Dead Won't Sleep (4 page)

But TJ had a way of looking at her that made her feel he could see out of the back of her head. And despite her resolve, now and again something did a little skip inside her when she saw him. He told her how he had served his time, steeped in drink and drugs in dens from Glasgow to New York, and that nothing, but nothing, ever surprised him. He even said it wasn’t the money he busked for. He just did it because he liked to be out there, watching the world go by. In their frank encounters over coffee and, later, the occasional dinner, he had disarmed her with his easy philosophy of life. He said he had been to hell and back, but would never be drawn on the detail. TJ could cut through all the bullshit and Rosie found him easy to open up to. She smiled once more, catching his eye as she pushed open the doors of O’Brien’s.

Inside, Rosie headed for the bar, walking past a group of men cluttered around an oak podium where a guy in a pinstripe suit was holding court as he poured from a bottle of champagne. She pulled herself up onto a stool and nodded to Gerry, the silver-haired barman from Donegal who had been serving at O’Brien’s for twenty
years. They used to say that Gerry knew where all the bodies were buried because he had eavesdropped on so many conversations over the years.

He smiled as he approached Rosie, polishing a glass with a towel.

‘Ah, the delectable Miss Gilmour,’ Gerry said, with mocking deference. ‘How’s every little bit of you? What’ll it be?’

‘That’s two questions, Gerry,’ Rosie said. ‘The second one’s a lot easier to answer. A G and T, please. And you can call me Rosie, seeing as you know most of my innermost secrets.’ She smiled, enjoying the banter of her favourite barman.

‘How’re things, Rosie,’ Gerry said, keeping a watchful eye on the bar as it began to fill up with early evening drinkers spilling out of their offices.

‘Not too bad. You know. Just plodding along, keeping my head below the parapet.’ Rosie said, giving her stock answer.

‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Gerry winked. ‘Your head’s never been below the parapet in its life. C’mon. Whose life is about to be laid bare on the front page of the
Post
? Eh?’ Gerry pulled a pint of strong lager on the nod of a customer.

‘We’ll see.’ If only he knew. But then, knowing Gerry, he probably already did.

Rosie took a long gulp of the ice cool gin and tonic and relished the crisp taste. She caught sight of herself
in the mirror behind the bar and screwed up her eyes to get a better view. She looked pale, with dark shadows beneath her eyes from the sleepless nights that sometimes plagued her. She resolved to get to bed before midnight for the first time in a month. Swallowing another mouthful of her gin and tonic, she also resolved to stop the booze for a month. Maybe next month . . . As she was about to order another drink, she saw Gerry glancing over her shoulder and back to her. She swivelled around and smiled.

‘Hi, Don. Howsit going?’ She took a tenner from her jacket pocket. ‘Obviously you were waiting outside until I was about to order.’

‘Timing is everything in showbusiness. You should know that, pal.’

Detective Sergeant Don Elliot sat up on the empty stool next to Rosie. He ordered a pint of lager and lit a cigarette, drawing deeply and blowing the smoke upwards away from Rosie. Somebody once told him that his craggy features made him look like Humphrey Bogart in
The Big Sleep
. He’d been trying to live up to it ever since.

‘So what’s happening, Rosie?’ His eyes scanned her face. ‘You look knackered. What’s up?’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ Rosie said. ‘You always know how to make a girl feel good.’ She straightened up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Nothing’s up, I’m just a bit tired. Sometimes I don’t sleep great.’

‘That’ll be your guilty conscience after all the people you’ve done over in that paper of yours.’

Rosie smiled. Don moved closer to her and put on his game face. ‘Well, if you’re ever lonely, and you’ve nothing to do in the middle of the night, you know where to find me.’

‘I can always find something to do in the middle of the night.’

‘One-in-a-bed sex romps don’t count.’

‘You should know. You’re the expert.’ Rosie enjoyed the harmless banter with Don. He’d been trying to get her into bed for the past five years. He said he enjoyed the challenge, and that one of these days he would sneak up on her when she was least expecting it. They both knew they were friends who used each other. Rosie was glad of his tip-offs on a big story, and Don was always ready to use her to drop some of his cronies in the shit. It suited his own agenda as he climbed the greasy pole at Strathclyde Police. Don always said it was a perfect set-up, even if he hadn’t scored. Yet.

‘So, Rosie.’ Don swigged his beer. ‘Been busy? I heard you were at the press conference for that wee Tracy bird. What’s her name again?’

‘Eadie.’ Rosie shook her head. ‘Yeah. Sad, Don. Desperate. She was only fourteen. Can you imagine? I mean what kind of fucking world do we live in that somebody dumps a wee lassie like that in the sea?’

‘If I had my way, it’s the parents of kids like that I’d
ditch in the sea. They should have been fucking drowned at birth. The kid was already ruined by her pervy da, passing her around his paedo pals. That’s how she ended up in the children’s home in the first place. I’d cut his balls off and stuff them down his throat.’

‘I know,’ Rosie said, reflecting on the grim background that was revealed when the girl went missing, but they couldn’t publish it at the
Post
. ‘The thing is though, Don, if her father or anyone else had been prosecuted, then maybe more could have been done for the kid.’ She shook her head. ‘She must have felt totally abandoned in that home. Like it was her fault she was taken away from her family. I feel so sorry for these kids. Nobody ever picks up the pieces for a fucked-up childhood – except the kid. That’s how it’s always been.’ She bit her lip. The alcohol was making her maudlin and there was no room for that. She put her drink down on the bar and pushed it away, aware that Don was staring at her.

He smiled. ‘Always the bleeding heart, Rosie.’ He touched her hair, and leaned forward. ‘I know deep down you’re not just the kick-in-the-door hackette they say you are.’

Rosie smiled back. ‘Sure. I taught Mother Teresa everything she knows. Anyway, Don, what’s the sketch on the kid? What are they thinking? Was she murdered and then dumped in the sea or what? She certainly didn’t go for a swim.’

Don glanced around him quickly.

‘Early days. There’ll not be much left for forensics. And, of course, the fish will have cleaned her out.’ He puffed on his cigarette. ‘Hope you’ve not had any fish suppers in Ayrshire lately.’

‘Very funny, Don. You’re a sick bastard.’

He grinned. ‘But, Rosie, there’s something about this,’ he whispered. ‘Listen. I was talking to McGowan, and he said there’s a few arses twitching over this.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rosie hoped she sounded casual. ‘Because it’s the second hooker to die this year, if you count the girl who was found up in that flat in Maryhill? Or because the cops failed to find a kid that was missing from a children’s home until she washed up on the beach?’

‘I dunno. Bill Mackie was taking an interest in it, and it’s unusual for a Super from another division to become involved. I mean the lassie was found on the beach at Troon, so it’s not Glasgow’s patch.’

‘So what do you think?’ Rosie looked at his face for clues. She ordered another drink for them both and he paid.

Don finished his first pint and took a gulp of his second. She wasn’t sure if he was edgy. He lit another cigarette.

‘What’s going on, Don? You can tell me.’ She smiled. ‘Sure it’ll go no further.’

She knew he would tell her. He always did.

‘Aye, sure. You’re great at keeping secrets.’ He rubbed his chin.

‘C’mon, Don. I’m intrigued.’ Maybe it would confirm that Mags was telling the truth.

Don took a deep breath.

‘Right.’ He looked around him. ‘Listen, Rosie. You can’t do anything with this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.’

Rosie nodded.

Don licked his lips. ‘And anyway it might just be a rumour. Christ, it probably is, but I’ve heard that there’s something dodgy about this girl. You know Bob Fletcher, the DI? He used to be in Central but he’s moved to Internal Affairs now. You know him?’

She and Bob Fletcher went back a very long way, but she wasn’t about to reveal that to Don.

‘I know him,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t talked to him in a long time. Long before he moved.’

‘Well,’ Don said. ‘Bob’s an old mate of mine. I had a beer with him last night at a piss-up for one of our guys who’s retiring next week. He hinted about cop involvement.’

He whispered the words ‘cop involvement’, but Rosie heard it all right. She tried to look surprised.

‘What? Like she was with a polis? Surely not. They don’t do that kind of thing.’ Her voice was sarcastic.

‘Aye.’ Don nodded. ‘And not just any polis, Rosie. Top men. The very top.’ Don looked as though he was going to burst.

‘No way. The Chief Constable?’

‘No. Jesus, Rosie. Not that high up.’

‘Who then?’ She wanted it to come from him.

Don’s eyes narrowed. ‘Anybody ever tell you that you’re a very foxy lady?’ He smiled as he emphasised the word ‘foxy’.

Rosie just mouthed the name Foxy back. Don nodded.

‘Jesus H. Christ!’ Rosie said. ‘No wonder you can hear the sound of arses clanging shut. How do you know this?’

‘Right. Listen, Rosie.’ Don’s expression was grave. ‘There’s always been a rumour that Foxy and a couple of others – don’t know exactly who, but I’ve got my own ideas – apparently they use whores.’

‘What!’ She could get an Oscar for this.

‘No kidding,’ he said. ‘I don’t know for sure what the set-up is. Saunas and massage parlours, I’m told, but it’s always been said that Foxy and a few of his cohorts are corrupt fuckers. Always have been. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard. That they’ve used whores all these years. Even that they got pay-offs from the sauna and massage parlour bosses. Brown envelopes picked up on a weekly basis and all the free rides they could manage.’ Don was halfway through his pint. He shrugged. ‘Can’t understand it myself. A woman on a plate doesn’t ring my bell.’ He winked at Rosie. ‘It’s all about the chase for me.’

Rosie smiled. He was always flirting. She often wondered what he would do if she took him up on his offers. She ordered another for both of them. She was feeling quite high now.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but even so. Using whores is one thing, but this is about a fourteen-year-old kid from a children’s home who’s turned up dead. How could they be connected with that?’

Don shrugged, and lifted the glass to his lips. He took a sip and set it back down. ‘I’m not saying they were connected with that. No way. But it’s just that at the time the kid went missing, after a few days the whole search just dried up. It went cold and nobody seemed to be doing anything.’

‘Maybe that’s because nobody really gave a toss about a kid from that kind of background,’ Rosie said, drinking her gin. ‘You can bet your ass if she was from the posh, leafy suburbs and went missing, there would have been a blanket search still going on for her.’

Don shook his head. ‘That’s not really fair, Rosie. At the time, I remember there was a big team on it. Rumours that she’d been going out and working the Drag at night. It was the hookers who told cops. The thing is, I’m not sure that was even taken seriously. I remember that line being shot down very quickly. I still don’t know if it was true or not. Maybe the kid was working as a prostitute. I think it was established that she had a drug habit.’

‘Still doesn’t give a reason why she ends up in the sea,’ Rosie said, hoping he had more to say.

‘You’re right.’ He smiled. ‘Unless some cops who use whores got involved with her.’

‘You should be writing detective thrillers, Don. Is that not the realm of fantasy?’

Don sniggered. ‘Maybe it is. All I know is that there was no big interest in busting a gut to find this kid when she went missing, and now they’re trying to play it down, saying she may have been depressed, suicidal and stuff. From the sexual abuse. Blaming the parents. I don’t think anybody’s even thinking murder. No injuries on the body and nothing to suggest she was strangled or anything. Suicide looks likely.’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘And I suppose she got the train from Glasgow, hired a rowing boat and rowed herself out to sea and then just jumped in?’

Don nodded. ‘Therein lies the story.’

They sat in silence for a moment. Then howls of laughter from the champagne guys around the podium reminded them where they were.

‘As you can see, my friend,’ Rosie said, raising her glass. ‘Life goes on.’

Rosie could see it all from her balcony, three floors up at St George’s Cross. The city shimmering in all its glory under a million lights. Mother Glasgow. She could nearly hear its heartbeat. If you stood long enough, you could witness all forms of human life on the streets below. Some of the faces on the buses would not have looked out of place in a Moscow bread queue: empty resigned expressions as they were transported away from the city to the sprawling housing schemes and another world.

Directly below, students headed for the happy hour pubs to gorge themselves with the remains of their student loans. Payback time wasn’t even a concept – not in any aspect of their lives. Now and again Rosie would catch a glimpse of a drug deal being struck on the corner with a teenager in a baseball cap behind the wheel of a BMW. One time, during a sleepless night, she had stood on her balcony and watched amazed as a man pulled his girlfriend into a doorway and humped her there and
then. And they say romance is dead, Rosie reflected ironically in the dark of the February evening. She drained her glass of red wine and stood hypnotised by the teeming rain.

Her thoughts drifted back to the early afternoon when she was sent by her news desk to speak to the family of the dead girl. It never got any easier, any less depressing.

She had told the taxi driver to keep the engine running when they pulled up at the block of flats in the Cranhill housing scheme. No curtains twitched in the windows of this block when strangers arrived outside. The heroin explosion of the last decade had ravaged schemes like this and created a lost generation, stumbling around like zombies towards their next fix. Most of the flats were boarded up with the aluminium sheets that had become the shameful backdrop to Glasgow’s architecture in recent years – a stark contrast to the stunning carvings that tourists marvelled at on ancient city centre buildings. ‘Let Glasgow Flourish’, the city’s motto, went way back and came from the very mouth of its patron Saint Mungo, who apparently performed four miracles there. He would have needed another one for these shithole flats that were a blot on every housing scheme across the city. This was the Glasgow of the Billy and the Tim, where lives were trashed on a daily basis, some even before they were born. And years of in-bred religious sectarianism and hate ensured it was the city where
wearing the wrong coloured football jersey could get your throat cut on any given Saturday.