Screams in the Dark (8 page)

*

Now she sat in Frank’s chair and cast her eyes over the various letters and papers scattered across his desk. They meant nothing to her. Letters from the Scottish Refugee Council, the Department of Immigration, Social Services and other government bodies, as well as forms and case histories. There was no way she could plough through
all this when she didn’t know what she was looking for. She glanced at the safe in the corner, and before she could stop herself she went across, crouched down and turned the handle. To her surprise it was open. Her heart skipped a little.

She had to be careful. She opened the safe slowly and peered in. The buff folder that had been marked Asylum Cases, which she’d seen Frank take from Tony’s desk that fateful morning, was piled on top of other papers and folders. She carefully removed it, making sure she knew the exact place she had to put it back, then knelt on the floor and opened it. She flicked through the papers. It seemed to be individual cases, with translations of their accounts of where they came from. She began to read them, quickly scanning them, the words jumping out at her …
brutality … rape … murder … beatings … death threats
. All told the same story of fear. She sat back and sighed. Horror stories. Pictures flooded her mind from television news reports of wars and conflicts all over the world. She had never really seen much of the refugees who came and went at the lawyers’ office. Mostly by the time she’d finished cleaning in the morning, the waiting room was beginning to get busy with them arriving, some men or women on their own, others with children – all of them, she noticed, with that look of apprehension, of being out of place, the way she had been when she came here The way she still was and probably always would be.

Tanya shook her head. It was hopeless. She didn’t even know where to start. She gathered the papers together
and was about to put them back in the file, when a sheet of paper dropped out of the back of the folder onto the floor. On it was a printed list of names of refugees and addresses in Glasgow. At the side of each name were the words printed in capitals – ALONE, NO FAMILY. Next to that was a date of interview and then a tick. The names had been gone through with a pencil, as if they were being scrubbed out. Tanya reread the dozen or so names, and the places they were from: Kosovo, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Iraq. The lines through them didn’t make sense. She thought of the words of the men in Frank’s office, telling him he was in it up to his neck and that he had made money. Had he sold these people to work for someone, she wondered? It was all she had to go on. She had read in the newspapers about the people-trafficking and how some refugees ended up working as slaves, being run by gangmasters. She glanced up at the photocopier. She had about five minutes left if she hurried.

She was getting her jacket and bag together to leave the office by the time Frank came in the front door. It was after 9.30 and he was late. He was tired and dishevelled, and she couldn’t hide her surprise at how shattered he looked.

‘Hello Tanya.’ Frank attempted a smile. ‘You off then? I’m a bit late this morning.’ He ran his hand across his stubbly chin. ‘Late night. Didn’t even get a chance to shave.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Better get myself sorted before I get any clients.’

‘Can I get you something, Mr Frank?’ Tanya put her bag down. ‘Will I make some coffee? You want I go out and get you some breakfast?’

Frank hesitated and looked at her. ‘Maybe you could make a quick coffee Tanya, if you don’t mind.’ He walked towards his office, then turned back. ‘And, Tanya. I think you should call me Frank.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘I mean, well, the “mister” that you always call me? It makes me feel very old-fashioned and old!’ He smiled. ‘Been meaning to say that to you for a while. Frank will do.’

Tanya nodded as she went into the kitchen.

*

It was getting close to nine in the evening when Tanya took the call from the escort agency telling her she had a client. She protested at the short notice, but was told the original girl had called off and they couldn’t afford to let the client down as he was a regular when he was in town. It was easy, they told her. He was an older guy, it would be fairly straightforward. She didn’t want to turn it down since she had only just started back with the agency and didn’t want to rock the boat.

She knew that at this time of night she wasn’t getting invited for dinner. She’d be lucky if she got a drink at the hotel bar, but most likely it would be a glass of wine in the client’s bedroom. She had walked from her flat in the Merchant City to the Holiday Inn at the end of Argyle Street, partly to save on the taxi fare and partly to clear her head. This was only the second client she’d had since she’d called the escort agency to say she wanted
to work again. They’d told her they’d be glad to take her back, and that some of their clients had asked for her since she left. She stressed it was only for a few weeks until she got herself sorted. Sure, they’d told her. But that’s what she said when she first started with them, and she had continued working for eighteen months. That’s how it was when you were running out of options.

Later, on her way home, Tanya stopped for a coffee in the all-night cafe close to her house. It was warm and comfortable, with fat leather sofas you could sink into while watching the world go by from the window. Here she could be like anyone else – a student, a late-shift worker, any ordinary woman on her way home – instead of the woman she’d just been in the third-floor hotel room. She sipped her steaming mug of coffee and tried to blot out the images of the man in his sixties, grunting and heaving on top of her while she lay there with tears in her eyes for what her life had become.

She picked up a copy of the
Post
, and a headline on a story at the foot of page one caught her eye:
Cops probe refugee link to grisly torso find
 … She flicked to page five to read more. It said detectives investigating the mystery of the torso found in the River Clyde were not ruling out that it could have been the body of an asylum seeker. They still had no identification, but police said the body had a tiny tattoo above the groin and appealed for witnesses who might know of someone who had gone missing. The story said they were also cracking down on the vigilante attacks on refugees in Balornock, but would
not comment on whether this was linked to the torso. Tanya looked at the name of the reporter on the story – Rosie Gilmour. She slipped the newspaper into her bag and finished her coffee.

CHAPTER 9

Rosie looked at her watch as she waited outside the baker’s shop for Jan Logan to finish her shift. She’d been here for nearly half an hour, and it wasn’t the kind of place you sat in your car too long without the jungle drums beating. The only people who sat longer than ten minutes in a hole like Saracen were the drug dealers who waited at the edge of the scheme, like some kind of warped Mr Whippy ice cream man, supplying the stream of junkies who bounced towards them in search of their next fix. Even the snoops from the social had the good sense not to hang around. But Rosie didn’t want to miss her woman. Of course, it was a long shot that Tam Logan’s wife could shed any light on her man’s disappearance, and Rosie wasn’t even sure if there was any point in pursuing her. But the call from Don had been cryptic enough to spark her curiosity. She wondered if perhaps Howie was involved in refugee-trafficking. Don told her the word was that Logan had been doing some top secret driving job for Big Al Howie, but had opened his trap
and stepped out of line. It didn’t look like Tam was coming home for dinner – ever.

Eventually, she saw Jan come out of the shop and light up a fag before walking up Saracen Street in the direction of Springburn. Rosie started her engine and followed her at a distance. She didn’t want to go knocking on the door of Jan’s council flat in case it was being watched. After a few hundred yards, Rosie went ahead of her, then pulled into the kerb and waited. As she approached, Rosie got out of the car.

‘Jan?’ Rosie said, walking towards her. ‘Jan Logan?’

The woman looked at her suspiciously. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the
Post
.’ Rosie stood in front of her.

‘Aye. Well you can fuck off.’ Jan side-stepped her then walked ahead.

Rosie pursued her. ‘Look Jan, It’s about Tam. Your man. I want to talk to you, Maybe try to help you. Can you just give me a minute?’

Jan stopped in her tracks and turned around to face Rosie. ‘And how the fuck you going to help? Eh? Tell me that.’ Her eyes blazed.

‘We can write about it, Jan. Maybe he’s out there … somewhere.’ Rosie was on the backfoot.

‘Aye. Somewhere over the fucking rainbow.’ Jan looked Rosie in the eye and drew on her cigarette. ‘You think my Tam’s a missing person and maybe if I say in the paper how much we want him back, he’s going to come running up Springburn Road in slow motion?’ She snorted.

Rosie had to think on her feet.

‘No. I don’t, Jan. But I’ve got a feeling maybe he’s being held somewhere against his will. Perhaps he’s got himself involved in something and he’s in trouble. If we can highlight the story, it might put pressure on people to let him go … if that’s the situation. Listen, Tam’s not the worst guy in the world.’

Rosie could see that Jan was processing what she’d said.

‘Listen, can we go and have a cup of tea somewhere?’ She pointed to her car. ‘Come on, Jan. I’ve got my car. We can get out of here for ten minutes while I talk to you.’

Rosie knew she was winning. Jan looked at her and her lip twitched a little. She put her hand to her mouth and to Rosie’s surprise her eyes filled with tears.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she began to break down. ‘I’ve got three weans.’

Rosie motioned her towards the car. They got in and Rosie started the engine.

‘Look, I can’t go anywhere,’ Jan said, her voice quivering. ‘I’ve no time. My weans will be in from school. I need to get home and make their dinner.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Just drive up here, where it’s a bit quiet and we can talk for a minute, then you can drop me nearer my house.’

Rosie drove up towards a derelict industrial estate and turned in, taking one of the smaller roads where the place was deserted. She stopped the car.

‘Jan,’ Rosie turned to her. ‘Listen to me. Do you have any idea what’s happened to Tam? I mean, is there anything
in the last few months that he’s been doing different? Has he been behaving different because of his work?’

Jan said nothing. She shook her head and bit her lip.

‘I’ve told the police everything.’ Jan fell silent, then sniffed.

‘Have you, Jan?’ Rosie touched her arm. ‘Did you really tell the police everything? Or did you keep stuff back.’

Jan looked at her and wiped the tears spilling out of her eyes.

‘Tell me, Jan. What’s happened to Tam? What was he doing?’

Suddenly Jan put her hands to her face, sobbing.

‘I told him. I told him.’ She buried her face.

Rosie waited, listening to Jan’s sobbing and looking out of the windscreen at the steady drizzle.

‘Jan,’ she ventured. ‘I want to ask you something, because I’m working on an investigation. Was Tam mixed up in something to do with refugees? Is that what’s happened here?’

Jan took her hands away from her face and wiped her tears. She took a deep breath, and spoke between sobs.

‘Tam’s dead.’ She swallowed and sniffed.

‘How do you know that?’

‘They told me. He’s dead.’ She wiped her face. ‘Oh God! What am I going to tell my weans?’

‘Who told you?’

‘That polecat Howie’s sidekick Clock Buchanan. He told me. He was sent to sort me out. Keep me quiet.’

‘Keep you quiet? How?’

Jan turned to face Rosie, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks and neck blotchy from nerves and emotion.

‘Fuck sake! How do you think? They know my weans are more important to me than anything else in the world.’ She paused. ‘They sorted me out with money.’ She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head.

Rosie said nothing.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Jan went on. ‘They bought my silence. They killed my man, then paid me to keep quiet. They gave me money so the weans will be all right.’ She paused. ‘You got any kids?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, maybe you’ll not understand then. Maybe you won’t know that when you’ve got a wean you’ll do anything to make sure they’re all right.’

They sat in awkward silence.

‘I do understand.’ Rosie touched her arm. She remembered the men her mother had sex with at their home for money. It had never been mentioned, but even as a kid she always knew. ‘I understand what people do for their kids.’

‘It’s not right though,’ Jan said.

‘What’s not right? You have to look after your kids, Jan. I can see that.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. What they’re doing isn’t right.’

‘Who?’

‘Howie and that mob.’ She shook her head. ‘Them poor people.’

‘What people?’

‘Them refugees. Asylum seekers.’

Rosie’s pulse quickened.

‘What, Jan? What are they doing?’

Jan looked at Rosie then put her head back and her hands went to her face again. ‘I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.’

Rosie watched her. She knew it would come.

‘They’re killing them, Rosie,’ Jan said. ‘They’re kidnapping them and killing them.’

Rosie tried hard to say nothing. She was almost scared to breathe in case she’d break the moment.

Jan wiped her nose. She seemed to compose herself, then spoke again. ‘They steal them off the street and take them away somewhere in the countryside and kill them.’

‘What?’ Rosie said. ‘The vigilantes?’

‘No. Not vigilantes. That’s just shite. I mean there’s vigilantes as well, but they’re just hooligans. No. This is different.’

‘But why do they do it?’

Jan paused, then took a deep breath.

‘I think they sell their body parts. Bones, eyes, skin. Every fucking thing. That’s what Tam told me.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, Christ. I can’t believe my Tam would be mixed up in that.’