To Tell the Truth (10 page)

Taha sat silent in the back seat of the car when Rosie got out at the bank cashline. She took enough to get Taha out of the Costa del Sol and somewhere a good distance away. She’d suggested Barcelona. He was to call her and she would meet him there and give him more money. She would meet him no matter where it was, and give him more money. He agreed. Matt drove them to Malaga.

At the train station, Rosie told him to stay in the car and she went in and bought the ticket herself. One way to Barcelona. There was a train leaving in twenty minutes. She went back to the car and told Taha the plan, and he would be in Barcelona by early in the morning. He was to speak to nobody. Once in Barcelona, he should go and get himself some clothes and find a small hostal to stay for a few days. He’d be safe there, Rosie told him. And she even believed it. She gave him the ticket and a wedge of money, which he stuffed in his pocket. They both got out of the car and Rosie walked with him through the train station until they got to the platform. Taha looked around him nervously.

‘You’ll be okay, Taha.’ Rosie smiled at him.

‘I am afraid, Rosie.’ He swallowed. ‘Thank you for the money. I will phone you.’

He suddenly threw his arms around Rosie and she could feel his bones as he held her tight.

‘Take care, Taha. Take care. Call me and I will come. I promise.’ She eased herself away from him, and touched his face, soft as a child’s. She turned away and kept her head down as she walked briskly out of the station.

Rosie didn’t see the two men who had been watching them from the shadows. One of them followed her and got into a car. The other stood a little away from where Taha sat on the platform, staring at the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Rosie cursed the mobile for ringing again and again when she was in the shower.

The story of Michael Carter-Smith and the Russian mafia yacht had been plastered all over the
Post
’s front page, and she’d been expecting a few bristly calls from other hacks. She came out of the shower with her hair wrapped in a towel and picked up the phone. Two missed calls from reporters back in Glasgow and one from the
Post
’s man in Westminster. The latest, from Andy Simpson. She sat on the bed listening, and smiled at his snarling message. The press pack on the Amy story would be well pissed off at missing a massive story on their own doorstep. Rosie was tickled. For badness, she phoned Andy back.

‘Hey, Andy. Howsit goin?’

‘Fuck you, Gilmour.’

‘If I didn’t know you better, Andy, I’d think you were angry.’ Nothing like rubbing it in.

‘We wondered where you went to yesterday. The lads
were saying you were probably shafting us on the missing kid, and there you were, working it right up our arses with the Home Secretary – if you’ll pardon the pun.’

Rosie allowed herself a giggle. ‘Well, somebody’s got to do it, Andy. Come on, you wouldn’t have expected me to share any of that stuff, would you?’

‘Course not. But it doesn’t make me hate you any less, you bitch.’

‘I love you too, pet.’

‘Just tell me this, Rosie. Well, maybe you can’t, but where in the name of fuck did that one come from? Was it London? Was it Westminster? That’s what I told my desk. I told them it must have come from London. The guys have all told their newsdesks that, otherwise we look like prize pricks.’

Rosie hesitated. What the hell. Let them think it was London. The last thing she needed right now was for them to think there was any other story here involving the Home Secretary.

‘Yeah, that’s right, Andy. Westminster. Me and Matt were just told to get ourselves around to the yacht and see if he appeared. And to be honest, nobody was more surprised than us when he did.’

‘Oh, well. Good luck to you, Rosie. Nice one.’ He paused. ‘Rosie, listen … Do you fancy a bit of dinner tonight? Catch up and all that?’

Rosie paused. She had a bit of history with Andy Simpson in the shape of a drunken snog a very long time ago. There had always been a certain chemistry between them on the rare occasions they’d found themselves
working together. The guilty snog had happened after a long, hard four days on a story in the Highlands. The hacks were all letting their hair down on the last night, polishing off the hotel’s wine cellar and gantry of liqueurs. She was glad she hadn’t slept with him. If she had, it would probably have been round the press pack like wildfire. But, luckily for Rosie, there was always some invisible safety net that stopped her making a fool of herself when it came to men. Well, there used to be a safety net before TJ. She wouldn’t make that same mistake again, and certainly not with a journalist, even an attractive old Lothario like Andy Simpson. But what the heck. It was only dinner.

‘Yeah. That sounds good, Andy, as long as you don’t try to stab me with your steak knife.’ Rosie was looking forward to it already. ‘Oh, and Matt’s here. You know, the photographer? I’m working with him, and we always eat together. You okay with that?’

‘Sure.’ Andy said. ‘My monkey is going out with a few of the other guys tonight. But yeah, I like Matt. It’ll be a laugh to listen to the crap he talks.’

Rosie sensed he was covering his disappointment. She knew he was attracted to her and he knew she was off limits. But he wouldn’t be Andy if he didn’t at least try.

She got up off the bed and rubbed her hair furiously with the towel. The mobile rang again. It was Vincent, the
Post
’s man in Westminster.

‘Well, well, Miss Gilmour. So you’re trying to bring down the Home Secretary. What next? The government?’

Rosie sat down on the bed. She could picture Vincent’s
florid face, pipe in his hand, feigning indignation but loving every minute of her story. He was one of the old school of solid journalists – respected and feared in equal measure. During working visits to the House of Commons, Rosie had enjoyed many a session with him in the bars and restaurants, and she marvelled at how he was on first-name terms with everyone from doormen to Cabinet ministers.

‘The government’s next week, Vincent. I’m getting some sun on my back first. Howsit going?’

‘Great, Rosie. You should have seen their faces here when I hit them with Carter-Smith and the Russian mafia. They were scurrying around like rats up a tight drainpipe.’

‘Great. I love it when that happens. Thanks for getting the reaction for us. Lesser men than you would have been fobbed off by some spin doctor. So thanks, pal.’

‘No sweat, darlin’. Any time. Plus I’m sure there will be more to come. That Woolard fucker, he’s got business dealings stretching right into Eastern Europe according to my sources. I talked to McGuire on it and we’re going to have a serious look at him. If we’ve got the Home Secretary introducing his rich British pal to this Daletsky character, then we’ll make a meal of that.’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘But we don’t really know what went on in the yacht, Vincent. All we know is they went on, and they came off with Daletsky like a couple of old mates. Long way to go. But I’ll leave that down to you. I’m chasing the missing kid here, as you know.’

‘Aye. Nightmare. What the fuck happened there, Rosie?
How does a wee thing just get stolen from her house or the beach or wherever it was? It’s not right.’

‘I know, it’s awful,’ Rosie said. Vincent obviously didn’t know about Carter-Smith and the rent boy, so she would keep it that way. ‘It’s a terrible story, and it doesn’t look good for the kid, the longer she’s missing.’ Rosie changed the subject. ‘Where’s Carter-Smith now?’

‘I’m told he’s on his way home this afternoon. The pack will all be at the airport, so we’ll see what he has to say.’

‘Great. I’ll watch the news to see his face.’

She thought of his House of Commons ID card tucked into the lining of her suitcase.

‘You know him. He’ll brass his case big time. Just wait till you see him. Keep it up, and give us a shout if you need any help. Have to go, pet. See you.’

‘Okay. Bye Vincent.’

Later, in the roof-terrace restaurant of Andy’s hotel, Rosie listened, intrigued, though a little crestfallen, as Andy told them what exclusive line he had for his paper in the morning. Deadlines were well past, so he was relaxed enough to reveal his story. She looked at her watch as Matt filled up her glass. They exchanged glances and he shrugged.

‘There’s shag-all we can do, Rosie. You win some you lose some.’ Matt took a mouthful of his beer, then lifted the glass of wine to his lips. He was a never-mind-the-quality-feel-the-width man when it came to booze.

Rosie considered the impact his story would have. She wouldn’t get a hard time from McGuire for not having
the line, because he knew they were onto the massive world exclusive if they could manage to nail it down. But Andy’s information would change things, that’s for sure, and he was relishing being the reporter who set the agenda.

He’d always been the same, ever since Rosie’d known him. Something to do with being a Scottish hack in London. There was that chip on their shoulder, outsiders in a city full of English smartarses. It might have been insecurity that made the Scottish hacks feel they had to be better than the rest of the Fleet Street big hitters, but the truth is, most of them were. Rosie had never felt the need to move down to the Big Smoke to prove herself. She was top hand anywhere in the world in the best and biggest of company, and her name had the same respect as any of the big shots – including Andy. So when he was able to get one over on her and the rest of the pack, Andy was really going to enjoy the moment.

His line had been picked up from his Spanish translator, who had contacts in the Guarda Civil. Tomorrow, everyone would be chasing it.

A windsurfer, a Spaniard, had gone to the police with the story of what he saw the morning Amy disappeared. He’d parked his car on the quiet side street next to the beach and taken his surfing board and gear out of the boot. It was a beautiful sunny morning and the beach was deserted. As he was setting up his board with the sail and bits and pieces on the sand in front of him, he happened to look up and saw a guy walking down the beach. He was quite far away from him, but he could see
the figure was definitely male. He’d told police the guy was around thirty something or maybe forty.

The windsurfer didn’t pay much attention to him, but he could remember that the man was fair haired and was wearing bright yellow shorts. The windsurfer had been having a drink of juice before taking the board into the water. He saw the guy in the yellow shorts go onto the patio of the house and a woman appear at the door and pull it open to let him in. He didn’t see the woman clearly and couldn’t say what she looked like. That was all he saw. He didn’t think anything of it at the time.

He took his board into the water and the wind took him out to sea. His back was to the shore. The surfer said he had been out for a few minutes, not too far out to sea, then back fast along the shallow waters where the surf broke.

He could see, as he was heading back to the area of the beach where he’d started, that a woman was running up and down, shouting. Then the guy in the yellow shorts came out of the house and put his arms around her. He was able to tell police that the woman had short, dark hair and was slim. And he was able to pinpoint the house she’d come out of. He said he still didn’t pay much attention to what was going on, and assumed it was a couple having a row. After he dismantled his surfboard and collected his gear, he headed back to his car to drive to his girlfriend’s house for lunch.

It was only later when he saw something on the Spanish television news about a missing kid, that he realised it
was the same spot as he’d seen the couple. He didn’t go to the police until the next day, and only then because his girlfriend had insisted it was important.

‘You did well, Andy,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s a right good line. And it could be significant. It could open up a whole new story.’

‘Exactly,’ Andy lowered his voice. ‘So who was the fair-haired guy in the yellow shorts? Martin Lennon’s got black hair. And we’ve already been told the story of that morning, that Martin was out for a jog, and O’Hara only arrived at the house as Jenny was running up and down the beach frantically looking for Amy. So, someone’s telling porkies.’

‘Looks like it,’ Rosie said. ‘Is the windsurfer straight? Did you pay him a lot of dosh?’

Andy nodded. ‘We paid him. But what he told us is basically what he told the Guarda Civil. He’s Spanish. He knows it wouldn’t be wise to concoct a story like that in the middle of a missing kid investigation. And we also have his mate saying he left the house on that morning to go windsurfing.’

Rosie drank some water. It was going to be a busy day tomorrow, chasing this windsurfer. But by now the cops will have kicked his arse big time for talking to the press.

Taha’s story was right, if the windsurfer’s story was true. Someone had been in the house with Jenny Lennon. If the windsurfer wasn’t lying, then O’Hara was lying – that’s if he was the guy in the yellow shorts. And it meant that Jenny Lennon was also lying. Maybe that’s why O’Hara was so grey-faced, and why Jenny was so broken.

Andy smiled. ‘Hmmm. You’re thinking the same as the rest of us, Rosie? O’Hara’s been shagging Jenny Lennon while hubby’s out for a jog. And the kid gets stolen from under their noses. There’s no way in the world they’re going to let that get out. It’s dynamite.’

‘Have the cops told the Lennons about the windsurfer?’ Rosie asked.

Andy looked at his watch. ‘About three hours ago, after I phoned them for a reaction to the information, they went to the Lennon house. Then they went to O’Hara’s house. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at those interviews.’ He sipped his wine.

Rosie imagined the scene at the Lennon’s house when they were confronted by the cops.

‘Jesus, Andy. Can you imagine the guilt bouncing off the walls in those houses right now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Andy said. He was relishing the turn of events, whereas Rosie was trying to imagine the horror. She never did have that killer punch. Her mobile rang. It was McGuire.

‘Rosie. Have you seen the
Mail
?’

‘No, but I know the story. The reporter’s just told me. Puts an entirely different light on things.’