Dead Won't Sleep (26 page)

‘Wait a minute,’ Rosie said. ‘What the hell’s going on here? What do you mean, drugs? I don’t do bloody drugs! Anybody knows that.’

‘Can I see the warrant?’ TJ asked. He gave Rosie a look that told her to simmer down.

‘Who are you?’ the inspector snapped.

‘I’m her friend,’ TJ snapped back. ‘Just let me see the warrant please?’

McIver looked at his colleague and handed over the piece of paper. Rosie tried to read it along with TJ, but it was just a blur. She couldn’t concentrate.

‘Okay?’ the inspector said. ‘It’s all in order. Now if the two of you remain here, we will get on with our job.’ He turned to his partner. ‘Alex, you take the kitchen.’

Rosie stood fuming as DI McIver began opening the drawers of her computer desk and rifling through them, scattering the contents onto the floor. He pulled the bottom two drawers out and emptied them out. At the book shelf, he pushed books aside carelessly, knocking some to the floor. A glass ornament Rosie had picked up on a trip to Rome fell on the floor and smashed.

‘Watch what you’re fucking doing!’ Rosie was across the room. TJ pulled her back. She fought hard to keep back tears of rage.

The inspector walked around the living room, then into the hall and pushed open the door of her bedroom,
Rosie and TJ following. He pulled out the drawers of her bedside cabinets and rifled through a chest of drawers. Rosie stood watching, biting her lip. He stuffed his hand to the back of a drawer, and kept it there for a moment. Then he turned to look at them. He pulled out a small clear plastic bag. All she’d ever kept in that drawer were swimsuits. The inspector had a smug expression on his face as he turned and looked at Rosie, holding up the bag of white powder.

Suddenly her legs went weak. It was over. The whole investigation. Of course, it had crossed her mind that they might pull a stunt like this, but she never really believed they would. The inspector shouted for his colleague to come through.

Rosie turned to TJ. ‘I knew something had happened as soon as I walked in the door. It’s been planted. Shit, TJ.’

He held her close and whispered into her hair.

‘Look, Rosie. Sssh. Don’t say a single word. Nothing at all.’

McIver put his ‘find’ into an evidence bag, tagged it, and handed it to the other cop. Then he turned to Rosie and read her her rights.

She gritted her teeth. Bastards! She would die on the floor before she would burst into tears in front of these arseholes.

‘Come on. Let’s go, Miss Gilmour. You’re in custody until the court in the morning.’ The WPC moved toward her. Rosie stepped back.

‘I have to make a phone call to my editor,’ Rosie said.

The inspector looked at his colleague and shrugged.

Rosie went into the living room, TJ behind her, and pulled her mobile out of her bag. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly get McGuire’s name up on the consul. She pleaded under her breath for him to answer.

‘Gilmour?’ McGuire sounded as though he was in a bar. ‘I’m out for dinner. What’s up?’

‘Mick,’ Rosie said, her voice shaking. ‘I’m at my own flat. The cops have come in here and found cocaine in my drawer.’

‘What?’ Mick said. ‘Cocaine? Fuck me!’

‘Christ, Mick! It’s not mine! I came back tonight and I knew someone had been here because stuff had been disturbed. Suddenly the cops came and found this shit in my drawer.’ She was trying not to break down. ‘I swear to God, Mick, it’s not mine. It’s been planted. I’ve been set up.’

Silence at the other end of the phone. He doesn’t believe me, she thought. Then he spoke.

‘Right,’ McGuire said. ‘Okay, Rosie. Don’t panic. Where are they taking you to?’

She turned and asked the inspector which station, and he told her it would be Central. She told McGuire.

‘Right. Don’t you worry, Rosie, the fuckers will not get away with this. You better believe they won’t. Listen to me, don’t say a word. Just go down there with them
and keep your mouth shut. I’ll get the lawyer straight down to you. Don’t worry, darling.’

Rosie couldn’t speak for a moment. She took a deep breath.

‘Okay, Mick. Thanks. I won’t. Thanks.’

‘Chin up, Gilmour.’ The line went dead.

Rosie sat on the edge of the bed in the police cell, chilled to the bone. The mixture of nerves and the booze wearing off made her feel nauseous. She had been left here for nearly an hour since she had been formally charged at the bar. They did the full humiliation job, fingerprints and mugshot. Just imagine if you were actually guilty, Rosie thought. She knew this was a scam organised by Fox to wreck her credibility, and he would get away with it because cocaine was actually found in her home. That would be enough evidence to take to the Procurator Fiscal. Whether he pursued it to court was another matter, but the damage was done. The newspapers would already have been tipped off.

She could visualise the headlines in tomorrow’s papers: ‘TOP JOURNO ON COKE RAP’. The
Post
’s enemies in the tabloid world would have a field day. Rosie was not everyone’s favourite journalist – she had pulled the rug from beneath the feet of enough rivals to have made some
enemies. But people who really knew her would never believe she was involved in drugs. She had written exposés before about drug dealers and was hated by them. She was certain she would be cleared of any drug charges, but none of that changed the dilemma of the moment. If there was doubt about her credibility, it would be impossible for the
Post
to publish revelations about police corruption. She took comfort from the fact that they had a full testament from Jack Prentice, as well as a photograph. If it had been a set-up, as Reynolds had warned, Foxy wouldn’t have bothered to plant the coke in her flat, he would have let her make a fool of herself. She began to feel better. Planting the coke was an admission of guilt.

She looked at her watch. Suddenly she remembered Quigley. He could be phoning her any time to let her know about the tape. She was glad that TJ had her mobile. The cops had told him there was no point in coming to the police station until the morning. He had kissed Rosie on the lips as she left the flat with the cops. She was beginning to feel edgy. She had to get out of here to talk to Quigley. She knew he wouldn’t speak to anyone else, and the state his nerves were in, he was likely to do a runner. She looked at her watch again. Come on, McGuire, come
on
. . . Time was running out. She put her head in her hands.

‘You must have upset somebody pretty high up, Gilmour?’ It was the smiling face of Tommy Hanlon, the young hotshot lawyer for the
Post
.

Rosie looked up. ‘You bet,’ she said.

Hanlon came in and shook her hand.

‘Christ almighty, Rosie.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Very quickly, she told him what had happened, from when she left the restaurant with TJ until the police arrived at her flat. He told her McGuire had given him information that the
Post
was about to expose Gavin Fox.

‘Don’t worry,’ Hanlon said, ‘it’s being kept really tight. Christ, I hope you get to turn over that bastard Fox, Rosie. I really do. But this is a big setback, legally. You do know that, don’t you.’

Rosie nodded. She loved Hanlon. His sunny disposition never changed, whether he had just walked out of court having got someone off a murder charge, or a hoodlum had been sent down for fifteen years. It was all a game. Whoever has the quickest brain and the best line in bullshit wins hands down every time, he would say. And there was nobody better than. Hanlon. He was one of the highest-paid criminal lawyers in the business, but there were no airs and graces about him. His charm made him as much at ease with punters in a pub as he was with top lawyers or politicians.

He and Rosie were old friends, although sometimes at loggerheads. He had ‘legalled’ some of Rosie’s most controversial stories and he knew she would fight tooth and nail to get every last detail in the paper. Often he would have to stand his ground and cut out the juiciest
parts in order to save the newspaper from a lawsuit.

‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure they send you down a good curry and a bottle of decent wine.’

‘Piss off,’ Rosie said, trying to smile. ‘Can you get me out of here tonight?’

‘Course I can, but they want to talk to you first. That big inspector, McIver, Christ, he’s a mean bastard. I’ve come across him before. You should think yourself lucky you’ve got no broken ribs. Most of my clients fall down the stairs every time he’s in charge of them.’

‘What happens now?’ Just having Hanlon here lifted her spirits.

‘We’re going for an interview,’ he said. ‘They’ll try to interrogate you, but you say absolutely nothing, okay? Just take your cue from me, Rosie.’

‘Okay. Then what?’

‘Well . . .’ Hanlon straightened his tie and smoothed his hair. ‘With a bit of luck, they’ll let you go, and they’ll send a report to the Fiscal. But if it all goes pear-shaped, they’ll keep you here all night and you’ll be up with the custodies in the morning. That’s what they’ll want to do. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.’

‘Aw please, Tommy,’ Rosie said. ‘Please don’t let that happen. The papers will have their fill of it as it is.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘They’re outside. That wee fat bastard from the
Sun
, and the
Mail
is here as well. Cops must have tipped them off. Obviously all part of the plan. But don’t worry, Rosie, that’ll all look great in
the final story. No sweat. Just trust me. I’m a lawyer,’ he grinned.

The cell door opened and the DI appeared, along with a woman detective. Rosie was surprised when she smiled at her. The inspector nodded grudgingly in Hanlon’s direction. He told them to follow him, that they were going to have a little chat. Hanlon winked at Rosie as she stood up and walked out of the cell behind McIver, and glanced at her before they went into the interview room, putting a finger to his lips.

She and Hanlon sat at one side of a table and the inspector and the woman sat opposite. Rosie looked at the depressingly grim green walls. She took a deep breath. She still felt sick.

‘Right, Miss Gilmour.’ The inspector shuffled papers on the table. ‘You know what you have been charged with. Now we want just to have a chat about the substance found in your flat. Understand?’

Rosie said nothing. She could feel the woman detective staring at her. Hold your nerve, she kept telling herself.

‘Where did you get it, Miss Gilmour? The cocaine. Where did you get it?’

Still Rosie said nothing. McIver leaned forward.

‘It would be in your interests to give us some information,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be the first hack to do the odd line of coke, and you’ll not be the last. You guys can do what the hell you like. Me? I’m only interested
in where you’re getting the stuff. That’s all. You can do yourself a lot of good, just by throwing me one name.’

Rosie bit her lip. She wanted to throw him a name, all right – three names, actually – Gavin Fox, Bill Mackie and Jack Prentice. She wondered if he knew everything that was going on, or if he really was just acting on the information about the drugs. She suspected he knew. Her face burned with rage.

Hanlon detected her tension. ‘Inspector McIver,’ he said. ‘My client has nothing to say. She will not be making any comment whatsoever. Not on any of the matters you ask her about. So I trust this interview is over. I would like to take my client home now and wait for the due process of the law to take its course.’

The inspector took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held the pen in his hand so tight that his knuckles were white. The woman detective looked at Rosie, then at Hanlon, then at the desk. Rosie wondered if she believed any of this. She had a look about her that distrusted the process going on here. Perhaps she had fallen foul of Foxy herself . . . He did have a reputation for using ambitious young policewomen for his own ends, then dumping them.

‘It may not be possible to release Miss Gilmour tonight. We’re taking advice at the moment. She may have to be in court tomorrow.’ He looked as though he hoped so.

‘Well,’ Hanlon said. ‘We shall just have to wait and
see. But on my advice my client will not be making any statement.’

They sat in silence. Rosie could hear the minute hand ticking on the wall clock. The door handle turned and the door opened a little. A young WPC stuck her head round and beckoned to the inspector. He went out. Rosie and Hanlon looked at each other.

‘Tough time,’ the woman detective said to Rosie once he had left. ‘I’ve read a lot of your articles. I like what you do.’

‘Thanks,’ Rosie said, surprised. ‘I appreciate that. Not many cops like what I do.’

The detective raised her eyebrows. ‘Only the bad ones don’t,’ she said.

The door opened and McIver came in with his face like fizz.

‘You can go,’ he said to Rosie. ‘A report is being prepared for the Procurator Fiscal. You’re lucky, Miss Gilmour. You must have friends in high places.’

‘No.’ Rosie stood up. ‘Only in low places. It’s enemies I have in high places.’ She walked past him and out of the door, Hanlon holding her arm.

‘Don’t push it, Gilmour,’ he said, ushering her down the corridor.

As they walked towards the door, they could see press photgraphers and reporters outside. Rosie knew most of them and realised there was nothing they could do. It could have been her standing there.

‘Don’t smile,’ Hanlon said.

Rosie looked at him. ‘Like I’ve got something to smile about?’

She kept her face straight and her head down as they headed towards Hanlon’s Jaguar. Cameras flashed as she crossed the car park.

‘What’s going on, Rosie?’ Tim Clarke from the
Sun
shouted. ‘Are you on a drugs charge? Coke?’

Rosie said nothing and got into Hanlon’s car.

‘I’d love to get out and punch that bastard’s lights out,’ she said.

‘You know, Gilmour,’ Hanlon said, ‘you should get McGuire to make you the diplomatic correspondent. Your talents are wasted in the gutter.’