Screams in the Dark (36 page)

She tried to speak, but her throat was tight.

‘You there, Rosie?’

‘Yeah … I … I’m just … Can’t believe you did that.’

She heard him sighing. ‘Just didn’t feel right, not seeing you. Cost me my first week’s gigging money, by the way. Are you okay? They didn’t shoot you or anything?’ he joked.

‘Not quite,’ Rosie managed to say. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, TJ. I … I thought you’d be gone. I had just resigned myself to it. There’s been so
much going on over in Bosnia and stuff that I tried not to think about it, but when I got to London last night, I felt … Well I felt like shit, just knowing that I’d miss you by a few hours.’

‘Well, we’ve got a couple of days. Then I’m off. Why don’t I come to your place tonight? We can get a takeaway.’ He paused. ‘Or are you too knackered from the trip?’

‘No. No way, TJ. I’m okay,’ Rosie said quickly. ‘But … er … I have to see someone at six. A cop. I’ll be there by around seven.’

*

Rosie felt a little sluggish as she sat on a bar stool in O’Brien’s, sipping a mineral water as she waited for Don. It had been a busy afternoon, writing the spread on her kidnap ordeal, then dashing up to dump her bag in her flat before coming out to meet Don. More than anything right now, she longed for a large gin and tonic to straighten her out, but she resisted, knowing that mixed with the exhaustion and stress she felt, it would hit her between the eyes. The last thing she wanted was to turn up to meet TJ half sozzled.

She watched as Don came through the swing doors and automatically looked over to the bar. He came towards her, his craggy expression even more wiped out than usual. He glanced at Rosie’s bruised eye as he eased himself onto the bar stool.

‘You’ve been getting on some Serbian tits, I see. You’re not fussy who you fuck about, Rosie, are you?’ He offered her a cigarette and flicked the lighter under it. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t cut your ears off.’

‘They’re just not fast enough,’ Rosie gave a little swagger to her shrug.

‘What happened to you?’

‘I got kidnapped.’ Rosie drew on her cigarette and looked beyond him. ‘Long story. But as you see, I got away.’ She swirled the ice in her glass. ‘So what’s the score with the bent detective? And I hear the Deputy Chief is getting pelters.’

Don took a long drink of his pint and looked confounded.

‘It’s all gone fucking mental. The detective was on the take. He’s been on the force for years. In the CID for about nine, but one of these guys who was never going anywhere. Bit of a booze bag. We’re also hearing he’s been tipping them off on drugs busts. Can’t believe nobody had an inkling.’

‘Bastard! Is he not locked up?’

‘He will be. He’s being watched. The word is that they’re going to arrest him in the next twenty-four hours. They’re trying to get footage of him getting pay-offs.’

‘From Howie?’

‘Yep. And Clock Buchanan. He’s a hit man for Howie’s mob.’

‘I know who he is.’ Rosie remembered him writhing in agony from her kick. ‘But I thought they’d gone missing, disappeared to the Costa?’

‘That’s just a smokescreen put out by the cops. We know they’re still here. We want to get them all together. We’ve got a grass in their mob who’s hopefully going to stick them in.’

‘How come the grass couldn’t have stuck them in before … before poor Emir got shot? Or any of the other shit that went on up at the slaughterhouse?’

Don shrugged. ‘He didn’t know. Nobody had a sniff about what was going on up at the slaughterhouse – if you’ll pardon the pun.’ He smirked at his wit.

‘You’re a comedian, Don.’ Rosie said, deadpan. ‘But is the detective daft enough to go out and get a pay-off from them in this climate?’

‘We’ll soon see. Anyway, he’ll get ten years in the poky for this.’

‘That all? I hope somebody does him in.’ She drained her glass and slid off the stool. ‘Will I get a shout when you’re going to move on him – considering it was me who gave Emir to you in the first place, not knowing I was sending him to his death?’

‘I’ll talk to the big DI.’ He winked at Rosie. ‘He likes you. I’d say you’ll be in with a shout.’

*

Rosie decided to take the tube to the West End and make the short walk to her flat. It was a warm summer’s evening and she wanted to relish being back home, feel the Glasgow ground beneath her feet walking up to the train station. The walk would refresh her.

On the way up to Queen Street station, she stopped at an off-licence to buy a bottle of red wine, hoping she had another one at home. As she browsed the shelves, she became vaguely aware of a man standing at the other side of the doorway outside, and she thought he was looking at her. She dismissed it, hoping the paranoia
and constantly looking over her shoulder would soon pass.

At Buchanan Street underground platform, it was eerily quiet compared to what it would have been an hour earlier. The rush hour was over and there were only a few people standing around, mostly students or tourists on their way to the West End. The distant rumbling of the tube approaching sent a gust of stifling hot air through the platform, and Rosie was thinking she would be glad to be out of this and back into the freshness of the evening. When the tube arrived, she stepped in and sat down, her eyes automatically looking up at the overhead tube map. She did it every time, obsessively checking she was on the right train, as though she suffered from some kind of short-term memory lapse. It was even worse whenever she was in London, when she could spend half a morning like Rain Man, reading the tube map, memorising the different routes. The control freak in her was terrified of getting lost – even though she knew that all you had to do was cross the platform and get back to where you came from. She smiled wryly to herself at her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. A shrink would have a field day if they ever got her on the couch.

She settled down and looked around her. A little brat with a posh accent was running up and down the carriage making a racket, slamming his fist on the windows. Rosie wondered how much private education it took before you got to the part that told your kid to sit on its arse on the train and behave. She noticed a guy a few seats up from her, sitting staring at the floor.
Vicious-looking bastard. She flicked a glance at him again. Suddenly, a chill ran through her. His hands: one was larger than the other.

Panic surged through Rosie, catching in her chest. She tried a deep breath, but it wouldn’t come. She looked around at the other passengers, then kept her eyes on the floor, squinting from behind her dark glasses to make sure. The big hand and the wee hand. Shit! It was Clock Buchanan! She hadn’t seen his face that day, but could feel his hand around her throat when she left him in agony on the floor after booting him in the balls. She looked up at the tube map. One more stop to Hyndland Road. Her heart was pounding.

Rosie stood up before her stop and moved closer to the door. From the side of her eye, she could see the guy with the mad psycho look was still staring at the floor. Maybe it was her imagination. Paranoia. He could be anybody. Calm down, she told herself, but her gut told her it was him. She felt her back damp with sweat. She needed air, but she knew one more attempt at a deep breath would make her lightheaded. Just hang on for a few seconds more, she told herself, then open the door and dive upstairs. She wouldn’t walk home even though it was only a few hundred yards. The tube stopped and she banged the button with her fist to open the doors. She got out and took the stairs two at a time not even looking back. At the top she phoned TJ.

‘Where are you, TJ?’

‘On my way up to yours. Why? It’s not seven yet. You home?’

‘No.’ She could feel her voice shaking. ‘TJ … I think I’m being followed.’

‘What? Where are you?’

‘I just got off the tube at Hyndland.’ She walked briskly out as she spoke. ‘There was a guy on the tube. I think it was the nutter who attacked me at Tanya’s house that day. Remember? The guy with the big hand and the wee hand?’

‘What? Was he on the train?’

‘Yeah. But I think maybe I saw him, just before that, TJ. Outside the off-licence in Renfield Street. Then on the tube. I think he’s followed me.’

‘Right. Okay. I’m in a taxi. Just go into the nearest busy place and wait for me. Just stay there. Any shop. Just get off the street into somewhere busy.’

Rosie figured Clock was only a few yards away if he’d got off the train. She jumped into the Costa cafe and hid behind a pillar so she could see outside and still be concealed. Then she saw him. He was standing on Byres Road looking up and down. He was looking for her. It
was
him. Shit! He turned around and started to walk towards the door of the coffee bar.

Rosie made a beeline for the toilet. She was shaking with fear. She stood waiting inside, hardly breathing. Surely he wouldn’t sit down in the cafe. He’d been following her and he’d lost her. Hopefully, he would just go away. Her mind was a blur. How the hell had he known where she was? Or had it just been sod’s law that they happened to be in the same street at the same time and he got lucky? After a few minutes, she decided it might
be safe to go out. She took a deep breath and opened the door into the corridor. But as she did, she came face to face with him. He grinned like a maniac and shoved her back into the toilet.

‘You cunt.’ He punched her face and knocked her against the tiles. ‘You’ll not get away this time. You made me look like a prick.’

‘You are a prick,’ Rosie heard herself saying as she instinctively lashed out at him.

‘Fuck you!’ He tried to punch her, but she jerked her head swiftly and his fist hit the wall. ‘Bastard!’ he rasped.

She swung a punch at his face and heard it connect on the flesh, but it just made him worse, and her hand hurt.

‘You think you can fight me, you wee bitch?’ He shoved her against the wall, his forarm pushed hard against her throat. ‘You’re dead meat, Gilmour. History. Big Jake’s doing his nut over in Spain that you fucked up our operation here. I hope you enjoyed your big story, you bitch. Because it’s your last.’

‘Fuck you.’ Rosie tried to punch him again, but felt her head knock against the tiles. Then she let out a gasp at a searing pain in her stomach. Her hand automatically went to the pain, as he backed off with a mad smile on his face. She saw the knife in his hand. Blood trickled through her fingers. Her legs buckled.

‘Fuck you,’ he spat on her as she began to slide down the wall. ‘That’s for my ma.’

She could see him disappear out of the door as she hit the floor. The phone. Shit! So much blood now, seeping in a pool onto the floor.

‘Oh God, no! My phone, my phone! Where is it?’

She kept a hand on her stomach to stem the blood bubbling out as her other hand fumbled for her phone. Her hands trembled so much she couldn’t hold it. She managed to press the last number she called.

‘TJ … TJ … I’ve been stabbed. Hurry. Costa cafe. Hurry. Hurry, TJ …’

She was dizzy but could hear noises in the distance. She was aware of the door opening and someone screaming. Then seconds later room the swayed and she saw double. People were coming towards her. She thought she saw TJ, but maybe it was a dream.

‘Rosie. It’s me. You’re okay. The ambulance is on its way.’ It was TJ. ‘Stay with me, Rosie. Stay with me, sweetheart.’ She saw the tears in his eyes as she passed out.

CHAPTER 37

By the fourth day, the consultant finally gave Rosie the all clear to leave hospital, stressing that she was to do nothing strenuous until the wound healed. The knife had nicked a vein in her stomach and she’d had to have emergency surgery to repair it. She had lost a lot of blood. She was ordered to have at least two weeks off work and complete rest.

McGuire had come to visit her in hospital, waving the
Post
with the front-page headline that Clock Buchanan had been arrested and was in custody, facing a string of charges. Stabbing Rosie was only one of them. Howie, unfortunately, had disappeared. Police continued to probe the illegal tissue trade story blasted wide open by the paper’s exclusive investigation. Rosie was disappointed that she’d missed out on the big story – not being there when Buchanan was arrested making the pay-off to the crooked detective. But McGuire told her to forget it – it would have been worse if she’d missed her next birthday.

Rosie had given her statement to detectives from her hospital bed, and so far it didn’t look like they were going to pursue her or the paper for withholding information from the police prior to her initial story. Hanlon had tipped her off on a visit that they were too covered in crap from their own ineptitude to go chasing the reporter who had cracked the case for them.

She had even got a card from Christy Larkin, congratulating her on the story and wishing her well. He’d chucked his job and was going travelling, the card said. The dinner she’d promised would have to wait.

TJ had changed his flight again, postponing another week to look after her. And the
Post
would pick up the cost of the flight for ‘that banjo player boyfriend’, McGuire had told Rosie.

‘He plays the sax,’ she’d insisted.

‘Well, whatever. At least he was in the right place at the right time.’

Now Rosie watched from the sofa as TJ got his bags organised and was preparing to go.

‘You know something, TJ,’ Rosie said. ‘The past couple of days have been just about perfect. Maybe I should get stabbed every week.’

‘Yeah, attention-seeking. I’ve seen it before with you.’

It was going to be tough to say goodbye. He brought mugs of tea for them and sat beside her.

‘I’m going to miss all this, Gilmour,’ he said, ruffling her hair. ‘Life’s never dull around you, that’s for sure, but I miss these little times together, listening to your patter and stuff. It’s been great these past few days.’ He
leaned over and kissed her. ‘Happiest I’ve been in a while, if I’m honest.’

‘And you didn’t even have to take a bullet for me this time.’ Rosie snuggled down into the sofa with her feet on the coffee table.

Her mobile rang. McGuire.

‘Howsit going, Rosie?’