The Hit Page 11

  ‘Ma. It’s me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you there, Ma?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I need help.’

  Silence, then a wheeze. ‘I saw the papers.’

  Helen let it hang for a second, wondering stupidly if she would even ask her how she was.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I . . .’ Helen felt surprisingly choked. She remembered early days as a little girl, when her mum came into bed beside her and they snuggled in and she could still smell her perfume and the cigarettes and alcohol on her breath, but it was warm and secure. ‘I . . . I just don’t want to be alone. I’m scared. Can I come and see you?’

  Silence, and the sound of a deep breath and a long sigh.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

  ‘I ran away. They kidnapped me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some gangsters. I don’t know. It’s something to do with Alan.’

  ‘Your husband. The guy who’s gone missing? What the Christ are you up to your arse in?’

  ‘It’s a mess.’

  ‘And you want to bring your shit to my doorstep? After five bloody years?’

  Helen didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me. After . . . after the way I didn’t answer your calls and just ignored you.’

  ‘You were right. I didn’t. You’re a conniving wee bitch.’

  Her words and the way she spat them out stung Helen to the core, even though they shouldn’t have. Because her mother was right. She was a conniving bitch.

  ‘Okay,’ Helen said, swallowing. She wasn’t going to beg. Half the reason she had turned into the kind of woman she was was because of the shit dealt out to her as a kid. Or so her therapist had once told her. ‘I’m sorry I called you.’

  There was a long moment where nothing was said, and Helen could hear her mother breathing.

  ‘Get on the train. Meet me at Queen Street. Phone me before you arrive.’

  She was about to say ‘Thanks, Mum’, but her mother had already hung up.

  *

  Helen looked out of the train window at the grey fine rain sweeping across the fields. She didn’t know what to think. Her mother had agreed to meet her off the train, but she wouldn’t be expecting her to stand there with open arms and misty eyes. It might have been five years since they last saw each other, but this was not a welcome home party. She hadn’t even agreed to help her. Janey McCann would meet her daughter, listen to what she had to say, and then make up her mind. And Helen knew that her decision on whether to help would be based on what was in it for her. That’s how it always was. She’d never done anyone a turn in her life that didn’t benefit herself. Especially if there was money in it. Sometimes Helen thought that her mother’s obsession with money and getting as much of it as possible was the reason she was so greedy and worshipped money. Or perhaps it was the security it brought. The doors it opened. If you had money, you didn’t have to sell your daughter for sex. You didn’t have to open your house and your legs to all the useless, scummy bastards of the day to make a living. In her darker times, Helen used to wonder why her mother couldn’t just go out and work like everyone else – take in ironing, do washing, find a cleaning job. Being a prostitute was her decision. And then, it was her own. She hated herself for it. And if she was honest with herself, she’d never really got away from being a hooker. Everything she had achieved, she’d got on her back – including Alan Lewis’s fortune, and including securing her recent escape from Ricky Thomson’s clutches. Who are you to judge your own mother? she told herself. You’re the very same.

  Helen dragged her suitcases to the door as they approached Queen Street. She pulled her collar up to hide most of her face, and straightened herself up. She’d taken the wig off, and was wearing a hat with her hair tucked in. When she got off the train, she walked briskly behind the commuters and tourists along the concourse, her eyes scanning the people milling around. Then she spotted her, the auburn hair coiffed and full, framing her face. From this distance, she looked like an ageing screen goddess, at least that was the look her mother had always tried to achieve. But now, as she got a little closer behind the crowd, Helen could see the make-up and the hardness in her blue eyes as they also scanned the crowd. Then she caught her mother’s eye. Nothing. Just the slightest raise of her chin to acknowledge her. Helen almost stopped in her tracks. She didn’t even know if she could trust her own mother. But she pressed on, and now she could see a black wool overcoat and a jade green scarf wrapped around her mother’s neck. Whatever she was up to these days, she wasn’t skint. As she stood there, two feet away, Helen stopped and put her suitcase down, not sure what to do. They stood looking at each other, not a word; Helen searched her mother’s face, but not a sign of a crack. Still hard, cold eyes. Or was she wrong, was there a little flicker there of regret, or sorrow? She was thinner, but not frail.

  ‘All right, Ma?’

  ‘Aye.’ She glanced down at her daughter’s bags. ‘Right. Come on. We’ll get a taxi.’ Then she turned her back and walked away. Helen picked up her bags and followed her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘So how much proof do we have of Alan Lewis’s involvement in the baby racket? And I mean proof, Gilmour.’

  Rosie listened as McGuire probed every detail from the other end of the phone, as she knew he would. While there was a general belief that Lewis was missing, presumed dead, and therefore wouldn’t come and sue them, the editor was playing cautious.

  ‘Well, we have him as a named director of the wine-importing business. And he’s also a director of the charity. And the managing director of the wine-importing business is also named as a director of the charity.’

  ‘You have that in actual black and white.’

  ‘Yes. I got the documents tonight from a contact over here. So whatever we say about selling, we can link him to Hands Across Europe. No question about that. I’m not even worried.’

  ‘But I want you to say he’s behind it.’

  ‘We can’t say that unless we have someone in the organisation saying it. And that will be impossible. I don’t even want to go there. We’re posing as a couple looking to adopt a kid, remember, so asking questions like that would be crazy.’

  He paused and thought. ‘I know, Gilmour. I’m not daft. I’m just thinking of another way. We have to find another way.’

  ‘Unless it came from someone in Scotland. And that’s not going to happen. It’s not as if selling babies – if he does know about it – is something he’d be talking about at dinner parties.’

  ‘But he’s been raising money here – well, the charity has anyway. So maybe someone involved in that knows about it.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but a long shot.’

  ‘So what do you think? I know you have that other story about the Romanian mother and the snatched baby. I love that. Where are we with it? And how dangerous is it?’

  ‘I’ve now got the address of the people who were given the baby – well, they must have bought her, actually. I have to go there, Mick. I can’t not go. You know that.’

  ‘It would be a belter if we already have the bastards at the adoption charity saying they can get a baby, and suddenly we can produce evidence of a stolen one. I mean the whole story about how we tracked them down and stuff – it’s dynamite. But would you propose to put it to the couple that you know their seemingly adopted baby was in fact stolen?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll let you know when it comes to me.’

  ‘No. You mean you’ll let me know once you’ve done it. Listen, Rosie, I want to know what you do before you do it. Are we clear?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Aye, right. Call me in the morning, let me know your thoughts.’

  *

  W
hat Rosie hadn’t told McGuire was that she was already on her way to the address of the couple who had bought the baby. She was afraid he would tell her to leave it for a night and think about it again tomorrow. But after the visit to the orphanage, Rosie had decided they didn’t have a lot of time to hang around here. They’d already shown the so-called adoption agency their interest, and they’d expect to hear from them one way or another in the next couple of days, and she still wasn’t even sure how they’d pursue that. But in case they had to get out of Romania quickly, she had to hit the adoptive couple’s address straight away. Even if it was only to establish that the baby was really there. She had to admit to herself that she didn’t really know how they were going to handle it if the couple came to the door and confirmed that they had an adopted baby. Earlier on, over coffee, she and Adrian had decided to wing it, and to say they were thinking of adopting a newborn baby, and that friends of theirs had told them that this couple had already adopted one and might be able to help them with the right sort of information. Rosie was worried it didn’t sound very convincing, and she wasn’t even convinced herself. But another reason they were going tonight was that the address was only half an hour’s drive away, on the edge of Bucharest, so they wouldn’t have far to travel.

  She was in the front seat, with Adrian driving, and Ariana and Matt in the back. Nicu was back at the hotel, and Rosie had suggested he keep a watch on the adoption agency comings and goings from a distance, and if possible follow the boss. She now wished she hadn’t asked Nicu to go on the spying mission in case they all got rumbled.

  Ariana leaned forward in between the two seats, and pointed to a street off to the left of the road they were in.

  ‘This next turn is the address we are looking for. See on the right?’

  ‘I see,’ Adrian mumbled and pulled the car over.

  Rosie glanced up at the block of flats, which looked slightly less drab than some of the others, and the area looked a little better.

  ‘The apartment is on the second floor, Ariana. But I think before we go straight to the house, we should maybe try a neighbour. Make sure we’re in the right place.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ariana shrugged, as though she didn’t really understand. ‘If you think is best.’

  ‘I’m just a little bit wary of going knocking on the door like this, with no real story that sounds convincing, and I’m worried the couple might be suspicious and get back to the adoption agency. Then we’re in trouble.’

  ‘Yes. I see now. Okay. We will go to the neighbour first.’

  As they got out of the car, Matt was discreetly taking pictures of the area and the apartment block, and also the foyer inside. They climbed the stairs and there was no name on the door of the apartment number they’d been given. Rosie looked at Ariana and jerked her head to indicate that she should knock on the other door. Matt and Adrian had stayed on the first floor, waiting. Ariana knocked on the door and they waited a few moments. Nothing. Then Rosie knocked, and another few moments. Nothing.

  ‘Should we try upstairs perhaps?’

  Ariana nodded, but suddenly the door opened a little, and through the small gap they could see an old woman. Ariana spoke in Romanian to her. The woman shook her head, and then opened the door fully. She looked Rosie up and down and then back to Ariana. Her hands were raised in surprise, and when she spoke she sounded sad and a little agitated. Rosie waited, anxious to hear the translation. Ariana turned to her.

  ‘She is saying the couple, the Ginescas, who we are looking for . . . the husband was killed in an accident at work. A truck hit him. And the wife, she can no longer cope with a small baby, because her life is very difficult without the husband.’

  ‘Is she saying anything about the baby? Did they adopt her?’

  ‘Yes, she is saying they had just adopted a newborn baby and were very happy. She seems a bit upset. She has known them a few years.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Ariana turned to the old lady again and continued asking questions. The old woman spoke again, wringing her hands like a baby rocking, her eyes filling up.

  ‘She is saying it was a terrible tragedy, all of it. The mother went to pieces and the baby needed looking after, but she couldn’t cope. She says that some days she was left with the baby and the mother was always crying and not able to go to the shops. After a few weeks, she decided to give the baby back up to an orphanage. The mother is gone now, to another town, to where her sister lives, and she is not coming back.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s unbelievable.’

  ‘I know. But she is telling the truth, I think. She would have no reason to say this, and you can see how upset she is.’

  ‘I believe her all right.’ Rosie lowered her voice. ‘But the poor baby. Can you ask her does she have any idea which orphanage the couple used or did anyone come to collect the baby?’

  Ariana spoke to the woman again, and Rosie watched as she answered.

  ‘She doesn’t remember anyone coming. Only a friend of the woman who helped her pack up and the day they left with the baby in the pram. She said she watched from the window, them putting the baby in the car, and she could hear her crying. It was so sad. That was the last time she saw them.’

  Rosie stood for a moment. ‘Ariana,’ she said, ‘can you ask the lady if she has any photographs of the woman or the baby, or even any of them together with the husband? And also, the name of the baby, the name they gave her?’

  Ariana spoke again to the woman, and she looked surprised. Then she nodded and closed the door a little and they could see her going down the hall.

  ‘She has one photograph she can show us, of the baby and the couple. They had a celebration a few weeks after they got the baby and everyone was so happy.’

  Rosie’s journalist brain was screaming ‘Result!’, but her heart sank for the poor baby ripped from its natural mother to be sold by criminals and now dumped in an orphanage, Christ knew where. The woman appeared with a photograph in a frame and her trembling hands held it up.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Rosie said. ‘What a lovely picture. Everyone is so happy.’

  ‘She said she was like the baby’s grandmother, and that now she is so sad. But also her heart is broken for the mother.’

  ‘Can you ask her if it is possible for us to take a photograph of the picture? I can get Matt up here to do it. We really need this picture, Ariana.’

  Ariana nodded, but her expression was flat.

  ‘I will ask, but she might wonder who you are.’

  ‘Tell her I’m someone who is trying to trace the baby. She’s an old woman, and the business with the agency and this family was over months ago. It’s not as though they’re going to come back here and start asking questions. Just please tell her I’m trying to trace the baby for the real mother.’

  Rosie couldn’t translate, but she watched Ariana explaining everything to the old woman, and she could see her face light up when she mentioned that perhaps the real mother and the baby might be reunited. She nodded in agreement, and Rosie leaned over the banister and called down to Matt.

  ‘Make this quick, Matt. We don’t want to hang around here longer than is necessary.’

  Matt got Ariana to hold the picture and snapped several times.

  ‘Done and dusted.’

  ‘Now can you ask her if she still keeps in touch with her neighbour?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ariana seemed reluctant.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie said without even needing to consider it. ‘I’m going with my gut on this. I think she’s a genuinely caring old woman.’

  Ariana spoke to the woman, then turned to Rosie.

  ‘She last spoke to the woman a couple of months ago, but she doesn’t talk to her very much.’

  ‘I was thinking if it would be possible for her to phone the woman and maybe talk to her about the baby and where it went to.’

  ‘I can ask her that, Rosie, but I think it wouldn’t be a good idea. It doesn’t strike me that she keeps in
touch that much and would have the kind of relationship to go back and talk about the baby.’

  ‘Okay. Leave it. But will you ask her if she knows if the mother was taking the baby to an orphanage where her sister lives? Or is it in this area?’

  Ariana was talking to the woman.

  ‘She said the woman was taking the baby to an orphanage in Bucharest. She mentioned the name. I know this place. I can check the name.’

  ‘Excellent. Okay. Ariana, can you tell her thanks so much for her assistance, and find a way to hint to her that it would be better if she didn’t say anything to anyone about our meeting? Should I give her some money? I don’t want to insult her, but can you suggest I give her something just as a token to help her? She’s an old woman. She won’t have much.’