Dead Won't Sleep (11 page)

One of the biggest turns Jake had done for Foxy was when the police instituted a high-profile gun amnesty, announcing in the press that anyone who handed in a weapon would not be prosecuted. When it kicked off, Foxy had gone on television, waxing lyrical about how this would take guns out of the community, make the streets safer. Only a trickle of weapons had been handed in at first, but after the meet with Big Jake, suddenly there were guns being found everywhere, by police acting on anonymous tip-offs. Foxy was Wyatt Earp and this was Dodge City. Shotguns, rifles and handguns started turning up in graveyards, behind shops, in derelict warehouses. Foxy was making a breakthrough. Another civic
lunch celebrated his success, another promotion followed.

But Gavin Fox wasn’t just a bent cop. He was a bent cop with a philosophy. He convinced himself that he was making a real contribution to fighting crime. He justified his way of life, because he knew you could never ever truly win the fight against drugs or beat the kingpins of the underworld. But, as a cop you could at least ensure a level of control. Everybody got their cut because everybody, deep down, was a little bit crooked, a little bit greedy. He knew how to make it work. With his success at catching criminals at street level, he rose through the ranks, and when he got to the top, he could still keep a handle on the street. It worked both ways, for him and for Jake. As long as he delivered the goods, he survived – with the fat salary and the large pension. And Big Jake was the ultimate untouchable.

In return for all his collaboration, Jake was allowed to build up his millions, raking in a fortune from robberies and drug deals. It worked, just so long as every now and again somebody took a fall. Just so long as that somebody was never Jake or Foxy. Big Jake had wined and dined Foxy and the others. He had even been sailing with them a couple of weekends on the boat, providing the hookers and the coke. It had always worked perfectly. Until now.

Too late, Foxy realised that he had made a mistake in calling Jake to tell him about the problem with the whore they’d dumped from the boat, and his worry it might
get out. He had got a call back from Jake yesterday to say that this bird Mags had blabbed to another hooker that cops were involved with Tracy, and she could blow it all sky high. Foxy told Jake she would have to be kept quiet, but the last thing he wanted was for her to have her throat cut.

‘Christ almighty,’ he had said to Jake. ‘How the fuck did that happen? I only meant her to get a wee warning. Now I’ve got to pretend to solve a fucking murder. I’ve got the fucking press all over us like a rash.’

‘Don’t be fucking daft, Foxy.’ Jake had laughed. ‘They’ll no remember it this time next week. She was just a wee slag like the other one. Nobody’s even got a smell of what’s happening here.’

Foxy was quiet for a moment, but his stomach was twitching. ‘Just the same, Jake, I didn’t want her killed. That takes us into a different ball game here. I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all, Jake.’

There was a moment’s silence. Foxy was in no doubt who was running the show here, and it wasn’t him.

‘Okay.’ Jake’s voice was consoling. ‘Maybe my man was a bit heavy handed, but it’ll blow over. Before you know it, we’ll be sailing doon the watter with a decent bottle of champers and some Charley on the side.’ He laughed his rasping breathless laugh, and Foxy could see his big face, leathery from years of sunning himself on the Costa del Sol.

Jake was still chuckling as he said goodbye, and hung
up the phone, opening the drawer of his desk where Mags’s mobile phone lay after it had been given to him by the hitman he’d hired to kill her.

‘Fucking psycho,’ muttered Foxy.

As soon as Jack and Bill walked in, Foxy knew things were unravelling fast. Jack looked like a ghost. Black circles shadowed the heavy bags under his eyes. You could see the clamminess on his pasty face. Foxy had never known him like this before. Bill looked his usual self though, and threw Foxy a glance in acknowledgement that all was not well with Jack.

‘Sit down, boys.’ Foxy was up to greet them. ‘Christ, Jack, you all right?’ Foxy squeezed his arm. ‘You look like you’re about to peg it. Calm down, man, for fuck’s sake.’

Jack’s face started to crumple, and Foxy and Bill looked at each other in disbelief. Foxy swallowed hard. This was the very last thing he needed. Jack had his head in his hands. He was shaking and Foxy realised to his horror that he was crying.

‘I’m sorry, Foxy. Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I just . . . I’m just fucking going to pieces. I’m sorry.’

Bill reached across and touched his arm.

‘Come on now, Jack,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right. We’re all together. Come on now, we’re your mates. We’re all fine.’

Bill grimaced at Foxy, now standing over them with his arms folded. Foxy pulled up a chair and sat down
next to Jack. He put his arm around him and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to him.

‘It’s all right, Jack, get it out. It’s the tension. It’s been tough for us. Tough six months. Last few days even tougher. But it’s going to be all right, Jack, you’ll see. Just need to dig deep.’

Jack tried to sit up straight, and took his hands away from his face. He blew his nose and sniffed.

‘Sorry guys,’ he said, weakly. He turned to Foxy. ‘It’s just that sometimes I think I’m cracking up. I can’t sleep or anything.’

Foxy patted his shoulder. ‘Not at all, Jack. But listen, pal, we’ve been to hell and back, us three. We don’t crack up. We’ll be out the other end of this in a few weeks and then it’ll be business as usual. You’ll see. We’re in charge here.’

Jack shook his head, and his face reddened.

‘But, Foxy,’ he said. ‘That wee bird Mags . . . her throat cut . . . I mean, what’s happening? That wasn’t us, was it? You didn’t get that done, did you, Foxy?’

Foxy stood up and looked from Bill to Jack. He knew he would have to tell them.

‘It was the Big Man,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fucking hell. I told him about the problem, but I didn’t expect anything like this. Nobody was more surprised than me, I can tell you, lads.’

‘Holy Christ,’ Bill said. ‘What a psycho Big Jake is. You think a few slaps would have done a wee lassie like that,
but he had to go the full hog. Who did it?’

‘Don’t know. He said something about a guy from Newcastle that they use sometimes. I don’t even want to know. I’ve made it clear to him that I’m well pissed off, but you know what he’s like.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, it’s done now, so just forget about it. It didn’t happen.’

‘The press conference is this afternoon,’ Jack said. ‘The shit’ll hit the fan.’

‘No it won’t.’ Foxy was firm, looking Jack in the eye. ‘Just keep the ball on the ground. I’ve already spoken to McIntosh, who’s running the inquiry, and said I want to be kept informed of every cough and spit. This is a high-profile case now, and that might actually work in our favour. We’ll throw the press a few lines. They’ll be wanting a serial killer, so I’ve told McIntosh not to deny this as a possible line of enquiry . . . keep it vague because we don’t know. That’ll get ’em going. And the good thing is that the wee Tracy bird story will be way down their agenda now, because there is no evidence to suggest she was murdered. I know how these sewer rats work.’

‘But do you think Mags actually spoke to any reporter?’ Bill said. ‘Or was she just trying to be smart in front of the other hooker?

Foxy leaned on the edge of his desk. ‘The answer to that is I just don’t know. Hard to say.’

‘I’ll talk to Reynolds,’ Bill said. ‘In case it’s him or anybody in his office.’

‘If it was Reynolds we’d know about it.’ Foxy went back behind his desk. ‘Anyway’ – he shuffled some papers – ‘let’s keep all this in perspective. We can’t be starting to panic over who this daft wee whore spoke to or not. Let’s just sit tight and see how it pans out. Most important thing is that we keep it together. Right, Jack?’

Jack got up and took a deep breath. ‘Right, Foxy. I’ll be all right. I feel better already.’

‘Maybe you just needed a good greet,’ Bill said, sniggering. ‘Maybe you’re pre-menstrual or something.’

They all just about managed a laugh, and for the briefest moment they were back on the boat, just like the good old days.

Rosie struggled to pull up the zip of the hold-all she had packed to take to the flat. It was always the same. No matter how carefully you packed, there was never enough room, wherever you were going. Eventually it was done and she slung it over her shoulder and walked out of her bedroom and into the living-room. She did one final check that all the plugs were out and switches off before turning on the alarm and getting out of the flat in the statutory thirty seconds.

She breathed an exhausted sigh when she got into the lift. She was tired. Proper sleep hadn’t come for the best part of the week. And the dream kept coming back, the way it always did when she was under pressure. She had woken up twice with her eyes wet; she had been crying in her sleep. She was always glad when the morning came. Tonight when she got to the flat she would soak in a hot bath and then collapse into bed. She knew that when she was done in like this,
she’d sleep for twelve straight hours. She couldn’t wait.

She went down the stairs and across the hall towards the shared entrance to the flats. When she pressed the security button to release the heavy wooden door and stepped outside, she did a double take. It looked like Mags’s little girl, Gemma, sitting on the steps. When the girl looked around and smiled at her, Rosie knew she wasn’t hallucinating. She stood staring at her, confused, wondering if anyone was with her. Rosie’s stomach turned over. Jesus!

‘Gemma?’ she said, as if she was making sure.

‘Hiya, Rosie.’ Gemma stood up, looking sheepish. Her face was red from crying, and she seemed about to burst into tears.

‘Gemma.’ Rosie still could not quite believe it. ‘What are you doing here? I mean, how did you get here? What’s going on?’

Gemma took a step towards her. Rosie could see her little eyes were tired, red-rimmed.

‘I ran away. Can I come and stay with you?’ Then she took a deep breath, and the words came out in a huge, heaving sob. ‘They said my mammy’s in heaven an’ she’s not coming back.’ She threw herself at Rosie and wrapped her arms around her waist.

Rosie looked around nervously. She put a tentative hand on the girl’s head and patted her. Christ! This could not be happening!

‘Sssh, now.’ She suddenly fought back the urge to
cry as well. ‘There now, Gemma . . . It’ll be all right . . . You’ll see.’

‘But I’ve got no mammy now,’ Gemma sobbed, her body shuddering.

Rosie didn’t know what to say to her. Nothing in her chequered life had prepared her for a moment like this, but she had to get out of the street just in case, as McGuire suspected, someone was watching her. She took the child’s hand and pulled her towards her car parked close by.

‘Quick.’ She opened the back door of the car. ‘Inside. We’ll have a wee talk, Gemma. Just calm down, pet. You’ll be fine.’ Rosie had no idea what she was going to do.

She drove a couple of streets away and pulled into the side of the road, switching off the engine. She turned around to face Gemma, who smiled back at her, sniffing, her chest still quivering from the sobs.

‘Tell me what happened, Gemma.’ Rosie hoped she sounded calm and collected, though her heart was going like an engine.

Gemma told her that the woman, who Rosie guessed was her social worker, had told her that her mum had been hurt and was in heaven now. But she was going to be cared for at the home, and soon she would probably find foster parents who would take great care of her. The woman told her about other little girls and boys who were now living in smashing houses and had bikes
and everything. Some of them even went to Spain for their holidays. But Gemma said she didn’t want to stay there. She didn’t like any of the people. And she had wet the bed two nights in a row. At that she started crying again.

‘That’s okay.’ Rosie leaned over and held her hand. It felt small and warm. ‘Sometimes that happens, Gemma.’ She wiped her tears with her hand. ‘It’s because of everything that’s gone on with you. Once you get settled you’ll be fine, I promise. You will, darling.’

‘Can I not stay with you?’ Gemma’s watery blue eyes questioned. ‘That’s why I ran away. I like you, and my mammy says you’re brilliant.’

Rosie bit her lip and swallowed. ‘How did you find where I lived? You’ve never been here.’

‘Aye,’ Gemma said, pleased with herself. ‘Remember when we drove past that day and you pointed at it? The balcony? I liked the balcony.’ She smiled. ‘I just came round the back and sat on the steps. I was gonnae wait till somebody came out, then run in and look for you. I saw it in a film once.’

Rosie smiled and shook her head. By now, people at the home would know Gemma was missing. She’d have to take her back. Her mind raced with a dozen possible scenarios. There’d be a search for her. Police. The whole shooting match. And here was she, sitting with the runaway kid of a murder victim in the car. She could be done for abduction. But she couldn’t simply take her
back because the police would be involved by now and she’d be interviewed. She’d be linked to the victim. They’d put two and two together and know she was the one Mags had talked to. Panic began to rise in her.

‘Gemma.’ Rosie took a deep breath. She spoke calmly. ‘Gemma: you know you can’t stay with me. It doesn’t work that way. The welfare people, the social workers, they have to take care of you now. I mean, even if I had time, I couldn’t just let you stay with me. Have you any idea how many people will be looking for you by now? Police will be everywhere. You have to go back, pet. You really have to.’

‘But please,’ Gemma begged. ‘Please let me stay with you. I won’t eat much. I just like chips. I won’t make a noise. I won’t wet the bed. I promise.’

Rosie sighed. Her phone rang. It was McGuire.

‘Howsit goin’, Gilmour?’ his voice was cheery. ‘Are you settled in?’

Rosie almost laughed. If only he knew. But she couldn’t tell him right now. She had to work out what to do first.