by Anna Smith
He shrugged. ‘As long as we’re in and out. If it looks too dodgy, we pull out straightaway.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’
Matt parked the car beside the house, and Rosie looked over her shoulder as they got out. They definitely didn’t look like they were there to score heroin, so they wouldn’t have too long before the jungle drums beat that there were strangers about. Inside, her gut was telling her this was a fruitless mission, but she had to feel she was doing something. The longer Dan was out there, the bigger the risk. They picked their way through beer cans and Buckfast bottles. The close stank of piss and vomit. They went towards the aluminium door.
‘Locked?’ Rosie wondered, noticing no handle.
‘No,’ Bertie said. ‘Look at the bottom. It’s not attached properly.’ He stepped forward and leaned against it. Nothing. Then he leaned again and this time gave it a hard push. The door made a scraping noise and opened enough for them to squeeze through. Rosie followed Bertie into the bare wood hallway.
The distinct stench of a rotting corpse hit her like a punch. She’d stumbled across enough in far-flung lands to recognize the stomach-churning reek anywhere. ‘Christ! There’s a body somewhere, Bertie.’
He nodded. ‘Was about to say that myself.’
The hall was dark and bleak, but a door was ajar at the far end. They tiptoed and could hear the unmistakable mumbled conversations of junkies. They stopped.
‘I’ll go first,’ Rosie said. ‘Don’t want to spook them.’
She went towards the door and pushed it open, gasping as she put her head around the door and saw inside. A pall of smoke hung over a torn sofa and two emaciated faces were sitting smoking heroin. Another girl sat on the floor against the wall pulling a band tight against her arm, trying to find a vein to inject. Two other junkies were passed out on the floor. She walked in, but nobody looked up. Bertie and Matt followed, and stood there, taking in the scene. One guy eventually looked at them, his eyes dreamy, and half smiled, then lay back to doze on the sofa, cigarette burning in his hand.
‘He’s not here. Let’s try the other rooms.’ Rosie backed out. ‘There’s something dead in this bloody house, though. I can smell it. Putrid!’
They followed the direction of the stench.
‘I’m going to throw up,’ Matt said, zipping his bomber jacket over his mouth. ‘Holy fuck, Rosie!’
The stench was coming from the door at the far end of the hall. Rosie looked at Bertie and Matt. It was already feeling like a wasted trip, another image to haunt her sleepless nights.
‘Let’s try.’ She pushed open the door and the smell almost knocked her off her feet. ‘Oh, Christ!’
Bertie coughed and Matt had to steady himself against the wall. Inside, among the mountain of rubbish, beer cans and debris, a woman lay on a sofa, her face blue and beginning to swell. She had been dead for at least a day, by the look of her. But the sight of the toddler on the floor beside her, eating out of a box of Frosties, made Rosie’s head swim.
‘Oh, Jesus wept!’
The toddler looked up out of dark-circled eyes and, for all the misery it sat in, smiled at them.
‘Shit!’ Bertie said suddenly. ‘Look, Rosie. Behind the sofa.’
Rosie glanced down to see Dan out for the count, his face deathly pale, a bubble of saliva at the side of his mouth. Her legs felt so heavy she couldn’t move.
‘Fucking hell!’ Bertie said. He dived across to him and dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse under his neck, and slapping Dan’s face at the same time. Nothing. Rosie watched, unable to move or speak, the baby still staring at her. Bertie was wiping the saliva from Dan’s mouth and opening it gently. He bent over to give him mouth-to-mouth.
She heard herself murmur, ‘Please don’t die, Dan. Please, God, don’t let him die.’
Bertie pumped Dan’s chest, then breathed into his mouth alternately. Dan’s head flopped from side to side, not responding. Then suddenly he gurgled. Bertie turned him onto his side. He made a grunting sound. ‘He’s alive! But maybe not for long. Let’s get him to fuck out of here.’
Bertie picked him up and held him in his arms as they made for the door. Rosie glanced back. ‘What about the baby? We can’t just leave her in the middle of this shit, Bertie.’
‘We can’t take her either, Rosie. Come on. Let’s get out of here and call the cops for her as soon as we get to the car. Go!’
They were in the hall when two young guys came through the half-open aluminium door. They didn’t look spaced out and one was brandishing a machete, the other a knife.
Rosie glanced at Matt. Suddenly, Bertie slung Dan over his shoulder, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun. ‘Out of my fucking way, ya pair of fannies, if you don’t want to die in the next three seconds.’
They stopped in their tracks, put their hands up, the machete clattering to the floor, and stood with their backs to the walls as Rosie and Matt slipped past them, then Bertie, carrying Dan. Matt could hardly get the keys into the car door, he was trembling so much. Rosie sat on the passenger seat and twisted round to Dan as they sped out of the street. His eyes were flickering, but he was deathly pale. ‘We need to get to the hospital, fast.’
Chapter Thirty
Rosie sat in McGuire’s office, only half listening to him. She was still trying to take in what they’d witnessed in the stinking junkie hellhole. It wasn’t the first time she’d stepped into somebody’s tragic story. She’d been in refugee camps when people had died in front of her, or children they’d been photographing would be dead by the time she and Matt had got back to their hotel. Her work was about walking into and out of people’s lives. She should have been used to it but she wasn’t: she couldn’t get the picture of the dead woman on the sofa out of her head. Who would tell the story of her short life? And what of the wide-eyed toddler who had already seen too much? She knew only too well that you could never erase a moment of trauma. It shaped who you became. She hoped the baby was young enough to forget.
‘You’re not listening to me, Gilmour.’ The editor clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. Snap out of it.’
Rosie blinked. ‘I am listening, Mick. I just keep thinking about the dead woman and that wee kid.’
‘Well, don’t worry about the kid. He or she’s better off out of it, and will get a real chance at life now. I know you’re a soft touch, but that drug-addict mother cared so much for her baby she was mainlining in front of it, probably since the day it was born. What chance would the wee thing have had in that shithole of an environment? Look at it this way. You did the kid a favour barging in there. You’ve probably saved its life.’
Rosie shrugged half-heartedly. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll try to see it that way.’
‘Good. What about Dan? He’s going to make it, isn’t he?’
By the time Rosie had left Dan’s bedside, he was awake and lucid enough to talk to her. He felt awful that he’d let everyone down and couldn’t understand why it had happened. He told her he’d had a panic attack, and before he knew what he was doing, he was running through the streets of Glasgow and heading up to Ruchill. He was in tears, apologizing, saying he was no good, that he’d been trying to be strong but he was shit at it. Rosie had to reassure him that nothing was lost. She knew he was in the safest place right now, so she’d left him, as the doctor had said he would be kept in overnight.
‘Also, what’s the score with this Bertie bloke? Christ, Rosie! You can fairly dig them up. He just produces a handgun out of his pocket? I thought you said he was a hotel owner in the borders. Why is he getting so involved? I know he’s an ex-cop, but is he a bit of a nutter?’
Rosie smiled for the first time that day, as she reflected on her conversation with Bertie at the hotel when she’d confided in him who the guests were and the dangers they brought with them. He was up for a bit of action: he was glad to have put his police career behind him, but he sometimes missed the buzz.
‘He’s straight as a die and was a great co
pper in his day. He was part of the Royal Protection Squad at one time so he always had a gun in his jacket, just in case. Believe me, he’s the kind of guy you’d want on your side when your back’s to the wall. He says he’ll stay in now till we get our story in the paper.’
‘Good stuff. As long as we’re not paying him an arm and a leg.’
‘I’ll just put it on my hotel expenses,’ Rosie said, only half joking.
McGuire gave her a look, and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, this Merv bastard. What do we do with him now? Where is he?’
‘He’s staying at the Holiday Inn. My concierge contact called me half an hour ago. Said he’s booked in at least for the night. His boys will still be hunting for Dan, so he might be here for another day.’
McGuire sat back and narrowed his eyes. ‘I think it’s time we monstered the fucker.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. I think we really need to move on him.’
‘What about the tape Dan was wearing? Where is it? Has he still got it?’
‘Sadly, no.’
Rosie had hoped McGuire wouldn’t ask about it until she’d at least tried to find it.
‘Fuck’s sake! Where is it?’
‘Dan said he had it when he went into that house, but he didn’t have it when we took him away. I didn’t look for it at the time because we thought he was dying, and it didn’t occur to me to see where the tape was. Bertie was giving him mouth-to-mouth.’
‘You’re not as heartless as you need to be, Gilmour. The tape is a priority. What you going to do?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I don’t want to know what you’re thinking, Rosie. But I don’t want you wading back in there and upturning the sofas in search of it. Are we clear on that?’
‘Sure,’ Rosie said. She didn’t tell him that Bertie was already planning to go back and look for it. ‘So let’s give it till tomorrow. Then we’ll go up to the Holiday Inn and see how we go with big Merv. You okay with that?’
‘Right. I want you to go home now. I need to think where my next story is going. Also, we have to see what we can do about Millie Chambers. The nurse Bridget says she got a call – that right? She’s back in the same place?’
‘Yeah,’ Rosie had almost forgotten she’d told him about Bridget’s call, she was so wrapped up in the pace of the last few hours. She’d tried Bridget’s mobile several times but got no answer.
‘Okay. Go home. Relax. Build a jigsaw or have a drink with that JT bloke.’
‘It’s TJ.’
‘Aye. Well, what kind of name is that anyway?’ McGuire stood up. ‘I want you relaxed, not staring into space. You looked a mess when you walked in here.’
‘Cheers, Mick.’
‘You know what I mean. I don’t want you overdoing it with all the crap that’s happened. We’ve a lot to do yet, so rest tonight. Tomorrow we’ll be ramping things up a bit. And I want to rattle Colin Chambers’ cage very soon too.’
*
Rosie called Bridget’s number, but there was still no answer. Her landline was ringing out too, and at six in the evening she’d have expected her to be at home. She’d said she was a creature of habit: after work it was always dinner, TV soaps, then an early night with a book. It bothered Rosie as she drove into the car park off Woodlands Road, on the way to her flat in St George’s Cross, and took out her notebook. She was looking forward to dinner with TJ. But she had to reassure herself before she could take a night off. She scanned the pages until she found the phone number for the Eastbourne District General Hospital, punched it in and asked for Ward Seven. A woman answered.
‘Hello. Is it possible to speak to Bridget Casey?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’ Rosie said. ‘Sorry to trouble you. I’m looking to speak to Bridget Casey. Is she still on duty?’
There was a long pause and a chill ran through Rosie.
‘Who is this, please? Are you a relative?’
‘No. Actually, I’m a friend.’
Another silence.
‘I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Bridget . . . er . . . Bridget was involved in a car accident yesterday.’
Rosie pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Oh, my God! I didn’t know. Is she all right?’
Another thumping silence.
‘I’m sorry. But . . . I’m really sorry to tell you that Bridget is dead.’
‘Jesus!’ Rosie murmured. ‘What happened?’
‘It was yesterday afternoon. She had finished her shift and was heading up the high street in the town. She seemed to step out in front of a car. Police are investigating. It was a hit-and-run. Imagine not stopping when a woman is so badly injured . . .’
Rosie was hearing the words, but all she could think of was Bridget hugging her the morning she’d left.
‘Hello? Are you still there? Do you want to speak to the ward sister on duty?’
‘No. I’m sorry, I have to go.’
‘If you want to leave a number, we can keep you informed of funeral arrangements.’
‘Thanks. I won’t leave a number. I must go.’ Rosie hung up.
She punched in McGuire’s private number, still in disbelief.
‘Rosie.’
‘Mick. It’s Bridget. She’s dead. I just called the hospital ward she works in and they told me. Knocked down by a car last night. Hit-and-run.’
‘Fuck me!’
‘Somebody did that deliberately, Mick.’
‘I know. Poor woman.’ He paused. ‘Look, Gilmour. I’m sorry you’ve had this news on top of everything, but try to get some rest tonight. We really need to take the gloves off tomorrow.’ He hung up.
She sat in the car and switched off the engine, numb with shock as she stared out at the rain bouncing off the street. Poor Bridget. All she’d wanted to do was the right thing.
*
Rosie lay in a hot bath with a glass of red wine, as TJ sat with his feet up on a chair in the corner, listening as she described the past few hours.
‘These people are bad bastards, Rosie. I hope you get to nail them.’ He sipped his wine.
She was surprised. No lecture? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d fallen into TJ’s arms when she was traumatized, depressed, or scared in the middle of an investigation, but almost every time, while he was there with an understanding hug, there was always the lecture on how she had to live her own life and that her job was dragging her down.
‘What? You’re not going to tell me to throw in the towel? That I can’t go on living like this, through other people’s misery?’
TJ got off his chair and knelt beside her. He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, and stroked her face. ‘Nope. No more lectures, Rosie. There were a lot of long days and nights in New York when I wondered if I’d ever see you again. And if I did, on what terms.’
Rosie looked at him, wondering what was he going to say? Was this the point where he would say that he’d he come to the conclusion that they could never be together like normal people, but that he would always be there for her as a friend?
‘So I made the decision. If I came back here and we hooked up again, I’d have to take a step back. We’re never going to be normal, you and me.’ He smiled. ‘Because you’re not normal, you crazy woman. You’re not happy unless you’re up to your knees in someone’s misery. And I decided that rather than whinge about it or try to change you, I’d just accept what you are. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure I’d want to be around you if you chucked the job. You wouldn’t be you without it. So, we are what we are.’ He paused. ‘I love you, Rosie. Whatever happens to you or to us, just know that. Nobody else will ever love you the way I do.’
Rosie swallowed the lump in her throat, but the tears still spilled out of her eyes, and she gave way to them. ‘Christ, look at me. I haven’t cried for ages, and now you’ve got me blubbing.’
‘You did cry,’ TJ said playfully. ‘A few nights ago – again. In your sleep. I just didn’t feel the need to wake
you and tell you.’
Rosie smiled through her tears. ‘I don’t remember it.’
TJ stood up, unfolded a towel and held it out. ‘Come on. I’m starving.’
She stood up, and he wrapped her in his arms.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie looked at her watch as she waited in the cafe on Woodlands Road for Don. It was only nine, but she was already feeling the tension of the day ahead. On top of that, she was knackered after a restless night. To her surprise, she’d dropped off as soon as her head had hit the pillow, probably due to the couple of large glasses of wine she’d had with TJ. But she’d woken up in his arms, with him murmuring words of comfort. Another nightmare – vivid pictures of Millie, Bridget and Dan flying through the air from a high building. But it was her mother who lay on the ground when Rosie ran down the stairwell, pushing doors open until she was outside. Her face was wet with tears, and she couldn’t get back to sleep afterwards.
She was glad to see Don coming in the doorway.
‘You’re on the go early this morning, Rosie.’ He slipped into the booth.
‘I know. Listen, thanks for coming. I’ve been meaning to see you for days to explain some things to you, but everything’s happening so quickly.’
‘You look like you’ve been up all night. What’s up? What the fuck happened to your face?’
‘I got punched by some thug. I’ll come to that in a minute. I’m a bit frazzled, chasing down a very big story, and I feel as though the walls are closing in on me.’
‘Is it to do with that wee junkie Mitch getting a going-over?’
‘Yeah. I’d hoped to talk to you about it before now.’
Don raised his eyebrows. ‘But you wanted your story in the bag first.’ He put his hands up. ‘Perfectly understandable.’
‘I’d have told you because, believe me, you’ll want to know about this, but it’s only between us for the moment. You okay with that?’
‘Sure.’
The waitress came over and he ordered an espresso. Rosie asked for a mineral water – she was already two coffees down and another would leave her jangling.