Dead Won't Sleep (19 page)

They drank their coffee without talking. You could do that with Adrian. He was comfortable in his silence, almost unnervingly comfortable sometimes. He’d once told her that people talk too much, and that there is more to hear if you are quiet. Rosie hadn’t worked that one out yet.

She recalled how they’d met – two years ago – and how he’d said he would never forget her kindness. She’d been sitting at the window of a coffee and sandwich shop in the centre of town, waiting for a taxi back to
the
Post
. The place was filling up with office workers out buying lunch to eat at their desks. She was vaguely aware of the big Eastern European guy loitering by the sandwich bar. He was gaunt and pale, probably in his early thirties. In his shabby clothes, he looked no different from the dozens of Bosnian refugees you saw these days in the streets and housing schemes of Glasgow. They had flocked here to escape the conflict in their own war-torn land, only to end up in high-rise flats in drug-infested Sighthill. Definitely a cruel irony there.

Rosie had watched as the guy slipped two baguettes under his jumper, but then she noticed that one of the girls behind the counter had also seen him do it and was whispering to her boss. When he made to walk out of the door, the manager came after him. The big man completely froze as he was approached and asked what he was doing with the baguettes up his jumper.

‘Excuse me,’ Rosie heard herself saying. ‘He’s with me.’ She looked at him and he looked back at her, confused. She glared at him and took the baguettes out of his hand, saying, ‘What are you doing?’

She turned to the manager. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, discreetly. ‘He gets confused, you know what it’s like. He works for me. I told him to pick up the sandwiches and bring them to me in the car so he mustn’t have noticed me here. Must have got lost in translation.’ She gave the manager a slightly frustrated look. He had no reason to doubt her, and apologised. She told the big
man to come and sit beside her. There were tears in his eyes.

‘Why you do that? I not understand.’ His face was white.

Rosie looked at him. ‘You remind me of someone I used to know. A long time ago . . .’ She smiled. ‘Hey. But why did you do it? Steal the bread?’

‘I am hungry. Sorry. I will pay you back.’

She told him to forget it. She paid for the sandwiches and watched as he ate both of them. Over two mugs of tea he told her, in fractured English, his story. A Bosnian muslim, he had been a farmer north of Sarajevo who, alongside his villagers, had fought against the Serbian soldiers who rampaged through the region. How he got here, and the horrors he had witnessed in his village before he escaped, was heartbreaking. He had lost both parents and a brother in a massacre.

Rosie knew what he was talking about. The memories of her time in Bosnia, of the brutality and atrocities, still haunted her. She got him a job as a porter at one of the big hotels and, over time, he proved to be a valuable contact. Occasionally they would share a coffee or lunch, and Adrian said she would be his friend forever. He told her he was very strong, and if she ever needed anyone to protect her, she should call him. She had only asked him once before, when she went to doorstep a loan shark. His sheer size had proved enough of a threat, and he hadn’t had to lift a finger.

Rosie had asked Alison Prentice to meet her in a cafe at the Corstorphine side of the city to save her driving through the madness of Princes Street. It was also better that they meet away from Alison’s flat in case she was being watched.

She drove along the motorway blinking back tiredness, hypnotised by the windscreen wipers and the driving sleet. She explained carefully to Adrian the basics of the story about the police corruption. He didn’t seem surprised. It was the same, he said, in his country. He couldn’t understand the point of writing a story in the newspaper, he was sure nothing would change, and he nodded impassively when she told him about Alison being attacked.

‘When you go to meet her in the cafe,’ he said, ‘drive past first and show me where you are, then I get off along the road. I will watch. I will see if someone is following. You. Or the girl.’ He stared straight ahead.

Adrian wasn’t a lot of laughs, but Rosie was glad he
was with her. She was dog tired. She hadn’t slept a wink last night after seeing Matt’s pictures of the kids at the big house. She, Matt, and the picture editor had sat in McGuire’s office with him, going over the snaps. They hardly spoke as Matt explained what he’d been doing and what else he noticed in the room. Rosie and McGuire shook their heads in disbelief when they realised the man with the silver hair, taking pictures of the children, was Lord Dawson. McGuire quoted some of the high profile court cases Dawson had been involved in. McGuire looked shattered, Rosie noticed, as though he didn’t know whether to celebrate or despair at the property in his hands. He knew it was almost too hot to handle.

‘Will we ever get this in the paper, Mick?’ Rosie asked.

McGuire looked at the photographs spread out on his desk, then at her.

‘We will get a story in the paper,’ he said, emphatically. ‘How much we’ll be able to say is another matter. But these pictures tell a story, Rosie, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure we print them, whatever happens.’

‘There’ll be all sorts of pressure from upstairs,’ the picture editor said. ‘Political pressure, I’d say. Wait till you see, Mick.’

‘I know,’ McGuire said. ‘I’m not in any doubt about that. But before this goes anywhere, before we even take it to the lawyers, I want everything nailed down as tight as we can. I want it watertight.’ He looked at Rosie. When
the others left the office, she and McGuire stood over the photographs.

‘This is fucking dynamite, Rosie.’

‘I know. I just keep seeing Trina’s face, especially when she’s taken out of the room by that man. God knows what happened to her, Mick. I’m going to find out who he is. I’m going to find out what the bastard did to that poor wee girl.’

McGuire touched her arm. ‘What you’re going to do, Gilmour, is not get all emotionally hung up.’ Seeing she was about to protest, he went on. ‘You will nail this down. In a totally cold, clinical way, as only you can. You can save your bleeding heart for the day after publication. Right now, there’s a lot to be done.’

He had asked how things were going on the cop story and almost choked when she told him about Alison Prentice’s call.

‘Be safe, Rosie,’ he said, as she left the office.

Now, walking towards the small cafe where they’d arranged to meet, Rosie steeled herself. She had dropped Adrian off a couple of blocks down the street, then parked close to the cafe.

There were only three people in the cafe – two elderly, well-heeled Edinburgh ladies with hats on, and an unhappy-looking girl in the far corner. The girl’s face was grey and her eyes looked red and swollen from crying, and Rosie guessed this was Alison. She made eye contact and headed for the table.
‘Rosie?’ Alison whispered, moving as though to stand up.

‘Yeah.’ Rosie slid onto the bench, taking off her coat. ‘How’re you doing?’ She reached across and touched the back of Alison’s cold hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ She hoped she sounded reassuring. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

Alison’s eyes filled with tears, but she seemed to shake herself out of it. She rubbed her face and sat forward. The waitress came and Rosie ordered herself coffee and another for Alison.

‘On the phone’ – Rosie didn’t see the point of wasting too much time – ‘you were saying that you had something to tell. Something about your father and others. Other police officers . . . ?’

Alison closed her eyes and sniffed. ‘I’m so scared, Rosie.’

‘I know. I know you’re scared. Just take your own time.’

They sat in silence for a moment. The waitress came over with the coffees and looked at both of them. Rosie gave her a cold stare and she shrugged and walked off. Rosie wondered if this was a good place to talk, or even if Alison was up to it. She would give her another few moments then suggest they go for a walk.

‘He left a note,’ Alison said suddenly. ‘My father. He left a letter. He posted it to me before he died. It . . . It tells everything. Everything. And there’s a picture . . .’ Rosie could hear her heart beat. She squeezed Alison’s arm encouragingly.

‘Go on.’

Alison composed herself, and told her everything that was in the letter. Rosie kept her eyes looking straight into Alison’s as she spoke about Fox. She called him her Uncle Gavin, whom she had grown up respecting. She told how he was behind everything and described how she had confronted him a couple of days ago. She believed that was why she’d been attacked.

‘Where’s the letter and the picture now?’ Rosie prayed she hadn’t destroyed them.

‘They ransacked my flat, but they didn’t find them. I’ve got them in my bag.’ Alison placed the brown leather bag on the table, and Rosie breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Don’t take them out here,’ she said, as Alison moved to open the bag. ‘We’ll drink our coffee then go to my car.’

She asked Alison if she thought anyone saw her leaving her flat. She said she’d left by a back entrance and had been doing that for the past two days.

Rosie knew that Fox would not rest until he had destroyed any evidence that could damage him. She would call McGuire, they’d have to make an arrangement to get Alison away somewhere. When they’d finished their coffees, Rosie got up.

In the car, Alison sat in silence as Rosie read the letter. She had leafed through it briefly, noticing it was signed ‘Dad’ and not Jack Prentice’s name, but she would get more samples of his handwriting to authenticate it. She spotted the main names throughout the letter, Gavin
Fox, and Bill Mackie. Jake Cox. Now she read it again, slowly. It was unbelievable. When she had finished, she sat back and let out a sigh of disbelief. Alison was crying.

‘I’m so sorry, Alison.’ She turned to her. ‘This must have been awful for you. But you
will
get through this.’ Jesus, she was sounding like the parish priest. But what else could you say to a girl who worshipped her father, then found out he was a complete bastard?

Then Alison rummaged in her bag, and handed Rosie a picture. She immediately recognised Jake Cox, the Big Man, with his arm around a woman. It looked like Gavin Fox in the background, but it was a side-on view. They seemed to be on a boat. Rosie rolled down the window and took a deep breath. The cold sleet felt good on her face.

‘Can I have this picture and the letter, Alison?’ she said. ‘I take it that’s what you want? I can expose this.’ She was terrified that Alison would say no, but she knew in her heart she had to give her the opportunity. And she knew she had to give her the chance to pull back. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want all this to come out?’ she said. ‘All this about your father?’ McGuire would have had a heart attack if he’d heard her.

Alison nodded. ‘Yes. I want the truth to come out. It’s not just about my father, or the shame on me and my mother. It’s about people being killed. Murdered. That young girl on the boat, Rosie? I read that story at the time and thought how sad it was. My dad was there. He
did that. Not killed her, but he threw her into the sea.’

She broke down. ‘I mean, well, he might even have had sex with that young girl. It’s awful. She was only fourteen. I was physically sick when I read that.’

She sobbed.

Rosie put the snap inside the letter, folded it over and put it into a zip compartment in her handbag. Despite herself she felt a pang of guilt. McGuire was right. She never really had that killer instinct.
Save the bleeding heart for the day after publication
. His words rang in her ears.

‘Alison,’ she said. ‘What do you want to do? If I’m going to investigate this story and do it in the next week, or however long it takes, I don’t think you’ll want to be around. I can get you away somewhere. Abroad if you like. Or if you want to go somewhere with a friend . . . Have you got a close friend? One you can trust?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about going up north or something? I can send someone to look after you. You wouldn’t be in any danger.’

‘I’d like that.’ Alison blew her nose. ‘Just get away for a bit. Until it all comes out in the paper.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘I’ll tell her I’m going for a break.’

‘Yes, but what will happen to her when all this comes out? She’ll be shattered.’

Alison looked away. She took a deep breath, then she stopped crying.

‘I don’t really care. As you can see from the letter, she made my dad’s life a misery. He was probably all fucked up because of her, and he probably took all those backhanders to keep her and her greed going. She wanted so much, always had to have the best of everything. I want the truth to come out more than I want to protect her.’

Rosie told her to go back to her flat and contact the friend who would go away with her. They might be away for a couple of weeks, so she should be prepared.

Alison seemed relieved. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she opened the door of the car to leave.

Rosie didn’t really know what to say. She squeezed her hand reassuringly and said, ‘Okay, Alison. I’ll call you in a couple of hours. Take care.’

She watched in her rear-view mirror as Alison walked up the street into the grey afternoon until she disappeared from view, then she drove along the road until she saw Adrian standing in a shop doorway. He got into the car and they drove off. He pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror.

‘They are following us, Rosie. Two men. A black BMW.’

There was no way Rosie’s Vauxhall could outrun a BMW. Even if she drove with her foot to the floor, ripping up the inside lane on the M8 to try to lose it, she knew the BMW would catch her.

Adrian kept checking the mirror. ‘Still there . . . four or five cars back . . .’

‘Shit.’ Rosie’s heart was pumping. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white as she zipped into the fast lane, almost taking the nose off a car in the middle lane, whose driver honked his horn indignantly. ‘Yeah, yeah, asshole,’ Rosie snapped. ‘You want to be where I’m sitting.’ She saw the driver giving her the finger.