Dead Won't Sleep (9 page)

‘Don’t be so defeatist,’ she snapped. ‘We have to give it a go. We can’t just lie down and let it be.’

‘And what happens once you’ve ruffled everyone up? And the lawyers knock back the story? You’re a marked woman. You’ll be driving home one night and get a pull from the cops and, lo and behold, there’ll be a stash of coke in your glove compartment. Make no mistake about it, Rosie, these bastards will get you. Or they’ll pay some of their gangster mates to do you over.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.

They sat in silence for a minute, Rosie mulling over what he had said. It wouldn’t be the first time she had upset the police and waited for some unpleasant consequences. But you had to take risks. She decided she’d had enough of TJ’s advice.

‘I think I’ll hit the trail.’ She slipped out of the booth and picked up her coat, avoiding eye contact.

‘Sorry, darlin’.’ TJ sighed. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt.’ He smiled to lift the mood. ‘I mean who else would listen to the stories of an old rocker at the fag-end of his life?’

‘Fag-end, my arse,’ Rosie said, as TJ got out of the booth. He put his arms around her and hugged her close. She could smell the smoke and that other smell he had that she liked. She didn’t know what it was, but it always made her feel safe.

‘Go home,’ TJ said. ‘Have a bath. Listen to some whales moaning, or monastic chants. Or better still, come home with me and we’ll smoke a joint.’

‘No thanks, pal. A joint is probably the last thing I need.’

As she walked away, TJ shouted after her.

‘I’ve got some great whale music.’

Rosie didn’t turn around, but gave him the two-fingered salute that she knew he would expect.

Rosie slipped into the pew at St Gregory’s and sat in the heavy silence of the empty Catholic church. Early morning mass had just finished, and the smell of incense still hung in the air. All Souls’ Day. They must have had Benediction. She looked up at the statue of the Sacred Heart with its outstretched arms, and swallowed hard. Tears came, the way they always did when she sat here on this day every year. She had long since questioned and ditched the dogma that the dead were really all souls waiting for the rest of us on the other side, but still she kept coming here. In her heart, she had nowhere else to go. Here, despite the choking sadness that overtook her, when she sat in the empty church she could still feel her mother’s presence. Wherever she looked, from the metal railings in front of the marble altar to the dark confessional boxes, Rosie could picture herself when she was six years old, sitting with her mother who was still beautiful and happy then. She
could see herself – in the little blue velvet cape she wore over her white First Communion dress – walking slowly back from the altar, hands joined, and stealing a glimpse at her mother’s beaming face among the rest of the parents. She had been great then.

Rosie thought of Gemma, of how watchful the kid was of Mags, as though she’d seen her fall apart too often. She remembered the feeling all too well. How you covered things up, invented little stories to make yourself feel equal to the rest of the kids in school. Of course she had a daddy, she told them. He was away in the Merchant Navy, but when he came back he was bringing presents and stuff from all over the world. From Africa and China. When they whispered and laughed, because their mothers had told them different, Rosie walked away and sat by herself. She didn’t need them anyway. She had her own little world. And when her mum was sober enough to do things, sometimes they would get all dressed up and take the blue train from Glasgow to the beach at Helensburgh and spend the day just walking, soaking up the atmosphere. Fish teas in the cafe, then home for the best sleeps ever . . .

The vestry door opened and the grey-haired old priest came in. He nodded at Rosie, genuflected at the altar, and came over to where she sat.

‘Hallo, Father,’ Rosie said, composing herself.

Father Dunnachie studied her face. He had known Rosie most of her young life, and her mother too, ever
since he had arrived at St Gregory’s from Donegal many years ago as a newly ordained curate. He had been moved around various churches during his lifetime, before coming back to St Gregory’s, where he was now semiretired.

‘Thought I might find you here,’ he said, touching her shoulder. He sat down beside her. ‘All Souls’ Day. You never miss it, Rosie.’ He turned to her and smiled.

Rosie knew the smile had a hint of sarcasm because it was the only day of the year she turned up at church. They sat in silence for a moment, then the priest spoke again. ‘I’ve some news for you, Rosie. I’m almost certain we’ve located the plot where your mother was buried. I’ll know for sure in the next few days.’

‘Really, Father? That’s great. I thought it would be just about impossible.’

She didn’t really know why she was doing this, but something inside of her was driving her on. When her mother died in such tragic circumstances, Rosie was removed from the house by the welfare. It was all a blur at the time, but she remembered the first few nights in the freezing children’s home, crying herself to sleep. She recalled the confusion and anguish of stumbling from one day to the next, watching from the draughty window sill every night for someone to come up the long driveway and take her home. Nobody did. Not for a long time. Not until her mother’s sister came up from where she had been living in Manchester, and took her
to join her family in the Glasgow east end tenement flat they called home. Nobody ever mentioned her mother’s name again. It was as though she’d never existed.

Rosie had had no concept of funerals or cemeteries, or even what they did to her mother after that day she found her. She had heard the words pauper’s burial, but they were whispered in shame. It had haunted her all her life but, like everything else, she had kept it to herself, buried inside along with the other emotions she kept in check. But over the past few months, the need to find out where her mother was buried had almost become overwhelming. She’d come to St. Gregory’s one morning after mass and approached the priest, and told him who she was. She was grateful he had remembered her. He told her that, from what he had gathered, her mother was buried in an unmarked grave in a cemetery that was closed down now. It would be hard to find it, but he promised to help. I just want somewhere I can visit, Father, Rosie had told him, and he nodded his understanding.

Somehow, Rosie told herself, if she could find the grave, put up a headstone or something, then she would feel less alone, less abandoned. If she could go there and talk to her mother from time to time, perhaps the nightmares would go away . . .

‘I’ve had the records trawled through,’ Father Dunnachie continued, ‘and I’ve come up with a few names of people who were buried in the same month
of that year. Unmarked.’ He was careful not to say pauper’s grave, but they both knew what he meant. He told her to come back in a couple of weeks, when he hoped to have the exact spot.

‘Thanks, Father.’ She got up to leave.

‘Are you well, Rosie?’ he said. ‘I mean, in yourself. You’re looking a wee bit pale.’

Rosie swallowed. Get a grip, woman, she thought, and said, ‘I’m fine, Father, just working long hours. A big story.’

His eyes flicked skywards. ‘That newspaper of yours. Sure it’s all scandal.’ She didn’t want to get him started on the Page Three girls.

‘Of course, Father, but some of the scandals need to be exposed. This one does.’

‘Good luck to you, Rosie.’

She turned and walked up the aisle, knowing he was watching her all the way. Outside in the crisp sunshine she breathed in the fresh air. She felt better than she’d felt for weeks. She smiled. Maybe someone really
was
watching over her.

Only the damned and the desperate were still working the Drag at this time of the morning. When you were this deep in the gutter you only had one choice: keep working until you made enough to get some gear on the way home. The last thing you wanted was to wake up frazzled and not have a hit. In her short skirt, Mags’s thighs felt raw in the biting wind, and the freezing sleet slapped her face. Just one more punter, she told herself, then home to the wean. Gemma had been sound asleep when she’d left her alone, locked in the flat. It wasn’t ideal, but she was always home before the child woke up.

Another car approached and drove on. She stepped forward, but the guy inside took a look at her then drove away. Pervert. So many of them came only to windowshop – fantasising about it was all they needed to get their rocks off. She spotted a guy across the street lighting a cigarette and could see from the match’s flame that
he was looking at her. He crossed the road towards her, and approached slowly.

‘Awright?’ He looked like a punter.

‘Yeah,’ Mags said ‘You all right?’

‘Aye.’ He glanced around him. ‘Busy night?’

He was definitely a punter.

‘Not bad.’ Mags could hear her teeth chattering. ‘Looking for business?’

He looked her up and down, then nodded his head. She told him it was forty pounds for full sex and twenty for oral. He grimaced at the price. Mags couldn’t afford to let him go.

‘I’ll do hand relief for a tenner,’ she said. ‘Call it a closing down sale.’

The punter didn’t crack. He mumbled that oral would be fine.

Mags told him to follow her. She walked round the corner into the deserted alley where she could see the street at the other side. A bin had blown over in the wind and rubbish was strewn along the cobblestones. It swirled around them as they picked their way in the darkness. He followed her to the small car park at the side of the warehouse where she had already been twice tonight. She stood against the wall as he took a step towards her. She could barely see him in the dark, but heard him breathing fast as she reached down and ran her hand across the front of his jeans. He was bursting out of them already, so this shouldn’t take long. She
unzipped him and put her cold hand inside where it was warm and smooth. He gave a short moan as she moved her hand up and down him so he would come quicker and she wouldn’t have to spend so much time blowing him. Mags knelt down and put her mouth around him, and he groaned, grabbing her hair and pushing her head against him. It was over in less than a minute and he let out a loud gasp. Mag spat and stood up, wiping her mouth on a scrap of tissue from her pocket. For a single moment their eyes met and Mags was thinking he had a weird, dark look about him. She would be glad to get rid of this one. He didn’t speak, but went into his pocket and Mags heard the rustle of notes. But when his hand came out again, there was a flicking noise, and even in the dark she could see the gleam of a blade.

It happened so fast, the blade was across her throat while she was still staring at him in disbelief. Before she slumped she put her hand up to her neck and felt the warm blood gushing out between her fingers. Then her knees went weak and, as she slid down the wall, she heard the sound of her mobile phone slipping out of her pocket and clattering onto the ground. He watched as she lay on the ground, not struggling, but just repeating the same name. ‘Gemma,’ she whispered. ‘Gemma.’

Rosie could hear the phone ringing, the way it always did when she had that dream. It was the same dream
that had haunted her since childhood, from that day she came home from school and found her. She had stood there in a daze, the phone ringing on the hall table just a few feet away, but she couldn’t move from the spot to answer it.

Now she heard it ringing again, the sound growing louder and louder as she felt herself being dragged out of the nightmare. She blinked in the darkness of her bedroom and heard the rain battering at the windows. She leaned across the bed and picked up the phone, checking the time on the radio alarm. It was ten past six. This could only be bad news.

‘Hallo?’ She cleared her throat.

‘Rosie?’ She recognised the voice of her cop contact Don. ‘Rosie, it’s me. Sorry, but it’s important.’

‘Don? What’s the matter?’

‘I thought you’d want to know. An early shout. There’s a prostitute been found with her throat cut, just off the Drag.’

Rosie’s heart jumped in her chest. Please don’t let it be Mags.

‘Any name? Do they know who she is?’ She was wide awake now and could hear her voice shaking. She tried to compose herself. Although she trusted Don, she didn’t want him to know just how much she knew. Not yet anyway.

‘Some bird called Mags.’ He was matter-of-fact. ‘Don’t know her second name. Oh, hold on . . .’ She could hear
him rustling paper. ‘It’s Gillin, or Gillick, or something. I was out there with the night shift. She’s a wee skinny blonde thing. Poor wee bastard. Imagine some fucker cutting her throat.’

Rosie felt sick. Her head swam and she sank back onto the pillow.

‘You there, Rosie?’

‘Yeah.’ She managed to answer. She saw Mags in the cafe, laughing and coughing. She saw her stroking Gemma’s hair. Gemma. What about Gemma?

‘Do we know where she’s from, Don? Any relatives I can go see?’ She wanted to make sure it was Mags.

‘No,’ Don said. ‘But wait till you hear. Uniform went round to her address and there’s this wee lassie lying sleeping on the couch. She’s only about eight or something. Social work are round there now. The bird must have left her in there all night by herself. These fucking junkies. Honest to Christ.’

‘Can I go round and get an early look at the place?’ Rosie was already thinking of the story, and how she would put it together. Don wouldn’t be suspicious if she simply wanted to go to the house and the scene of the crime.

‘Yeah, suppose so. But just watch what you’re doing because you’ll be there even before the evening paper hacks. It’s not half six yet.’

‘I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, I just want some early colour. I mean, that’s the second hooker who ends up
dead in a week. This story is getting bigger.’ She wondered if Don would take the bait.

‘Don’t know, Rosie, but what I
can
tell you is that there have been some pretty heavy calls made to the DI this morning. I was up at the crime scene and Jack Prentice turned up. I mean, what’s he doing there at this time of the morning? It’s not even his gaff.’