’d been shot herself. Her face flushed and she jumped to her feet.
‘Wait a fucking minute. What are you talking about? Look, who do you think you are? Coming in here accusing me, telling me Alan is still alive. It’s just rubbish. Now get out – before I fucking throw you out,’ she snarled. ‘You can’t go accusing me of anything.’
Rosie knew she just about had her.
‘What – you going to call the cops?’ Rosie reached into her pocket and took out her mobile phone and pressed a key. ‘You won’t have to. They’re right here.’
Helen looked at her in disbelief and staggered back as though she was dazed. She grabbed for her bag as a key was suddenly turned in the door. Then it opened, and in walked Alan Lewis, his face grey and his eyes cold and angry. DI James Morton was behind him, along with a woman detective and another uniformed cop. Matt started furiously snapping the scene.
‘What the fuck! What is this? Alan . . . You . . . You’re alive . . .!’
‘I think you can cut the crap now, Helen,’ Rosie said. ‘The game’s up.’
Her mother stood open-mouthed as Alan, hair shorter and cleaned up, walked across to Helen.
‘I brought some people who want to talk to you, Helen. Believe me, you’ll be glad it’s them and not any one of these thugs who are currently scouring the city for you.’ He turned to the inspector. ‘This is DI Morton.’
The DI looked Helen in the eye.
‘As Rosie says, Helen, the game is up. Your man here has told us everything. And I mean the lot – selling babies, people-smuggling, money-laundering. He’ll get jail all right. But so will you. Because he’s back from the dead, despite your best efforts.’
‘Fuck this. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She glanced at Alan. ‘Selling fucking weans? Christ almighty.’ Then she looked at the cop. ‘I don’t know any of this.’
‘We’ll let the courts decide that,’ said DI Morton. ‘But you did send a hitman to kill your husband, so don’t even start denying that. Alan’s told us all about that too.’
Suddenly Helen reached into her bag and brought out a gun. She furiously waved it around the room.
‘Right. Everybody fucking just stand where they are. This thing’s loaded.’
The DI stepped forward.
‘Helen. There’s no way out of here. Are you going to shoot us all? There are police outside the room and all over the hotel. Come on. Don’t be stupid.’
‘Helen . . .’ Alan said. ‘Stop. Just tell me why you did it. Why did you send Frankie to kill me? I gave you everything. I loved you. And you tried to get me murdered. Why did you want to be with scum like him, when you could be with me? I’d have done anything for you.’ His voice shook a little. ‘Why, Helen? Did you think Frankie was going to look after you? Christ! He told me out in the boat that afternoon, after he thumped me on the head the first time with the fire extinguisher. Yes. I’ll tell you about it. I sat there, stunned, shocked, terrified. He told me that you sent him to do this. But that he was taking everything. He was killing me and conning you. How could you be so stupid?’ He swallowed. ‘I loved you.’
‘Shut up. I’ve had enough of you. You li
ed to me, you cheated on me with whores every time you were away. You think I didn’t know? What was I supposed to do?’
‘I cheated on you?’ Alan shook his head. ‘Come on. Put the gun down before someone gets hurt.’
‘No. Everyone just get out of my way and nobody will get hurt.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Come on, Ma. Let’s get out of here.’
She kept the gun pointed at Alan, then at Rosie and the cops. Her mother didn’t move. Janey looked around the room, and seemed to buckle.
‘We’re not going anywhere, Helen. Put the gun down. It’s over.’
‘Ma, don’t say that. We can go.’
‘No we can’t, Helen. You need to face up to what you did. I’ve had enough.’
Helen began to shake, her face flushed, and her voice trembled, almost shrieking. ‘You’ve had enough? You think you’ve had enough. What about me? You made me who I am!’
‘Stop it, Helen.’
‘No. You helped put me on the game, Ma. I was fourteen fucking years old. I didn’t know anything. You put me on the game. Where do you think that left me as a girl? Eh? You forced me to have an abortion. So don’t you tell me I have to face up to what I’ve done.’
‘Helen!’
‘Shut up!’ She broke down. ‘Everything I did was to survive. Frankie would have killed me that day. He came to my flat to get all my money and he wasn’t going to stop there. He would have taken my money and killed me. It was me or him.’ She began to sob. ‘Ma. Please believe me.’
Alan took a step towards her, his face suddenly full of concern.
‘Helen. Give me the gun.’
She jerked away, pointed it straight at him. ‘Get back!’ she shrieked.
‘Stop, Helen!’ Rosie heard herself say. ‘You need to stop now. You know what you’ve done and why you did it. So tell that to the police. You don’t have an option here. You can’t shoot your way out of this. Put the gun down.’
She aimed the gun at Rosie, her hands trembling.
‘You set me up, you bitch. What kind of bastard are you?’
‘Listen, Helen. I’m doing you a favour. Do you think these gangsters will ever stop looking for you? Look what they’ve done to everyone who has crossed them. You’re a dead woman walking. Getting into police custody is your only way out. These mobsters will hunt you down no matter where you are. You stole their money.’ Rosie paused. ‘And, by the way, you left an innocent wee girl without a father.’
Helen looked at Rosie, her eyes full of tears and defeat. She suddenly dropped the gun and the detective was across the room in a second to pick it up. The female police officer was at his side, and in a flash Helen was in handcuffs.
Rosie looked at the DI as he came over to Helen.
‘Helen Lewis, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Francis Mallon.’
Helen’s head dropped down to her chest and she wept. DI Morton nodded to the cops and they pushed her towards the door. As she got there she turned to her mother.
‘Ma! Help me!’
Janey stood there, stony-faced, and said nothing. The officers ushered Helen out of the door.
Rosie pushed out a sigh as she looked at the DI. They both looked at Janey.
‘Am I under arrest here?’
‘No. But we’ll want to talk to you. You need to give a statement. Helen has been living under your roof for the past three weeks, so you have been harbouring a murder suspect.’
‘What was I supposed to do? She’s my daughter.’
Rosie looked at her in disgust. ‘I need to get out of here.’ She nodded to Matt, then turned to the DI. ‘I’ll give you a call.’
‘Thanks,’ he said.
Rosie and Matt walked along the corridor in silence and got into the lift. Rosie stared straight ahead.
‘I don’t feel good about that, Matt. Maybe I should. But I don’t.’
He put his arm over his shoulder.
‘I know how you’re feeling, Rosie. I knew it wouldn’t sit well with you. But sometimes you have to do things that aren’t always easy. But it was right. Just believe that.’
She nodded as the door pinged and opened for the ground floor. As they got out of the hotel, they could see Helen being bundled into the car, and as it drove past them, she looked at Rosie, her face streaked with tears and mascara. Somewhere in there was the angry teenage girl, confused, abandoned to predatory men by her own mother. How else could she have understood how she was supposed to fit in and live her life after that? Rosie turned away.
Chapter Forty-Two
Rosie left the editor’s office with his usual ‘you and your bleeding heart’ quote still ringing in her ears. McGuire had punched the air in triumph as she’d described the drama with Helen Lewis and her arrest. No other newspaper would even have a sniff at this, he said, and it was almost too good not to use. But he knew the restrictions, because Helen was under arrest, and no doubt the Crown Office would be moving quickly to formally charge her and to have her in court for a first appearance, barring newspapers from mentioning any details of her alleged crimes. On top of that, Alan Lewis was also facing charges of people-smuggling and money-laundering concerning the charity. DI Morton had told Rosie the details of how he’d escaped and survived, and it was a fantastic tale that she was desperate to use. As long as the police investigation was ongoing she was restricted on how much she could say, but she knew she’d get away with mentioning how Lewis had stayed under the water after Frankie pushed him into the lake and could see him turning the boat around and disappearing, leaving Lewis to float to the shore. He couldn’t rely on his gangster mates to get him home, because he knew he had also been conning them out of money in his accounts. He had to make it on his own, staying in farms, befriending a local and finally getting smuggled out of Romania once he was able to get access to some money. Rosie knew she had to tread very carefully as she knocked out her story, giving as much detail as she thought she could get away with for tomorrow’s paper. The bulk of Helen’s words couldn’t be used right now, but would put the Post so far in front of the other media when all the background came out at the end of her eventual court case. Then, she’d be able to use the full interview, Helen Lewis’s gun-wielding meltdown, and the police stepping in to arrest her, as well as Alan’s full story. But that would be a long way off. For tomorrow, McGuire was delighted that the lawyers had okayed him to use a front-page picture of Helen coming face to face with her husband who’d been missing for six months. Matt’s pictures were terrific, capturing her stunned expression perfectly. But Rosie had to play down the story of what really happened, by writing . . . This is the heart-stopping moment when Helen Lewis met her husband for the first time in six months. Minutes before detectives moved in to arrest her, the woman was stunned when her husband walked into a hotel room where she was being interviewed by the Post.’
It was great stuff, and Rosie should have felt like celebrating, but right now she felt deflated and just wanted to go home. But when the phone call came from DI Morton asking her for a quick celebratory drink, she knew she couldn’t refuse. She had to keep this guy onside for the future. She was meeting him in Archie’s Bar in Waterloo Street. She decided to take the car, because right now it would be too tempting to go into the bar and knock back three or four rapid gin and tonics just to kick out the blues. The car would keep her disciplined. She still had to meet TJ later – he was going on the night flight to London and although they’d said their goodbyes the other night, she wanted to be there to see him off when he stopped by her house en route.
There were no parking places in the street near the pub and rather than go searching, Rosie decided to go into the car park at Anderston bus station. She drove through, but couldn’t find a space until further in, at the end in the corner. She’d been so busy trying to get her car into the tight spot that she hadn’t noticed a car drive past behind her. She was quite glad. Car parks were eerie places at the best of times, and it was dark outside. It was good to feel that she wasn’t alone
. Rosie got out of the car, pulling her bag over her shoulder. She closed the door and began walking towards the light at the exit. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. Her stomach jolted a little. Christ, Rosie. It’s just your imagination. Keep walking. She quickened her step, afraid to look over her shoulder. She was only fifty yards from the street, where she could see traffic. She could feel her heart beat faster. The combination of tiredness and paranoia was getting to her. Keep walking, she told herself. But the footsteps grew louder, closer, and she was so scared she started to break into a run. But as she did, a figure appeared from behind a pillar and suddenly she stood before him. She was too confused even to work out what was happening – a robbery, a junkie. But it wasn’t. Her legs turned to jelly and she couldn’t make another step. Then suddenly she felt a bag going over her head from behind and she was dragged roughly backwards.
‘What the fu—What is this? Here. Take my bag. Take everything.’
She felt a single blow from a heavy fist to the side of her head and everything went black.
When she came to, she was trussed up in the back of a van, her face against the cold metal floor. Her head was pounding, and when she blinked, her vision was blurred. She felt sick. Cold fear ran through her. She tried to focus to see if her bag or phone was anywhere and she could see the phone among her things scattered on the floor. Perhaps it was a robbery and they would let her go. But she knew it wasn’t. She lay there, terrified, barely able to breathe for panic. Then suddenly the doors opened and as she peered out, she could see the van was not in the car park. There was traffic. She tried again to focus, but something was wrong. She couldn’t see properly, blinking, but everything was still blurred. She thought she could see the lights of the Kingston Bridge, so she must still be in the city. Then she was roughly dragged from the van. She tried to look at the man, but she was seeing double. This was serious. Whatever had happened, the blow to her head had caused problems, or maybe they’d drugged her. Her movements were slurred, like she was wading through mud.