The Hit Page 22

  Rosie looked at Viktor, who then said:

  ‘I haven’t switched my phone on since yesterday. I don’t want to know what they say. It makes me more nervous. We want to get out now. Is dangerous here.’

  ‘Nobody knows you’re here, Viktor. In this hotel. If they’re looking for you, they know you’ve no money. They won’t even know where to start. Don’t worry. I have a plan to get you out of here by tomorrow.’ She motioned them to the sofa. ‘Come over here. Sit down and we’ll we talk a little.’

  They sat down and Matt sat at a chair by a writing desk.

  ‘Okay,’ Rosie said. ‘What we want to do now is take some pictures, then when I go back to the office, I will write your story. It won’t go in the paper tomorrow, but it will be in the next day’s. The lawyers have to go through it very closely.’

  ‘Why the lawyers?’

  ‘Because we are making allegations that link this charity to people-smuggling. It’s a big accusation, Viktor, and if we are wrong, then my newspaper will be in trouble.’

  ‘It is not wrong. We tell you the truth. We see it. We were there when they bring the people, as we told you. That is what happens.’

  ‘I know. And we believe you. My editor believes you and that’s why we are doing the story. You have been very brave to come and speak to us like this. And when this is all over we will pass the information to the police here and abroad.’

  ‘No police. We not talk to police.’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to. They will take my information and everything we have, the pictures and stuff, and they will decide what to do.’ She paused and sighed. ‘But I honestly think you should talk to the police before we do the story. They will make you safe.’

  They both shook their heads vigorously and Pavil got up and sat back down nervously.

  ‘No. No. Because I see a man being killed. I cannot tell police that because they may think I am guilty too. They think “Albanian – he must be a gangster”, but is not true. Many Albanians are just poor like us. No police.’

  Rosie could see how agitated he was and she put a hand up.

  ‘All right. No police. Don’t worry.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yes. I promise. So,’ she continued, ‘what I want to do is get you out of the country. But I know you have no passports. So I’m afraid you will have to go out the same way you came in.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Smuggled?’

  ‘It’s your only option because you don’t want to go the authorities, and I can understand that. But you cannot buy a plane ticket or a ferry ticket or go through the UK border without a passport. Once you get to France you will be fine. My friend will help you to make your way to the north of Spain. Then it’s up to you.’

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I can get you out of the country. I have a contact who takes a lorry over to Spain and delivers things, and he can take you in his truck. He will drive you to Spain, and then you have to try to get some jobs somewhere.’ She paused, looked from one to the other. ‘I’m sure you know how to do this. There’s bar work, labouring jobs. All sorts of things you can do. And you will have money. I will give you the money tomorrow once the lawyers okay the story for the paper. Then you can be on your way.’

  ‘How much money?’

  Rosie flicked a glance at Matt.

  ‘Enough to keep you going. Get yourselves a room or apartment in a hostel or something till you get some work. It’s the only way.’

  ‘How much money?’

  Rosie hesitated, picked her words.

  ‘Okay. I’ve had a long talk with my editor about this and the managing editor who controls the money. We are pleased to have your story and it will make a difference having had you to talk and back up the allegations along with the photographs you gave us. But we cannot pay a lot of money. When the police start asking questions they will ask if we have paid money, and that is something we have to deal with.’

  ‘You can say no.’

  Rosie half smiled, knowing how tricky denying paying money could be once the police got their hooks in. But she was hoping they’d be happy to get their story published rather than chase around counting money the paper might have paid them.

  ‘Yes. We can say no. But don’t worry about that.’ She took a breath. ‘We will pay you five thousand pounds in cash tomorrow.’

  Rosie saw Pavil’s eyes light up, and Viktor was trying his best not to show anything, but she knew this was more money than they had ever seen in their lives. Whatever they’d heard about newspapers paying money, she’d hoped they weren’t expecting twenty grand. And they clearly hadn’t been. And the sad irony of the shitty business of paying for stories was that her paper and some of the other tabloids would pay ten and twenty grand on some celebrity’s lurid tale of three-in-a-bed sex shame or a drug scandal. Yet people at the sharp end, who could actually tell a story that could net an international smuggling operation, were paid a pittance, if anything.

  ‘I thought it would be more.’ Viktor tried to sound disappointed, but it didn’t ring true.

  ‘It’s what we pay for things like this. A lot of what you hear isn’t true.’ Rosie hated lying.

  They sat for a moment and Rosie glanced at Matt fiddling with his cameras.

  Viktor spoke to Pavil in Albanian and they had a conversation for a few seconds while Rosie looked at her watch. She had to get back down to work later, get this story on her screen as it had to be at the lawyers tonight.

  Finally, Viktor looked from Pavil to Rosie and they both nodded to her.

  ‘Okay. We agree. If you can get us away from here and to Spain like you say. Pavil?’

  Pavil nodded. ‘Okay. I am agree.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosie looked at Matt. ‘Now, Matt will take a couple of photographs of you, but you won’t be recognised. Matt?’

  ‘Sure. Don’t worry, guys.’ He went over to the hotel room window. ‘If I can have the two of you here. Looking out of the window. I’ll do the pics of the back of you.’ He produced a baseball hat and a woolly hat. ‘Try it with these too.’

  The boys looked at each other and did what they were told. Rosie watched them, wishing she could do more for them, and always with the guilty feeling that she was using them – which she was. It was the nature of the business, and the part of it that always made her feel guilty, especially if people were putting themselves at risk. Don’t go there, she told herself. No time for soul-searching. You’ve got work to do, and a deadline to meet. Her mobile rang and it was Bertie Shaw.

  ‘You’ve arrived, Bertie. Great. I’ve booked you in, so check in at the reception and I’ll come down in a minute.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Helen was bored out of her skull. It felt as though she’d been here for weeks, holed up in this poky flat, surrounded by the ghosts and images of her childhood and teenage years. Every time she looked out of the window, she saw pictures of herself as a little girl, playing in the street, running around with her band of pals, making mischief. At night as a teenager, or when they skived off school, she’d meet up with her mates and go drinking bottles of cheap wine down in Glasgow Green. And in the Gorbals, nights became a terrifying orgy of gang fights as the scheme’s tribalism spilled onto the streets, with young men, armed with knives and baseball bats, on the rampage. She could still hear the smashing of bottles, women weeping angry, frustrated tears, then the wail of police sirens trying to round up the usual suspects. And when she peered out of the window, there would be sudden eerie silence. All the culprits were hiding, probably within earshot of the police, confident the boys in blue wouldn’t be brave enough to venture up into the back courts or closes where they might get ambushed. It was a wild, crazy existence, with areas like the Gorbals, Easterhouse and Drumchapel becoming notorious across Britain as the badlands where only the brave or the stupid ventured if they didn’t belong. It was no place to bring up a family. And yet there was such camaraderie on the stairs and on the
landings, people knew where everyone was, everyone watched each other’s back. If something had been blagged by shoplifters or robbers and was being hidden, the neighbours often grouped together when the cops arrived at a suspect’s house. Whatever had been thieved had already been passed over the landings and hidden three doors down. Police knew they couldn’t win, so they left the Gorbals and areas like it to police themselves. And that’s when people like Frankie Mallon and other small-time hoods flourished, running their own little empires. Survival of the fittest, the law of the jungle. Helen thought she’d left it all behind, but here she was, bored rigid, frustrated, and pissed off listening to her mother bitching all day long. She was also scared shitless to leave the house. Especially now, when her ma had just walked in the door with yet another front page in the Post spelling more gloom and doom.

  She saw the front page picture.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Ma. I know that guy. From the charity.’

  ‘You mean you knew him. He’s stone hatchet dead.’

  ‘Christ! It’s saying here he was murdered. Shot in the head. Jesus, Ma, what if that means they’re doing away with everyone attached to that charity?’

  ‘Who? This mafia mob you keep talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so. I told you. I wasn’t involved in all that. I didn’t know a bloody thing about it.’

  ‘No. You were just spending the proceeds of your husband’s shitty, shameless crimes.’

  ‘Whatever I was doing, I was not part of any racket to sell off poor wee weans. I want nothing to do with this. I told you a few days ago, I need to get out of here. We need to do something.’

  ‘I know.’ Her mother stuck on the kettle and took two mugs out of the wall cupboard.

  Helen read the front-page story twice, then her gut churned as she flicked inside to see Alan’s face looking back out at her and another story recapping how he went missing, and a picture of herself and him at some champagne function before he disappeared. They were rehashing the old story. Then, a picture of Frankie brought her up short and she put the paper down, handed it across the table to her mother.

  ‘I’m going for a shower. You can feast your eyes on this, then cast it up to me what a bitch I am.’

  Janey shook her head and didn’t answer. She pushed a cigarette into her mouth and lit it, drawing deeply as she sat back on the chair and began reading the newspaper.

  A few minutes later, as Helen came into the kitchen, her hair wrapped in a towel, Janey was on her feet clutching the Post.

  ‘From what you’ve said, and the fact that you’re shitting your pants about these people, the way I see it, Helen, is we have two choices.’

  ‘Oh really? Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Don’t be a smartarse – sure, you’ve been sitting here for nearly two weeks not doing a hand’s turn, and all you talk about is how terrible this all is. Well, unless you’re waiting for some fairy godmother to come waltzing in here and get you out of this, then you need to get your arse in gear, and think hard.’

  ‘Hold on, Ma. I haven’t exactly been sitting on my arse. The only reason I’m here is precisely because I did make a decision to get out of the place, and I ended up getting captured by these bastards and held prisoner – in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not going to risk that again by putting my head out the door.’ She rubbed her hair. ‘So what are my options? Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s your choices. You either go to the cops, give them the whole shite about self-defence, that Frankie came into your flat and raped you, and you shot him because he was going to shoot you. Then you did a runner because you thought nobody would believe you. You say nothing about Alan, and stick to the original story, that he went missing, and you are, to this day, grieving for him as though he was dead. You’re a good enough actress to get away with that.’

  Helen was quiet for a moment as she took it all in. Her ma had a point. She could go to the cops, but she could have done that in the first place. She didn’t want to be questioned too closely about Alan and about the money. And what if they started examining her bank accounts? What if they had forensic or some other kind of evidence that showed she shot Frankie in cold blood?

  ‘You’re forgetting, I shot Frankie in the back.’

  ‘I know you did. Listen, this is not some old Wild West movie, where shooting in the back proves anything. You shot him the moment his back was turned because it was the only chance you had to save yourself.’

  ‘Aye. They’ll believe that,’ Helen said, sarcastically. ‘I don’t want to take that chance, Ma.’

  ‘Okay. Up to you, but I think you’re wrong. Your other choice is to phone that bird on the paper, the one whose name is on the story. What is it?’ She glanced at the paper. ‘Rosie Gilmour. Phone her. I told you the other day. That’s your best option right now.’

  ‘And say what? I mean, what’s the point of that?’

  ‘Tell her your situation. These reporters, they’re all the same. They’ll bite your hand off for a story, especially a hot one like this. Tell them everything. Tell them about Frankie and how he tried to rape you and he got shot in the struggle.’

  ‘They’ll turn me in to the cops.’

  ‘Maybe not. But the most important point you want to talk about is that story about the babies for sale, and to stress that you, and, to your knowledge, Alan, had nothing to do with it. It puts you up there in the clear.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, but I don’t really see the point.’

  ‘If the story is in the paper, it gets a message to these bastards who bumped off that charity boss. Maybe it will make them think twice before they come for you. If you’re out there in view of the public with your picture in the paper, coming over as all living in fear, then they might think twice. That’s all. It buys you some time. But at the end of the day, you need to get out of here. We need to go abroad somewhere. Spain is probably the handiest right now.’

  Helen ran the brush through her hair, looking at her image in the mirror, admiring her skin and cheekbones. She could look the part in the paper, play the grieving wife now living in fear because her husband had vanished and people attached to the charity are suddenly being eliminated. That might work. She looked at her mother.

  ‘I might get away with that, Ma. That’s not a bad shout from you. But I’d be worried about talking about Frankie and the shooting in my flat.’

  ‘Then just say you weren’t there. Stuff it. They can’t prove you were there right at that time, can they? Can anyone categorically prove you were in the flat when he got bumped off? No. So just deny it.’

  ‘Okay. I’m willing to give it a try. Will you phone the paper for me?’

  ‘You don’t want to phone them yourself?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Sure, I’m living in fear, terrified to make a single phone call.’ Helen half smiled. She’d almost convinced herself.

  *

  Rosie was in McGuire’s office, sitting on the sofa while he read over her copy on the two Albanian runaways. She watched him nodding in approval at various parts, whispering, ‘Belter’, as he went along. This was the version she had cleared with Hanlon the lawyer after much wrestling over points he said could land them in trouble. She’d lost on most of them, but she still had a cracking splash and spread about people-smuggling and the Hands Across Europe charity.

  ‘I fucking love this, Gilmour. We’ll go big on this one. I’m going to ask our marketing lads to get it on to radio to puff it for the morning editions.’

  ‘Good.’ But Rosie was a little uneasy. She knew the cops would be the first on the phone to see if she had names, and asking where could they find the illegal immigrants. And she knew that she’d be letting DI James Morton down the first time she was working with him. But she had no option.

  ‘I know my cop contact won’t be happy, Mick. He did give me the heads up on the Morgan murder, but I can’t afford to give him these boys. I can’t betray them like that.’

  McGuire nodded. �
�Can’t disagree with that. You’ll just have to find a way to soft-soap your cop pal. He’ll know he can’t have it his way all the time.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Rosie’s mobile rang but no number came up.

  ‘Hello? Who is it please?’ She always answered the phone curtly until she knew who it was.

  ‘Is that Rosie Gilmour?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s this please?’

  ‘My name is Janey McCann. I’m Helen Lewis’s mother. You know, the lady whose husband is missing – Alan Lewis.’

  Rosie pushed the phone closer to her ear, and sat forward. She could see McGuire out of the side of her eye, watching her.

  ‘Really? You’re Helen Lewis’s mother? I’ve been looking to talk to her.’ She could scarcely believe that this was happening.

  ‘Aye. Well. She wants to meet you.’

  Rosie stood up. Somehow she could think better when she was on her feet. She paced across to the window.

  ‘Is Helen in the country? After what happened in her flat, she seemed to disappear. I’ve wanted to talk to her about her husband. All the things that came out recently. Have you seen the Post?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve both seen it. That’s why she wants to talk to you. Can you meet her?’

  ‘Is she there just now? Can I speak to her?’

  ‘No. Can you meet her? We can go to another paper if you’re not interested.’

  Bitch, Rosie thought. She had all the moves, whoever she was. She didn’t know anything about Helen Lewis’s mother, other than what people had told her – that she was a chancer who was as wide as the Clyde.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t want to do that. It’s the Post who have all the information on this story. We’ll talk to Helen any time, and give her all the platform she needs to talk . . . Whatever she wants to say.’

  ‘Right. That’s good. When can we meet?’

  ‘Whenever you want. Now if you like?’

  ‘City centre?’

  ‘Sure. Whereabouts?’

  Janey paused for a moment, then said, ‘There’s a pub on Argyle Street. Just along from the Hielanman’s Umbrella. It’s called the Alpen Lodge. Meet us there at two. Is that all right?’