To Tell the Truth (2 page)

On the motorway, Rosie kept to the outside lane for a while until she got used to the speed of the road. She hated driving on the right, and even on a motorway she freaked out a little when cars came thundering past her on the inside. Having a car for her month-long holiday in Spain was not something she would normally have done, but the villa, the whole trip, had been arranged by the
Post
, so she’d decided she might as well give it a go. She’d enjoyed the challenge of driving for the first few days because it had given her something to focus on.
Something to get stressed about. And in truth, once she got the hang of it, she loved the freedom of being able to flit in and out of little villages dotted along the west coast that she would otherwise not have seen.

These last days had been the best Rosie had felt in a long time. After the beating in February by the hoodlums who wanted to stop her story, she had been ordered off work when she got out of hospital. But by the start of the third week, she was going stir crazy in her flat. She’d insisted on coming back to work to get stuck into her new job as assistant editor. It had felt really odd at first, not getting out on the streets for the big investigations, but Rosie had been enjoying the newness of it. She hadn’t realised until now that she’d actually missed being on the road so much, and she hadn’t even reached the scene yet! She smiled to herself, wondering when she would ever learn.

McGuire had told her to take a month at the company’s expense as a thank-you for the work she’d done in bringing down that bastard police chief Gavin Fox and exposing the sex scandal at the children’s home. And she’d decided that getting completely off the treadmill for a month would do her a world of good. The truth was that she’d been fighting off panic attacks in the aftermath of the beating, so the holiday had been partly under doctor’s orders. Game on.

In three weeks she’d blitzed all the tourist haunts around Jerez, including the obligatory sherry tour which had left her with an almighty hangover she was convinced might actually be terminal. Rosie had read so many paper-backs
she was having trouble working out what was real life and what was fiction. With so little to do, it was only a matter of time before she fell into the wrong hands – literally. And so the clichés came rolling in faster than the Atlantic breakers on the beach at Rota – the little gem of a town where she was living in some splendour in a villa overlooking the ocean.

In one local restaurant she’d got a lot of attention from the owner, a handsome Spaniard with a story to tell and a twinkle in his eye. She felt a little embarrassed even now that she’d allowed him to charm his way right into her bed. The single brooding woman all alone, and the handsome Spanish man who was allegedly different from the usual Lothario. Jesus. Such a cliche. He’d be using his B-movie script on some other bird next month.

Brits were few and far between in Rota. But the US Naval base at the edge of the town ensured there was plenty of beef to look at on the beach for a woman with far too much energy. Her next distraction was in the solid shape of a US Marine Major with a crewcut, whom she’d met in a cafe one lazy afternoon. Rosie never could resist a man in uniform, and she knew what was on the cards even before they made a lunch date for the following day. After lunch, he’d taken her to a secluded beach nearby, where they played out the rest of the afternoon not unlike the classic scene in
From Here to Eternity
. The recollection still brought a smile.

These interludes had lifted the ennui and the loneliness which, even in the beautiful surroundings, had sometimes pulled Rosie down. And what the heck, the sex had
been particularly good, and she’d resolved to take it up as a proper hobby when she got back home. At least while she was preoccupied with uncomplicated sex, she could put the misery of TJ out of her mind.

She flipped on the stereo and pushed in a CD. The sweeping soundtrack from the movie
Out of Africa
filled the car. Soothing. Perfect for the time of day, with the sun lower in the sky and twinkling on the sea. Sure beat the hell out of the East End of Glasgow on a wet Monday.

As always in her quieter moments, no matter how hard she tried to forget, Rosie’s thoughts drifted back to TJ. She couldn’t believe he had never once got in touch with her after he left for New York. She’d tormented herself with all sorts of thoughts of what happened that morning when she couldn’t keep her date with him because she was in hospital. In truth, she didn’t even know if she’d have kept it anyway. The night when the killer came to her house, she’d been planning to take the whole evening to make up her mind. In the end, she didn’t get a chance. And from then on she was tortured with ‘what if’ agony, that TJ may have been standing waiting for her at the airport. But his words that day when he’d told her he was going and had given her the airline ticket, still rang in her ears.

‘If you come, fine. If not, don’t call me. I hate goodbyes.’

Even though she’d waited by her phone for days after he left, she knew deep down he wouldn’t call. She’d tried to contact him, believing that once he knew what had happened to her, TJ would be so shocked and caring, he’d
get in touch. Maybe he would even come back. But he never answered his phone. He had simply left her behind. That was the hardest thing to take. It was her own fault, she’d told herself, as she threw herself into the new job. She’d let her guard down, and that was her mistake. She’d opened up to TJ more than to anyone else in her whole life, and he walked away. Never again.

That was nearly six months ago, and still the tears welled up in her eyes when she thought of it. It wasn’t just the man/woman thing, the romance. It was the whole damn friendship. The baring of her soul, those deeply buried scars from her childhood that he’d brought to the surface. How could he do that then just disappear? She imagined TJ living in New York; wondered if there was another woman, and if he was sharing the same laughs and arguments with her that they used to have. Christ, this was driving her nuts. She was glad when her mobile rang.

‘Hey, Rosie.’

She recognised Marion, the editor’s secretary.

‘Marion. How you doing?’

‘Well, it’s pissin’ down in July, and I forgot to take my washing in before I went to work this morning. It’s Friday afternoon and my date for the night just called off. You could say, life is not smiling on me.’

Rosie chuckled. ‘Ah, that’s men for you, Marion. Play hard to get next time he calls.’ She promised herself she would do that if TJ ever phoned. But she knew she wouldn’t.

‘I’m too old to play hard to get,’ Marion said. ‘Somebody
asks me out, I’m standing with my hat and coat on in case they change their mind! Anyway, enough of my nonsense. Listen, Rosie. I booked you at the Puente Romano in Marbella. Unfortunately, it’s a five-star hotel, but I’m sure you’ll cope. And I’m about to wire some dosh into your account. Same number as last time alright?’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s brilliant. How much money?’

‘Five hundred quid. The editor says don’t spend it all at once. It’ll do for starters. Matt’s got his own money.’

‘Don’t worry, Marion. I’ll try to lay off the lobster and champagne. And I’ll bring you back a Spanish donkey.’

‘Yeah. Do that, Rosie. And make sure it’s a two-legged one.’

CHAPTER 2

Besmir had been watching them for days, the whole crowd of them. Eating, drinking, laughing. The men always seemed to be making jokes with each other and guffawing, and the women would shake their heads and smile the way older people did when children were being silly. He didn’t like any of them. They were puffed up like peacocks, full of their own importance.

One time, in a cafe at lunchtime, when he was at a table too far and too insignificant for them to notice him, he saw one of the men give the young waiter a dressing down. He couldn’t understand what the boy was being berated for, but the others sniggered when he walked away, his head bowed, close to tears. Besmir wanted to go up and grab the waiter and tell him to go back to the table and punch the shit out of the guy. That’s what he would have done. Fighting was all Besmir knew. In Albania, you either fought or you were a victim and you got trampled on. The more he watched them, the more he disliked them, and that was good. Because soon they
would have a lot more to worry them than whether a waiter served them well.

He had planned to take the girl in the night, when the family were sleeping in their villa on the beach. They were so stupid they slept with the patio door unlocked. He had even been in there while they were fast asleep and he’d looked at the little girl in her bed. She was beautiful. In the end, they’d made it easy for him. She was just out there, on the beach by herself when he walked past for the second time, doing a recce. From a distance earlier, he’d seen the husband of the woman going out wearing shorts and running shoes. He’d run in the opposite direction from where Besmir was, but he’d slipped into the shadows in the sidestreet just in case.

It was only a few minutes later that he saw the other man come by and talk to the woman on the patio. The little girl was nowhere to be seen. Besmir watched as the man and woman disappeared into the house together. He was surprised when he saw the kid come tottering out by herself and sit on the sand. His heart missed a beat. He would do it now. If he was quick, it could be done and over in a minute. He could have her delivered in two hours and get his money. He waited a few minutes in case the mother came out. And when she didn’t, he moved.

Now the crying had stopped, and Besmir hoped the girl had fallen asleep. He hated it when children cried like that. It reminded him of the incessant crying in the
orphanage, day and night, children constantly crying. The pictures in his head were sometimes blurred these days. He’d made them that way, but he could remember the crying more clearly than anything. He remembered his own crying and saw himself looking through the bars of the cot, the other miserable children rocking back and forth and wailing. But there was no point. Nobody came. Besmir had no recollection of when he stopped crying, but one day he just did. And he had never cried again. Not once.

He pulled the car off the road and up a quiet, twisting lane. He got out, lit a cigarette and checked to make sure there was nobody around. He went to the boot and clicked it open. She lay curled up and asleep, clutching an oily rag among the tools and debris. Her face was deathly pale and her dark brown curls looked even darker against her white skin. For a second he thought she may have suffocated, and he reached out to touch her arm to feel if there was a pulse. But as he did, she stirred. He closed the boot in case the light would wake her up and start her crying again. He got back into the car and drove on. He called Elira from his mobile to tell her he would be in Algeciras in an hour.

The traffic began to back up as he got closer to Algeciras, and Besmir had to slow down until the line of cars was nearly bumper to bumper. He wondered what had caused the hold-up and rolled his window down to stick his head out. Shit. The cops seemed to be stopping people. He looked at his watch. He had been on the road for nearly two hours. The cops would have been alerted
by now and would be looking for the missing kid. But maybe they wouldn’t be this far down yet. The traffic slowed even more. It could be a roadblock. He began to sweat. He didn’t have any papers if he got stopped. Leka had promised him a fake passport and identity card if he did just one more job. Leka always pushed the end game further and further away. He said he would give him three thousand euros for the job. With that kind of money Besmir could be free to go anywhere he wanted. Or he could stay, and become a bigger part of the organisation.

They were everywhere now, the Albanians. From Italy to Spain to London. They were huge and powerful, providing people to order for gangmasters and whorehouses all over Europe. Some people were sold privately as individuals to whoever paid the highest price. There were no restrictions on age or gender. The only rule was that you never crossed the Albanians or the Russians. Ever. Anyone who made that mistake never lived to see the sunset. Especially if they crossed Leka.

Besmir inched closer to the roadblock, and he could see the cop put his hand up to stop the car four in front of him. His heart began to pound. The car was stifling, so the boot would be boiling. All he needed now was for the kid to wake up and start screaming. The fat cop waddled along the line of cars, his pistol in his holster. Besmir made sure he didn’t make eye contact when the cop stopped at his car. Besmir looked up with the bored expression of someone caught in a traffic jam. The cop turned around and walked back down the line. He waved
the cars on. Besmir gripped the steering wheel hard to stop his hands shaking.

The port of Algeciras was heaving with activity in the late afternoon, a mix of tourist ferries and freight boats going to and from Morocco. Besmir weaved his car in and out of the traffic, past the docks and up through the tight warren of back streets. The air was heavy with smells from the exotic mix of restaurants and street stalls. Fried garlic and Moroccan spices mingled with the searing heat and traffic fumes. Cars honked above the din and drivers cut each other up, swerving to avoid pedestrians shouting abuse.

Besmir wanted to get to the house quickly as the girl must surely be awake by now with this noise. He turned into a one-way cobbled street and raced up, knowing he could cut across the alley half way. It was cooler now as he drove towards the block, where he could see Elira standing on the balcony looking down at him. She lifted her chin a little to acknowledge him, then she disappeared inside. He pulled his car to the side of the road and ran upstairs.

‘We must get her out quickly,’ Besmir said as Elira opened the door to him. ‘We can’t wait till it’s dark, or leave her there any longer.’

Elira drew on her cigarette and puffed the smoke out of her fat cheeks. A puppy came bounding out of the small kitchen and slipped comically on the stone floor rushing to greet the visitor.

Elira smiled, her face softening. ‘Look. The girl will have a little friend. It will help to stop her crying.’