Betrayed (8 page)

‘How do you know?’

‘Matt and me have been sneaking around the last couple of days. Matt’s got snatch-pics of him. That means we can follow him when they go abroad.’

‘Hmm. We need to think about this.’

‘I know. That brings me to my next suggestion.’ She paused.

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. ‘This sounds like it’s going to cost me money.’

‘Well, yes, it is. I want to bring in big Adrian, you know, the Bosnian guy who’s been involved in the last couple of jobs. The one who saved my life?’

‘Is he here? I thought he was lying low in Sarajevo after hanging that Serbian from the gorge?’

‘He is. But I know where to find him. Listen, Mick, I think we need some muscle and stuff on this job. Just in case anything unforeseen happens.’

‘Unforeseen? Christ, Gilmour. It’s all unforeseen with you. Every time you go away it winds up in some cluster fuck abroad.’ He snorted.

Rosie smiled.

‘At least I’m consistent.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, okay. Right. Agreed. Just talk to that big grim reaper geezer and see how much we need to pay him to work for us. It’s only going to be a few days.’

‘And I also want to ask Javier. For the Spanish side. Maybe even for Holland as well. He’s smart and ahead of the game.’

‘The guy who got shot in Spain? He got well compensated for that by our company insurance. He’ll probably do it for free.’

Rosie smiled at the thought. She hadn’t spoken to Javier
in a few weeks, but she knew he didn’t ever get out of bed for free.

‘No, he won’t do it free. He might not even do it at all. But if he does, he’ll definitely want a good few quid.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie. I’m not going to break the bank paying anyone over the odds. Could you not take a couple of boys from here? Some of the younger lads?’

‘No. I want these guys. Look how we did the job in Spain and Morocco.’

‘You nearly got killed.’

‘I know. But the fact that I didn’t has a lot to do with the way they operate. They’re a different class.’

McGuire sighed, shaking his head.

‘Okay. Get me a costing and I’ll run it past the bean counters. They’re as tight as a duck’s arse these days.’

‘I know. But if we want to do proper investigations we need to spend money. Otherwise we can just chuck it altogether.’ She stood up. ‘This could be massive, Mick. And you never know what might come out during the exposé if we can get McGregor and Co. with their backs to the wall.’

‘Yeah, I hear you,’ McGuire said. ‘I want this story, Gilmour. Leave the finer points like money to me. You just get out there and make it happen.’

Donna McGregor finished ironing and took the pile of clothes upstairs to the bedroom. She felt a little stab in her ribs as she walked, still sore from Eddie’s hefty punch when
he came home drunk last night and turned on her again. She managed to explain away the small bruise under her eye to her pals at the bakery where she worked part time. But she knew they had their suspicions from the way she was having difficulty lifting trays from the worktops to the ovens. She told them she’d strained her ribs doing a fitness workout from the telly, but was sure they didn’t believe her.

‘Make sure you pack that blue linen shirt I bought in Spain last year,’ Eddie said as he emerged naked from the steamed up bathroom, drying himself with a towel.

She tried not to look at him as he put the towel around his neck and paraded across the bedroom, but she could see that he was aroused. Donna took the shirt from the pile and left it out on the bed. She bent down to his bedside cabinet and took out several pairs of neatly folded boxer shorts and left them beside his case. Then she felt his arms around her, his hand sliding her skirt up her thighs and touching between her legs. She could feel him hard pushing against her.

‘Eddie. I’m trying to get some work done here. I’m trying to pack your things.’

He said nothing, turned her around and scooped the towel over her neck, pulling her towards him.

‘I’m sorry about last night, Donna,’ he said, his lips curling a little. ‘But you’ll need to learn to watch your mouth.’ He touched her lips gently. ‘That lovely mouth of yours will get you in trouble.’

Donna felt sick. She looked up at him as he put his hands firmly on her shoulders.

‘Come on, darlin’.’ His breath quickened as he put pressure on her, pushing her down. ‘I’ll be away for a few days. Come on now.’

Donna very carefully sank to her knees, grimacing at the pain in her ribs, and took him in her mouth.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he groaned. ‘Oh fuck, I love the way you do that.’

His body jerked and he gasped as he came. She gagged and she swallowed, tears coming to her eyes. Then she got to her feet, managing to compose herself as she walked out of the room.

Downstairs in the bathroom she rinsed her mouth and retched into the toilet. She wiped her mouth with a piece of toilet paper and walked into the kitchen. She flicked on the television as the six o’clock news burst onto the screen. She could barely see the picture for her tears, but it looked like a car being pulled out of a quarry. Two drug dealers murdered in a Mafia-style hit, the newsreader announced. Pictures flashed up of the two men, whose bodies had been recovered in a car from the quarry somewhere in deepest Lanarkshire. There was something about turf wars but she wasn’t interested. She shoved the kettle on and looked out of the kitchen window at the patio in the setting sun. Her stomach gave a little leap. Tomorrow, once she got rid of that bastard upstairs, she had plans. Andy would come over
and she could be alone with him for an entire afternoon. If Eddie had the slightest notion of what they did, of how Andy made her life worth living, he’d put a bullet in him, and probably her as well. Donna’s eyes went back to the television. The names of the two men. Tommy Ritchie and James Balfour. One sounded familiar, ringing a bell somewhere in her head. Ritchie … Richard. She went into the bottom drawer next to the cooker and pulled out the bank card she’d taken from Eddie’s jeans the night he’d come home with Jimmy Dunlop and Mitch Gillespie. She looked at it – Thomas Ritchie. It was the same name. She should have burned it with the rest of the clothes they took off that night, but it had fallen out when she was emptying pockets and she didn’t find it until a day later. She’d stuck it in the drawer without giving it another thought. Now she put it back in the same place, and covered it over with papers, knowing that he would never look there. She smiled to herself. Big Eddie McGregor didn’t make mistakes. Oh yeah? He’d made one now.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was stifling in the back of the van. They’d been sitting outside the Tavern for the best part of an hour in the dark blue works van Matt had borrowed from one of his mates. It was uncomfortable and grubby, but at least it wouldn’t look out of place in the street. It was the first time Rosie had been in a van for a stake-out, as she usually left it to photographers. But she wanted to see this for herself.

She had taken a call mid-afternoon from Liz to tell her about a UVF monthly meeting that took place upstairs in the Tavern, which all the commanders throughout Scotland normally attended. Her boyfriend had let it slip that they were going to meet, and that he was going down to the pub afterwards to talk to a couple of the lads. Rosie thought it was a bit far-fetched, but she didn’t want to take the risk. Even if nothing interesting happened, it might be another opportunity to get a snap of Eddie McGregor, if, as expected, he turned up to the rendezvous.

‘I’m suffocating in here, Matt,’ Rosie said as she shifted around on the floor of the van.

‘I know. Me too.’ Matt wiped sweat from his forehead as he adjusted his camera so that the long lens was fixed on the side door of the pub. ‘This is what it’s like if you’re an SAS sniper. Just sitting for ages with your gun pointed at the target, waiting for the right moment to fire.’

‘Aye,’ Rosie sniggered. ‘You’re just like James Bond, you are.’ She knelt up, so she could see out of the window.

‘You know what snipers do if they need a crap when they’re sitting with a target in sight for hours?’ Matt said. ‘They just crap where they’re crouched. Into a crisp packet or something.’

‘Christ,’ Rosie chuckled. ‘Please tell me you don’t need a crap.’

‘No. Luckily for you I don’t, darlin’. But if I did, I could do it right into a crisp bag.’ Matt was grinning, his eye still on the lens. ‘It was part of that Special Forces training job I went on. It’s easier than you think. You just open the bag …’

‘Aye, right, Matt. I get the picture.’

It was nearly seven by the time a few cars and vans had driven up and one by one the men filtered in through the side entrance. If this was the UVF top brass, then they didn’t resemble anything like the military. More like punters or football fans, and a pretty thuggish-looking bunch at that.
But at least Liz’s information about the meeting seemed to be spot on. Another car drew up, and Rosie peered through binoculars.

‘Look,’ Matt said. ‘It’s McGregor. Brilliant. Face on, too. Bastard’s looking right down the lens.’

‘You don’t think he can see us, do you?’

‘No. No way. Relax. It’s just a coincidence that he’s looking this way.’

A couple of minutes later, another car – a smart black BMW – drew up. Rosie peered through her bins, as Matt adjusted his lens. It took a few seconds before the tall, welldressed man emerged from the car.

‘Wonder who he is,’ Rosie said. ‘Seems quite well groomed. Top car. Looks like he’s about forty-something, would you say?’

‘Yeah. It would be nice if he was a referee,’ Matt smiled. ‘It would prove to Celtic fans that the rumours are true.’

Rosie replied, ‘Yeah. Make sure you snap his number plate anyway. I’ll get someone to run it through for me.’

She wrote down the registration and took her mobile out of her pocket. She dialled Don’s number.

‘Hi, Don. What you up to? You’re not working tonight, are you?’

‘Hey, Rosie. No. Finished half an hour ago. What’s up?’

‘I was going to see if you could run a registration plate through for me. Any chance?’

‘Yeah. No bother. My mate’s still working. Give me the
number. I’m in the pub having a pint. I’ll do it now, and get back to you.’

A couple of hours later, Rosie watched as Matt wolfed a vindaloo, mopping the plate with a chunk of naan bread, and washing it down with lager.

‘I’m glad I’m not doing a stake-out in a van with you tomorrow, pal,’ Rosie said, sipping her lager.

Matt grinned. ‘No. You definitely don’t want to be anywhere near me.’

They’d had a productive two hours outside the pub, Matt snapping every man who came out of the side door at the end of the meeting. They had no way of knowing who any of them were, why they were there, or even if it was a UVF meeting. But it was a start, Rosie told him, and it was good to have them on file.

They’d been intrigued as the man in the BMW emerged from the side door with Eddie McGregor, who handed him a black holdall. Matt reeled off some snaps as they shook hands and parted. Whoever they were, they seemed close, and that had to be worth a look in itself.

Rosie’s mobile rang on the table and she picked it up.

‘Hi, Don.’

‘Listen, Rosie. That registration you gave me. You up to something sneaky?’

‘You know me, Don. I’m always trampling around somebody’s dirty secrets. Why? Is he interesting?’

‘Not sure. All it gives is the owner of the car. He’s from Ayrshire. Irvine, actually.’

Don reeled off the details and Rosie wrote them down on the back of a napkin.

‘Well?’ Matt said when she came off the phone.

‘The guy in the BMW.’ Rosie folded the napkin and put it in her bag.

‘Please tell me he’s a referee.’

‘No idea. But I’ve got an address. Why don’t we nip down early doors tomorrow and see where he lives. Maybe snatch a picture of him coming out of his house. Just in case he’s a respectable businessman.’

‘Or a church minister.’

‘Yeah. In your dreams, Matt.’

The house was a semidetached job in a fairly new estate outside Irvine. Clipped lawns, patio furniture and this year’s car in the tiny driveways of the little corner the residents had cleared for themselves, as they strived to be upwardly mobile. The place was dubbed Spam Valley by the hardup tenants in the nearby council housing scheme. They’d feel vindicated if the folk in the fancy new estate couldn’t afford to feed themselves, their hefty mortgages hanging round their necks. Rosie could see why bitter little jealousies reared their heads in what had once been a thriving new town, but now was lumbered with high unemployment and heroin creeping out of Glasgow like a cancer, spreading all
the way down to devastate scenic little towns that had been jewels in the Ayrshire coastline. Saltcoats, Ardrossan, Irvine, Ayr … All of them brought back memories of bus runs with her mother on long summer days, fish teas in the cafe and sleepy journeys home among drunken day-trippers singing on the top of the double decker.

Rosie and Matt had found a good spot to park within shooting distance of Fraser Thomson’s house. It was the kind of place you’d be rumbled if you asked questions, so they wouldn’t hang around too long. It was interesting already, given that whoever he was, he didn’t fit the profile that Rosie had expected.

‘Are we going to follow him?’ Matt said, yawning.

‘Only if we can do it discreetly. It’s definitely the right house though. The BMW’s in the driveway. We’ll just see what happens if he comes out.’

The houses in the estate were beginning to stir now that it was after eight thirty, and various people were coming out and getting into cars.

‘Hope he’s not having a long lie, because I’m going to need a crap soon,’ Matt said.

‘Thanks for sharing.’ Rosie shook her head.

Just then, the front door opened.

‘Here we go,’ Rosie said, pulling the sun visor down to cover her face.

The tall, slim figure they’d seen last night stepped onto the threshold. Rosie’s mouth dropped open.

‘Holy fuck!’ Matt fired off several shots. ‘You’re fucking joking. He’s a cop!’

‘Jesus! It’s definitely him, isn’t it, Matt?’