Dead Won't Sleep (3 page)

Rosie said she was having some tea and asked if they wanted anything.

‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Mags,’ the girl said. ‘And this is my wee girl, Gemma. She’s seven.’

‘Hi, Gemma,’ Rosie said, softening to the girl, who appeared well looked after for a junkie’s kid. ‘Do you want something to eat, Gemma?’

‘Can I get chips?’ the girl said, sitting on her hands, her big blue eyes looking from Rosie to her mum.

‘Chips?’ Rosie said. ‘It’s only half past ten in the morning. You can’t eat chips at this time.’

There was a silence. Gemma’s face fell. ‘I like chips,’ she murmured.

The waitress was at the table, watching the scene with her pencil and pad at the ready.

‘One plate of chips please,’ Rosie said. ‘And . . . ?’ She
looked at Mags without saying her name in front of the waitress. Walls had ears around these places.

‘A strawberry milkshake,’ Mags said, pulling a pack of ten Embassy Regal from her pocket.

Rosie nodded to the waitress, who gave her a knowing look that said the milkshake was the typical junkie drink. The waitress looked as though she wondered what this well-dressed woman was doing in this company. Rosie ordered more tea for herself.

Mags lit up the cigarette and inhaled so deeply that Rosie wondered if the smoke was going to come out of her ears. Gemma sat staring at Rosie, who figured Mags must be around twenty-two. Her stick-thin figure made her look like a kid, and she wore a tight pink T-shirt, with a heart on the chest and a quote that said, ‘love is in the air . . .’ Rosie glanced at it and looked out of the window at the rain. Sure it was. The T-shirt came only halfway down Mags’s midriff. There was no stomach, just a narrow waist and a silver ring in her navel. The pervert punters liked that skinny childlike frame, and Rosie knew they paid more if the girl was younger. But despite her skinny body, Mags’s face showed the ravages of years of heroin. The pupils of her strikingly green eyes were tiny, indicating that she had recently had a hit, probably her first of the morning. At least she would be in coherent shape to talk.

‘Well, Mags,’ Rosie said softly. ‘Tell me about Tracy Eadie. It’s a terrible thing that happened, but the cops
don’t seem that bothered, to be honest with you. The only thing that’s keeping them on the ball is that she was so young and from a children’s home. That’s what’ll keep it in the papers.’ Rosie knew that sounded a bit tactless, but she didn’t see the point of pulling any punches. ‘Is there anything you can tell me? Maybe I can do something. Maybe I can investigate.’ Rosie leaned forward.

‘Tracy’s deed,’ Gemma piped up, taking Rosie by surprise. ‘It was on the news.’

‘Shutit you,’ Mags snapped. ‘I told you. You can only come if you shut your mouth. I’ll no tell you again.’ Gemma put her head down, saying nothing. Rosie smiled at her, apologetically.

‘Right,’ Mags said, leaning towards Rosie. ‘Right. I’m going to tell you somethin’ about Tracy. You know the night before she went missin’? The night before she was never seen again? Well, I know where she was.’

She sniffed, her eyes darting around her.

‘She was with the polis. The main man. Top detective. Head of the CID. On his boat.’ Mags’s eyes narrowed. She drew on her fag and swallowed the smoke.

Several little explosions went off in Rosie’s head. Jesus. The boss man and a prostitute. A runaway from a children’s home, no less. Gavin Fox? Christ. It was like all your birthdays coming in one miserable morning. Prove it, she could almost hear the editor say. No chance of ever proving it, she thought. She pictured the apoplectic
newspaper lawyers who pored over everything she wrote in this new litigious world we lived in. You couldn’t even imply that a man like Gavin Fox spoke to a prostitute the wrong way, far less that he spent the night with a teenage one. No chance.

Fox was Teflon man. There were plenty of rumours about his less than conventional ways, but nobody had a thing on him. He was squeaky clean, and he got results. People said he was on the take, but people had said that about detectives since the beginning of time. Proving it was a different matter.

‘Aye,’ Mags said. ‘And he wasn’t on his own. His other two mates were there an’ all. They’re high heid yins as well. Big guys. Top men.’ She sat back. ‘By the way, am I getting paid for this?’

Rosie’s heart sank. She’d heard the fantasies of prostitutes before, and sometimes they gave Oscar-winning performances, but too often they lied through what was left of their teeth. She pushed the teacup away from her and moved as though she was getting up to leave. She went into her pocket, pulled out a ten-pound note and threw it onto the table.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard enough. You phone me in tears about your dead pal, tell me a far-fetched story about a top policeman, then ask for money. Mags, do me a favour, pal. Away and find yourself some other eejit. Try the
Sun
. They’ll maybe believe you.’ Rosie stood up. If the girl was telling the truth she would stop her
and withdraw the request for money. If she was lying, she would let Rosie go, still protesting that the story was true. There was always the chance that the girl would just let her go anyway, and even if the story was true, it was lost. Rosie took the chance.

‘Wait,’ Mags said, grabbing her arm. ‘Wait. Right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean I’m askin’ for money. Sorry about that. Sit doon, please. Please.’ She looked about to burst into tears. Gemma sat playing with her chips, watching her mum’s anguish.

Rosie sat back down.

Gradually Mags spilled out the story. She had known a cop called Jack Prentice for years. He sometimes used her and other girls. Only the ones that were quite smart looking, not the proper stanks who could hardly stand up. He introduced her to his mates a few months ago. They were both top policemen, but she only knew them as Bill and Foxy. She didn’t know who Foxy was until she was watching the news one night and his face came on the telly. He was the head of the CID. Jack used to arrange for her to go on Foxy’s boat overnight and she would have sex with the three of them. It was a yacht. It had sails. They always paid her well. It was Jack who paid her the money. And they used condoms, most of the time, but not for the blow-jobs.

Rosie glanced at Gemma but she was concentrating on the chips.

‘Sometimes I took another girl, but she’s dead now
from an overdose,’ Mags went on. She sucked on the straw of the milkshake. ‘Then there was this night, about six months ago, I saw Jack was talking to wee Tracy Eadie. I knew her for about four or five months. She was in a children’s home, because her da had been passin’ her round his mates for money. Wanker. She was in that Woodbank place.’ She put her arm around Gemma and pulled her close. Her voice became a whisper.

‘Tracy was on heroin, just smokin’ it, and started to work the Drag to pay for her habit. She was only twelve when she started takin’ stuff, with the hash and the jellies. But she looked a bit older, wi’ make-up an’ that. Not old, like twenty or something.’ She half smiled. ‘She made good money because a lot of the men like young ones. The next night, after Jack was talking to her, he was on the Drag and asked me could I find this girl Tracy, and if she was all right. I told him she was. He said to ask her if she would come to the boat. I said I would, and he gave me fifteen quid.’

Mags swallowed hard and looked beyond Rosie into the distance.

‘I know she went on the boat. She told me she was goin’ when I talked to her earlier on the night. I told her it would be okay and they were all right guys. I know she went with Jack because I saw her getting into his motor. I know he drove her to Ayr to go to the boat.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘That’s the last I saw her. She was on that boat with them. I know for a fact.’

‘How do you know for a fact, Mags?’

Mags looked at her. ‘She phoned me. She had a mobile some shoplifter gave her. She always had it. She phoned me from the boat later on that night. But I was wrecked and didn’t have my phone on. She left a message though. She sounded out of her box. Coked up or something. Said she was feelin’ sick. Said she wanted off the boat. And sayin’ the names of the guys. That kind of stuff.’

Rosie sat forward. ‘You got your mobile? Is the message still on it? Can I hear it?’ She was trying not to sound as excited as she felt. If this message was on her mobile, it was dynamite.

‘Nah,’ Mags said. ‘I’ve no got it with me. But I’ll get you it. Honest. I’m no making it up. I’ll get it, maybe tomorrow, but not now. I’ve got to graft.’ She started sniffing. ‘You see it was my fault. I shouldn’t have let her go. She was only a wee lassie.’

Rosie took a deep breath. She lifted the cup to her lips, slugged a mouthful of tea, and put it back down on the saucer. She watched Mags, crying now. Gemma sat with her chin on her hand. She pushed the last couple of chips away and leaned across to put her arm in her mother’s.

‘You okay, Mum? Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Mum.’

Mags was telling the truth. Rosie was certain of it. She pictured the shockwaves if she was ever able to tell that story. But who was going to trust the story of this shambolic figure in front of her? Two hours from now, she would be stupefied by her next heroin hit and giving
some anonymous punter hand-relief for a tenner in the passenger seat of his car. Who would believe her? Not McGuire, her editor, her biggest supporter. Not even him. But all of her instincts told her the story was true, and she would have to work out her next move. She wouldn’t tell anyone at the
Post
yet. Too early. But if she could get the mobile with the message on it, that would be a different story.

‘Look,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s okay, Mags. I believe you’re telling the truth, but you have to trust me. Don’t talk to anyone and just trust me that I will get this story done. But it’ll take time. We need to talk a lot more.’ She touched her hand. ‘Listen, can you get me the mobile now? I’ll take you to wherever you want to go.’

Mags stopped crying. She shook her head. ‘No. I can’t. I’ve got to go just now.’ She glanced at Gemma out of the corner of her eye. Gemma looked out of the window. ‘I need to graft. I’ve no money for anythin’. Know what I mean?’

‘We’ll go somewhere. I’ll get you sorted.’ Rosie knew she was sounding too keen, so she added, ‘It’ll save you going to graft.’ Christ. If McGuire could hear her offering to score heroin for a hooker, he would have to be scraped off the ceiling of his office.

Mags shook her head and started to get up.

‘No. It’s okay. I’ve got stuff to do. I’ve got to pay somebody else some money as well. They’ll be looking for me. I need to go now.’

‘Okay,’ Rosie said, getting up. ‘Can you meet me tomorrow? Glasgow Green at two? In the tearoom?’

‘Aye,’ Mags said as they walked to the door of the cafe.

Rosie touched the girl’s shoulder. ‘And Mags . . . Don’t forget the mobile. I need to hear that message. It’s important.’

‘All right. I’ll bring it.’ Mags took Gemma’s hand. ‘Are you sure you’ll be there?’

‘Of course I’ll be there. Now don’t say a word to anybody, especially any of the other girls. It could be dangerous for you. Understand?’

‘Aye. Thanks.’ Mags pulled Gemma’s hand and they walked out and away. The little girl turned back and waved to Rosie.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘see you tomorrow.’

Rosie watched them go off into the rain, down the dismal street, then she paid the waitress and left the cafe. She walked briskly, trying to shake off the ghosts that weighed on her shoulder.

From the solid oak swing doors to the cobalt blue and white-tiled Victorian bathrooms, O’Brien’s reeked of tradition and old-fashioned trust. For nearly a century, the movers and shakers had come here, some for business, some for pleasure. Many pushed their way through the doors simply to be seen. Others were there to rub shoulders with the celebrities or top lawyers and businessmen who gathered at the bar, or sat conspiratorially under stained-glass windows in leathered booths, striking deals as they sipped champagne. Young women waited in the wings, swooning at the thought of gaining access to the top drawer.

Discretion was everything at O’Brien’s, and with a nod and a fistful of notes, the head waiter could procure anything your discerning palate desired – a boy, a girl, some cocaine for the lady. No problem, sir.

A busker playing his saxophone for small change in the narrow street next to the entrance served as a
reminder that there was another world outside the plush green decor. Rosie always walked slowly when she neared O’Brien’s so that she could hear the busker’s lonely melodies drifting up through the grey city centre into the sky. She nodded and smiled as she approached the sax player, who raised his eyebrows and winked in recognition. Some big shot walking in front of her tossed a five-pound note into the sax player’s case just before he went into O’Brien’s. It lay there fluttering in the breeze among the coins. He nodded his thanks to the man, but kept on playing. Rosie gave the musician the thumbsup and he almost smiled. They were old friends. More than that.

His name was TJ. The first time they’d met, Rosie had told him his name sounded like some cliché from the Cotton Club. TJ had laughed and said he
was
an old cliché. One evening he’d given her the lowdown on a wasted celebrity thrown out of O’Brien’s after his cocainefuelled night ended in a punch-up. Since then, they’d started having a coffee now and again in the bookshop nearby, and from there the friendship had grown.

TJ never missed a trick, and he always called Rosie if he saw something interesting. Sometimes, Rosie even entertained the notion she was attracted to him. He was tall, with the swarthy looks that were high up her radar when it came to men. And he was older, distinguished looking with his lush dark hair greying at the sides. Late forties, maybe even fifty, with the kind of handsome
face that would have made him a bit of a heart-throb in his youth, but now he looked more lived-in. Rosie always put the shutters up when she felt more than just a physical attraction to a man. It was to do with self-preservation. If you let the floodgates open, you had to live with the pain of loss.