To Tell the Truth (6 page)

Rosie swung round so she was facing him. She looked him up and down. Dark and skinny, but strikingly beautiful. He looked like a rent boy, and she half smiled to herself. Surely she didn’t look old enough to be in the market for a gigolo? She waited for him to say something.

‘Excuse me,’ the boy cleared his throat, ‘but I saw you this morning. Earlier. At the beach. You are newspaper woman? Yes? I can tell you something.’ He spoke carefully, as though trying to remember the English words.

A little switch flicked inside her head. This boy had followed her here.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’ She motioned him to sit. ‘But how did you know I was here?’

The boy sat down. He looked at her with large liquid brown eyes that dominated his face and gave him an innocent look. But the dark smudges under those eyes told another story.

‘I heard you say to someone you are going back to the Puente Romano, so I think maybe you living here.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I wanted … I want to talk to you because you are in the newspapers. And I think I have some information for you.’

Rosie’s heart did a little dance and her instincts told her to brace herself. From where she was sitting on a Saturday afternoon, she didn’t have a story for Monday’s newspaper that wouldn’t have been all over the weekend papers and television. Anything, however off the wall, even if it came in broken English from a skinny rent boy, had to be listened to.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’d be glad to have a talk with you. Would you like a drink? Something to eat? Are you hungry?’

Her eyes flicked up and down the boy. He looked vulnerable, like a little vagrant who had scrubbed his face and combed his hair so he could get past the reception in a place that would happily kick people like him into the gutter. But Rosie wasn’t daft. He would be on the make alright. He wouldn’t have followed her here otherwise. Any minute now he’d name a price, but she knew she would have to listen. The white-waistcoated waiter appeared with her salmon salad and a basket of bread. The boy looked at it and swallowed.

‘Can you bring some of the special chicken, please,’ Rosie said to the waiter. She looked at the boy.

‘You okay with some chicken? A drink?’

‘Yes, thank-you.’ His eyes brightened. ‘I’m hungry. Can I also have Coca-Cola please?’

Rosie told the waiter, then pushed her salad to the middle of the table.

‘Here,’ Rosie said. ‘Help yourself. We’ll share. They’ll bring more food in a minute.’ She stuck her fork into a piece of salmon, inviting him to do the same.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said gratefully, lifting a piece of salmon with the knife. ‘I did not have food since last night.’ He stuffed the salmon into his mouth and tore off a piece of bread.

Rosie watched him for a moment as he ate, his lean face smooth and brown under a mop of black curly hair. His pale blue shirt was ragged at the cuffs, and his flimsy beach-boy trousers were frayed and turned up at the bottom, revealing broken leather sandals. He looked out of place amid the elegance of the white wicker chairs and stiff linen table-cloths. Rosie was surprised he had got this far into the hotel without someone turfing him out. Top marks for endeavour, whoever he was.

‘So, who are you?’ Rosie said, looking straight into his eyes. He may have followed her, but from now on, she was in charge.

‘My name is Taha.’ The boy wiped his hand on his trousers and stretched it across to Rosie. She shook it. It was soft, like the hand of a child.

He glanced back at the food as if he was afraid it would disappear. Rosie nodded to him to eat.

‘I am from Morocco. But I am here now in Spain for one year and two months. Working,’ he told her between mouthfuls.

Rosie decided not to ask. If he said he was anything other than a rent boy, she wouldn’t have believed him anyway. The boy looked at her as though he knew what she was thinking. His eyes looked sad. He’d probably practised that look in the mirror. When he swallowed Rosie could see his Adam’s apple move in his slender neck. He looked over his shoulder fleetingly, then pulled his chair a little closer to the table, seeming nervous.

‘I saw something,’ he said. ‘That girl. The missing girl. But I cannot tell the police because I am illegal here. They would send me back, and I cannot go back now. I am making some money for my parents in our village. I don’t want to talk to police, but I know things.’

Rosie looked at his face, watching for some flaw, some sign that he was a chancer. A sudden image of Mags Gillick, the murdered prostitute who had confided in her over Gavin Fox’s corrupt exploits, flashed across her mind and she banished it. That same look – fear and loneliness – had haunted her since Mags’ murder. Don’t even go there, she told herself. She decided to let him talk, make him feel at ease. If he had something interesting then fine. If not, it had brightened up a dull afternoon.

‘Listen, Taha.’ Rosie stretched her hand across so it brushed his wrist. ‘Before we start talking here, you have
to know you can trust me. I won’t betray you. But if you know something about the little girl, about Amy, then we have to find a way to let the police know. But whatever you tell me, be assured, you can trust me to look after you.’

Taha took a sip of his coke. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘OK. I understand. But I am worry … Because of what I do and the people I work for. They are not good people. Dangerous.’ Taha looked edgy.

‘I understand,’ Rosie said. ‘But you have to trust me. My name is Rosie Gilmour, and I work for a newspaper in Scotland called the
Post
. OK? I am over here to look at the story of the little girl. She might have been stolen. Maybe kidnapped … ?’

The boy looked down, twisted his glass on the table cloth for a few moments, then looked up at Rosie.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think she was stolen. I saw. I saw someone.’

She took a deep breath. She read his face for lies, for any sign of a set-up. If he was lying he was good, very good.

‘Tell me, Taha. What did you see? Were you on the beach?’

He looked down again. ‘No. I was in a villa. But close. I could see—’ He bit the inside of his jaw. ‘I was with someone on the balcony. We saw the girl on the beach. Someone took her.’

Rosie sat back. She let the silence take over for a moment. She knew Taha was waiting for her to ask.

‘You were with a client?’

‘Yes.’ Taha looked a little sheepish, but Rosie probed.

‘A man?’

‘Yes. A British man. A big important man, I think.’

Rosie took a sip of her iced tea.

‘Taha.’ She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘Can you tell me what you saw. Just what you saw from the balcony.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I was on the balcony. With the man. It was before we … Before … You know?’

Rosie nodded her understanding, waved him to go on.

‘We were talking a bit and looking at the sea. A small girl was on the beach. No people with her. Then a man came and lifted her up and took her away.’

‘Maybe it was her father,’ Rosie said. ‘What made you think it wasn’t her father?’

Taha shrugged. ‘It was nothing to us then. Nothing, when it happened. But after … After some time, we saw the woman come out of the house nearby, and another man also came out of the house a bit later. They were running and the woman cried a lot. She called a name, like she was looking for somebody. That was when I think maybe she is stolen. Then the papers and television say a small girl is taken.’

Rosie listened. It had Monday’s splash and spread stamped all over it. If what he’d seen was Jenny Lennon and O’Hara coming outside, then this was not the version they’d told the world. O’Hara had said he was walking down the beach when he heard Jenny coming out of the house screaming. This was a different account entirely.
But based on what, she could hear McGuire saying. The word of a rent boy? She’d been here before.

‘Did you see anything before that, Taha?’ Rosie wanted to be clear. ‘Did you see a man coming down the beach towards the woman who was screaming?’

‘No,’ he said, looking bewildered. ‘I only saw the girl, then a man take her, then after some time the man and woman come from the house. That’s all.’

Rosie nodded.

‘So what did you do after that? Did you see anything else. Would you recognise the man?’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t think so. After that my friend – the man – he left. Then I left. It is the normal thing when I go to that house with a client.’

‘So the man was a client?’ Rosie asked. ‘The British man?’

‘Yes,’ Taha nodded. ‘I been there with him before. Once last week, and twice last year, when first I come to Spain. He’s a good man. And he pays well.’

Rosie didn’t really want the details. They were written all over the face of this beautiful young boy. He was sixteen or seventeen, if that, and already ruined.

‘Taha,’ she said. ‘You said the man was an important man. Do you know his name?’

Taha nodded. He reached into his pocket and took out something. ‘I knew him as Thomas,’ he said. ‘But the name is different. On this.’

He opened his hand, and in his palm was what Rosie recognised as a House of Commons security pass. He handed it to her. She didn’t need to look at the name,
because the photo on the pass was enough to make her head swim. The Home Secretary, the Rt. Hon. Michael Carter-Smith, was looking back at her with that arrogant expression which dared anyone to take him on.

CHAPTER 8

She was like the puppy, snuggling against him, and it was an odd feeling. He wasn’t used to having someone close to him like that.

In the back of the car, Besmir moved the sleeping child’s arm away from him. He looked at her pale face as she slept, exhausted, her eyelids puffy from crying. The car was stifling, and a tiny strip of sweat gathered under her hairline. His fingers reached out and almost stroked her forehead, but he pulled back. She was nothing to him. Just a package to be delivered. He rolled down the window, but the air coming in was dry and sweltering, so he closed it again. He put his head back and closed his eyes. He would be glad when this was over.

The worst moment had been the journey from Elira’s apartment in Algeciras. They had to leave at first light and the girl had started to scream as Besmir put her into the boot of the car. They had to be vigilant in case police were looking in every car for the missing girl. A private boat would take him to the Tangiers coast, but he would
return by the ferry, using a fake German passport Leka had given him.

Elira had insisted he take the puppy with them, despite Besmir’s protests that he’d have enough with the girl. But she’d said it would help once they were on the journey as it might keep the girl calm. Elira had named the girl Kaltrina, Albanian for ‘the blue girl’, because of her striking blue eyes.

Besmir didn’t like the way Elira was fawning over the kid as if it was her own. Just get on with the job. Get to Tangiers and deliver the girl, then get back to Spain and his money. He promised himself that as soon as Leka paid him he’d get on the road and none of them would ever see him again. But for now, he was stuck with this little girl and a puppy in the back of the car.

The motor boat had dropped them off at the small isolated cove on the Moroccan coast. It hadn’t been able to come right up to the shore because of the rocks in the shallow waters. It had put out a small rubber dingy to take them to the shore, but it still left them some way out from the beach. Besmir cursed as he carried the sobbing girl and the puppy, wading knee-deep in the sea towards the young Moroccan man waiting for him on the beach.

He’d been tempted to give the girl the drink Elira had given him to put her to sleep, but he was scared in case it would kill her. Knowing Leka, the last thing he wanted to do was deliver the package dead.

The young driver said nothing when Besmir emerged from the sea. He simply nodded and walked away, Besmir
following him towards a battered car parked on the dirt-track road. As they approached he noticed there was someone in the passenger seat. A small, fat Moroccan smoked furiously and spat out of the window as Besmir got into the car with the girl clinging round his neck.

‘Can you shut her up?’ the fat man said, tossing his cigarette out of the window.

‘Just take us to where we have to go,’ Besmir snapped at him, prodding his back firmly with his finger, as he got into the back seat.

Whoever this fat old Moroccan was, he was not in charge here, and Besmir wanted to make sure he was in no doubt about that.

‘How far?’ Besmir asked the driver. ‘How long to drive?’

‘Maybe two hours,’ he said. ‘Roads no good. We don’t go the coast road as there is more traffic and people. But the small roads to Tangiers are not good.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Besmir poked his shoulder for effect.

The girl had sobbed for a little longer, but she stopped when Besmir gave her some water and a soft sugar sweet Elira had put in the bag for the journey. The puppy licked her fingers as Besmir settled her down so she was lying across the seat. But she kept twisting herself around so she could lie with her arm wrapped across him. He automatically put his arm over hers. He looked out of the window.

The car clanked and jerked its way along the road, which became little more than tyre tracks in the desolate scrubland. The young driver repeated it was better to keep away from the main roads, and kept turning his
head round to Besmir to reassure him that everything was alright. Besmir guessed he was about the same age as himself, but he could see that he was a little afraid of him, and he resolved to keep it that way.

He didn’t like the little fat man and immediately sensed he couldn’t trust him. He was a bully. Besmir knew he’d made an instant enemy from the moment he had talked down to him at the start of the journey, but that didn’t worry him. He had met enough bullying little men on his way through life, and he feared none of them. You had to get the better of them straight away or they would crush you into the ground like a beetle.

He looked out at the heat rising in waves across the barren landscape. They’d hardly gone past any villages, just miles and miles of empty track and a few straggling herds of goats, some – to his amazement – perched precariously in the trees nibbling on the leaves. He smiled to himself when he saw them teetering on the branches. The goats weren’t afraid to take a risk. He liked that.