Betrayed (14 page)

McGuire folded his arms and gave her a surprised look.

Silence.

‘You there, Liz?’

‘Aye. I’m with Wendy just now. I was just saying to her what you said. Actually we spoke about that last night. She’s okay with it. She doesn’t want to make any decisions until she meets you.’

‘Right,’ Rosie said. ‘Great. I’ll get a flight tomorrow. Just tell me where and when.’

‘Really?’ Liz sounded surprised and a little relieved.

‘Of course. No problem.’ Rosie was aware that McGuire was glaring at her.

‘Okay,’ Liz said. ‘We’re staying in a place near Fuengirola.’ She paused. ‘I know a wee bar in the middle of town that only Spanish people go to. La Bodega. We could meet there.
When you get to Malaga, phone me and we’ll make an arrangement.’

‘Perfect. See you tomorrow.’ She hung up.

Rosie looked at McGuire and couldn’t help smiling.

‘Oh, so you’re making executive decisions now, Gilmour?’ McGuire said sarcastically. ‘You might want to try my chair out while you’re at it. You could even take the morning conference.’

‘Come on, Mick,’ Rosie laughed, but she knew he was only half joking. ‘You know what it’s like. That might have been my one shot at talking to her and I had to go with the flow. And I
am
an assistant editor, in charge of investigations.’

‘Yes.
Expensive
investigations.’ Mick shook his head and went back behind his desk. ‘Right. Get Marion to book you a flight. You’ll need to take Matt, just in case.’

His phone rang and he answered it.

‘Really? Fuck me!’ He chuckled. ‘I like the sound of that … Right. Get Declan to see what he can find out from the cops. I’ve got Rosie in here.’

‘What’s happening?’ Rosie stood up.

‘Fucking hell,’ McGuire said, sitting back with his hands behind his head. ‘Jamie Coleman. You know, the guy who plays the teacher in that school TV soap,
The Academy
? He was rushed to hospital after a cardiac arrest last night. He’s only thirty-four.’ His eyebrows knitted. ‘Did you know he was a cokehead?’

‘No, Mick. I don’t move in celebrity circles. Doesn’t surprise me though.’

‘Wait. It gets better. Details are sketchy but apparently he took ill during some kind of kinky sex session with two men!’ He grinned. ‘Fucking love that! He’s married, isn’t he?’

‘Jesus,’ Rosie puffed. ‘Yeah, he is married. Couple of years ago, remember? Married a model at a swanky reception somewhere in Perthshire. All the luvvies were there.’ She paused, her mind racing. ‘You never know what might come out of this, Mick, if he’s got a kinky secret. He’ll want to keep that quiet, so he might be worth a door knock.’

‘Took the words out of my mouth, Gilmour. We have to try to get to him. See who his dealer is and if it leads anywhere. It must be that dodgy cocaine.’

‘Is he out of hospital?’

‘Yep. Released this morning. You’ll need to move fast if you’re away to Spain tomorrow.’

An hour later, Rosie was driving slowly along leafy avenues in the West End admiring the magnificent old three-storey sandstone houses as she looked for Coleman’s street. In days gone by this would have been an old-money enclave, the plush homes of Glasgow merchants or shipyard owners handed down for generations, with rows of tenement flats – all identical – a couple of streets away, purpose-built as homes for thousands of workers back in the day when the
city was a thriving industrial metropolis. Now the posh houses were occupied by the nouveaux riches – lawyers, drug dealers, footballers. And the workers’ flats were bedsitland where students lived on junk food and cider preaching against the bourgeoisie. But give them a few years and they’d be living it up around the corner, sending their kids to private schools just as their well-heeled parents had done with them.

Rosie’s mobile rang in the passenger seat and she saw it was Don. She pulled in to the kerb to answer it.

‘Hello, Don. What’s happening?’

‘Did you hear about Jamie Coleman?’

‘Yeah. We’re working on it. The editor’s loving the secret double life of the soap star.’

‘And how!’ Don replied. ‘What is it with these guys? He’s married to a babe and he’s out fucking around with rent boys.’

‘Rent boys?’ Rosie didn’t think she should tell Don she was almost at Coleman’s house. ‘I heard it was some kinky sex game, with a couple of men, and that he had a cardiac arrest. Is he a cokehead?’

‘Big time,’ Don said. ‘Did you not know? But it’s worse than that. He’s been doing crack cocaine lately.’

‘No way! You’re kidding. How can he do that and hold down a job?’

‘He’s on a couple of months’ break, apparently. Told to rest. TV bosses know he’s got a coke habit.’

‘Christ! How do you know all that?’

‘I’m a cop!’ Don said a little sarcastically. ‘It’s my job.’

‘So the cardiac arrest was cocaine-induced?’

‘Crack cocaine-induced. He was doing crack. Been on a crack binge for nearly two days. His wife’s abroad on a modelling assignment.’

‘Jesus! Could it be this pure cocaine that’s been on the go for a few days?’

‘That’s the thinking. He’s lucky he’s alive.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘No, but my DI has. He’s admitted it.’

‘Wonder where he gets it.’

‘Anyone can get it, if you know the right people. A guy like him will have a regular, trusted dealer. Someone discreet.’

‘What about the rent boys? You talked to them?’

‘Not yet. They’ve gone to ground.’ He paused. ‘Coleman didn’t exactly have their addresses. Or if he has, he’s not telling us.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘I’m sure we’ll get to one of the boys. They all gossip. My guess is they brought the crack with them. But you know what’s more worrying?’

‘What?’

‘The fact that it was crack which got Coleman. Because this means it’s been shifted downmarket. Rent boys are well down the food chain. Put it this way. We’ve already had a
few people dead, but not from crack – just from the coke. So whoever is supplying their usual customers with coke has moved this batch elsewhere to get rid of it. To the schemes, where they’ll do any crap as long as it’s cheap. The scumbag dealers probably had a closing down sale, punted it at a reduction just to get rid of it, and it’s now used to make crack cocaine. That would be how the rent boys got hold of it – if it was theirs.’

‘That’s bad.’

‘Yeah. But it also opens up a worse scenario. We’ve already got crack cocaine in the city, which is bad enough, but we’re now going to have
more
casualties if this batch has been sold widely. But we don’t know exactly what’s in it because we haven’t been able to get our hands on any. All we have are the blood results from the stiffs which only show that it was this coke which caused the heart problems.’ He paused. ‘What you doing later?’

‘Not sure yet. Still working. I’m going out of town tomorrow on a story. But will be back in a few days.’

‘Okay. I’ll keep you posted.’ Don hung up.

Rosie phoned McGuire’s direct line and relayed what Don had said about the crack cocaine, in case he wanted her to hang fire on knocking at Coleman’s door. But he still wanted to go ahead. Coleman will be in the horrors, he suggested, and a bit more pressure from the media might just push him into talking. Rosie told him she wouldn’t hold her breath. The actor’s agent had put out a statement
saying he was suffering from exhaustion and was having complete rest. He’ll probably be in the Priory by the end of the week, McGuire said. Same old shite.

She was surprised that there was no other press lurking near the house. Scotland wasn’t awash with celebrities, and Coleman was a fairly big star. He’d landed the role in the soap after a movie career that didn’t really take off following a part in a British film three years ago. The film had won him plaudits at home and internationally, but the predicted megastardom hadn’t quite happened.

Rosie rang the bell and could hear it echo inside. No answer. She waited a few seconds then rang it again, this time pressing it three times in quick succession for a bit of urgency. She listened at the huge front door and thought she heard movement behind it.

‘Who’s there?’ A reticent male voice.

‘Jamie?’ Rosie said more in hope. ‘It’s Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the
Post
. Sorry to disturb you—’

‘I’m not giving any interviews,’ he interrupted. ‘My agent has put out a statement.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m suffering from exhaustion. I’d like to be left alone, please.’

Rosie detected a quiver in his voice. He must be rough as hell.

She persisted. ‘Yes, Jamie. I understand that. But I have something specific I’d like to ask you. Could you possibly open the door, please?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Regarding the substance you were using, Jamie. The cocaine.’ She stopped, glanced around her, then spoke into the corner of the door, lowering her voice. ‘The crack cocaine.’ Rosie waited but he said nothing. ‘Look, Jamie, I don’t want to be saying this on the doorstep. Could you please just open the door? Hear me out?’

‘Have you got a photographer?’

‘No. I’m on my own.’

‘Are you bullshitting?’

‘No. Absolutely not. I’m on my own. I promise.’

Rosie’s stomach flipped as she heard the lock being turned and the handle of the door rotating. Showtime. He opened the door slowly and there he was. He stood in his red striped pyjamas and pale blue towelling dressing gown, his face damp with sweat and his hands shaking like a leaf as he tightened his robe across his body. His fingers trembled as he tried to tie a knot in the belt, then gave up. Dark shadows beneath his eyes gave his soft complexion a sickly pallor. Rosie had seen healthier corpses. He was wrecked. Totally out of the game. His bottom lip trembled.

‘Come in.’ He stepped back. ‘But this isn’t an interview.’

‘Okay.’ Rosie raised a hand reassuringly. ‘Just a chat. If you decide you want to give an interview, we can talk about that.’

‘So?’ He swallowed, tongue darting out to moisten his dry lips.

Rosie glanced quickly around the massive hallway and
up at the high ceiling, painted with some kind of tasteless, garish variation on the Sistine Chapel. You’d probably need drugs to appreciate it, she thought. A massive darkwood staircase with a crimson carpet wound its way up two levels. Hanging on the wall was a huge framed print of Jamie with his arm slung around the shoulder of a grinning George Clooney on the set of the film that he’d hoped would take him to Hollywood. Rosie took a deep breath. She’d better make this a good pitch.

‘Jamie,’ she began. ‘Look, I might as well be honest with you. We have some very good inside information that you were on a crack cocaine binge … which ended with you in hospital last night.’

He flinched, opening his mouth to speak, but his lip shuddered. He looked at the floor then at Rosie.

‘I know you must be feeling awful,’ she went on quickly. ‘But I also know that you’re lucky to be alive. Very lucky.’ She waited, seeing his eyes fill with tears.

‘I know.’ He shook his head, shifted on his feet.

‘I want to talk to you, not so much about who you were with.’ Rosie returned the shocked glance in his bloodshot eyes. ‘I know about that too. But that’s not the issue. The issue here is the crack cocaine. Did you know that there’s a batch of cocaine in circulation at the moment and it’s suspected to have caused the deaths of four people so far?’

He nodded. ‘The hospital mentioned …’ His voice trailed off as he wiped a tear from his cheek.

‘Well,’ Rosie continued. ‘Looks like that may have been what you took.’ She paused long enough for him to answer, and when he didn’t she went on. ‘More people are going to die, Jamie, unless the cops can find out who is supplying this crap.’ There was no response. ‘Did you get it from your usual dealer?’

Silence.

‘I know you’ll have a dealer. You’ve got a coke habit and you’re a celebrity, so you’ll not be buying it from some guy at the Barras.’

Silence.

‘Did you get it from your usual dealer, Jamie?’

He pressed his fingers to his lips to stop them quivering and shook his head.

Rosie waited. She couldn’t believe she was getting away with this. She was taking advantage of him in a vulnerable state. But it was a means to an end.

‘One of the lads brought it.’ His voice was barely audible.

‘One of the lads?’

He nodded. ‘The boys. I’ve used them before. I know one of them quite well.’

Rosie nodded slowly.

‘I don’t know where he got it. I’ve no idea.’

‘Can you give me a number for the boy?’

Jamie ran his hand through his thick blond hair and looked away.

‘It’s important, Jamie. He’ll never know it came from you. But it’s important we can get to him.’ She paused. ‘Honestly. Whoever is dealing this shit has to stop. People are dying. As I said. You’re very lucky.’

He looked at the floor then up at Rosie as tears ran down his face.

‘You’re not going to print any of this?’

‘No,’ Rosie assured him, knowing she was winning. ‘Absolutely not. But if at some stage in the future you want to give an interview, talk about your life, how all this happened, then I’ll be there if you want that. But right now, Jamie, I won’t write anything.’

‘Do you promise? What if your editor says write it?’

‘He won’t, Jamie. None of this will go in the paper.’

Jamie turned and walked into the front room and returned with a mobile phone. His hands were shaking so much he had trouble holding it as he scrolled through the numbers.

‘Here it is.’ He handed Rosie the phone. ‘His name’s Paul.’

She quickly wrote it down, checked it again, then keyed it into her mobile.

‘Look, I need to go now. I feel sick.’ He went towards the door and turned the lock.

‘Of course.’ Rosie backed away. She stretched out her hand and shook his clammy cold palm. ‘Thanks for your
help, Jamie. You’ve done the right thing. Good to meet you. Sorry it’s in such difficult circumstances.’ She gave him a sympathetic look as she turned back on the threshold. ‘Listen. I hope things work out and you can get yourself sorted. I really hope you come back.’