Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (27 page)

*

Rosie was glad to see Mitch sitting up in bed and trying his best to smile when he saw them come into the room. His
face was still puffy around the eyes and he had bandages on his arms. He glanced at Bertie, then back to Rosie.

‘Mitch, this is Bertie Shaw. He’s a good friend of mine. He’s helping on the story. You can trust him.’

Mitch nodded as Rosie, Matt and Bertie stood by his bedside. He grimaced as he shifted his position a little. ‘Where’s Dan?’ he asked.

Rosie moved closer to the bed. ‘That’s why we’re here, Mitch. He’s disappeared.’

‘What? How?’

‘He had a meeting with that Mervyn Bates – the guy who was Bella’s manager.’

Mitch nodded.

‘Well, the meeting was in the Holiday Inn and we were watching from the bar. But Dan went to the toilet and never came back.’

Mitch shook his head and blew out a sigh. ‘Fuck!’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘Fuck’s sake!’

‘Mitch,’ Rosie touched his arm. ‘I need your help here. You know Dan will be in danger if I can’t get to him soon. Those guys are after him, and he’s out there in the city on his own. Have you any idea where I can go looking for him?’

Mitch sighed wearily. ‘Aw, man! Poor wee bastard! He’ll be shitting himself. You need to find him, Rosie.’

‘I will. But where will he be? He won’t go back to his usual haunts and dealers, because those guys will have
been onto them. That’s how they found you that day, by going round the houses.’ Rosie paused. ‘So is there anywhere at all you think he might be?’

Mitch was silent for a moment, then he moved his head slightly for Rosie to hand him his mobile phone. ‘There’s a wee guy up in Ruchill – in a flat there. It’s a real shitehouse, but if Dan’s out in the street and got nowhere to go for some gear, he might go there as a last resort.’ He moved again and his face contorted with pain. ‘I can’t remember the address, though. Somewhere up near Bilsland Drive, a cul-de-sac. But you can’t just go asking around or you’ll get lynched. If I could get out this bed I could take you there.’ He tried to sit up, but slumped back down.

‘You can’t, Mitch. No chance of that. You’ve a bit to go before you can even get on your feet.’

Mitch scanned some numbers on his phone. ‘Look. Take this number. When you get to Bilsland Drive, phone this guy. He’s a fucking wee polecat, but tell him to give you the number of the house. Say you’re a mate of mine. He owes me one. That’s all I can think of, Rosie. It’s about the only other place Dan knew for drugs. He took me there one time and we bought some kit on tick till we got the money to pay. But it ended up costing us double. It’s that kind of place.’

Rosie punched the number into her phone, then turned to Bertie and Matt. ‘Might be our only option, guys.’ She squeezed Mitch’s arm. ‘Thanks, Mitch. I hope it works. You just relax and we’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘You
need to find him, Rosie. Dan’s like a wee boy sometimes.’

‘I know,’ Rosie said. ‘By the way, how’s it going in here with you?’

‘It’s all right. Free morphine and stuff. Not bad. They’ve had some rehab guy in to talk to me. Said they’re going to get me a bed in some place. I’m up for that.’

‘Good,’ Rosie said, trying to get to grips with his outlook when free morphine and a spell in rehab were a goal worth achieving.

‘Find my wee mate, will you, Rosie?’

‘Sure I will.’ Rosie said, as he closed his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rosie
knew the street well enough. She had plenty of bleak memories of knocking on doors at houses like this, wondering what kind of picture of despair and poverty would greet her on the other side. It passed for a life here in the north side of Glasgow – the poverty, the drunkenness, the gang fights. But that was before the heroin explosion took the ghetto to a new level. Now, like so many of the housing schemes across the city, where being poor and out of work was normal, the streets were a breeding ground for heroin. Mothers buried daughters barely out of their teens. Hope had all but vanished, except for the dealers on the corners or in some of the dens who would make enough to get them to hell out of it before they were caught by the police.

Heroin didn’t have the whiff of glamour that coke had, where nightclubs buzzed with it and cokeheads felt they’d reached a level of success by doing a few lines on a night out. Heroin was the dark refuge the desperate sought when
all hope was gone. And once they’d been wrapped in that warm blanket or, more recently, in that of crack cocaine, there was seldom a way back. In this street there was probably only one small-time heroin dealer, but there would be several heroin dens, where junkies dumped themselves of an evening. Dan would be no stranger to places like this. Why hadn’t he phoned her? His mobile was in his pocket and he had her number. She kept looking at her phone, willing it to ring.

‘Okay, let’s try this punter now.’ Rosie punched in the number as they pulled into the kerb. A couple of kids eyed them suspiciously. They wouldn’t be able to loiter here too long.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Hello? Is that Jimbo?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Jimbo, I’m a pal of Mitch Gilland. You know him? He gave me your number. I’m looking for someone. Where is the place he sometimes comes to?’

‘Aye, I know Mitch. He’s all right. Where are you?’

‘Bilsland Drive.’

‘How do I know you’re not the polis?’

‘You don’t, Jimbo. Listen, pal. Can you just help me out? I need to find someone. Really fast.’ Rosie paused. ‘Mitch says he’ll weigh you in as soon as he can.’

‘Mitch is in the hospital. I heard he got a right doin’.’

‘That’s right. He did. You know who did it?’

‘Naw. Just
heard it was some fuckers not from here. Mitch is all right.’

‘Have you seen his mate Dan?’

‘Naw. But I only came in here this morning. I was down in Shettleston last night.’

‘Listen, Jimbo, can you just give me the address?’

‘All right, then, but it didn’t come from me.’

‘Of course not. Mitch said you can trust us.’

‘Okay. It’s number one two nine. Ground floor. It’s got an aluminium door on it, but it’s not fixed right. You just push it hard.’ He hung up.

Rosie looked up at the numbers on the houses. They were at number fifty-seven. ‘Along here a bit, Matt. It’s number one two nine.’

‘What if this bastard’s alerted them, Rosie? We’ll get our heads cleaved off.’ Matt said, as they drove towards the house. ‘This feels a bit crazy. Dan might not even be there.’

‘I know, but it’s the only place we can try. Most of the people inside will be out of their box, so it should be okay.’ Rosie turned to Bertie. ‘What do you think?’

He shrugged. ‘As long as we’re in and out. If it looks too dodgy, we pull out straightaway.’

‘Right. Let’s go.’

Matt parked the car beside the house, and Rosie looked over her shoulder as they got out. They definitely didn’t look like they were there to score heroin, so they wouldn’t have too long before the jungle drums beat that there were
strangers about. Inside, her gut was telling her this was a fruitless mission, but she had to feel she was doing something. The longer Dan was out there, the bigger the risk. They picked their way through beer cans and Buckfast bottles. The close stank of piss and vomit. They went towards the aluminium door.

‘Locked?’ Rosie wondered, noticing no handle.

‘No,’ Bertie said. ‘Look at the bottom. It’s not attached properly.’ He stepped forward and leaned against it. Nothing. Then he leaned again and this time gave it a hard push. The door made a scraping noise and opened enough for them to squeeze through. Rosie followed Bertie into the bare wood hallway.

The distinct stench of a rotting corpse hit her like a punch. She’d stumbled across enough in far-flung lands to recognize the stomach-churning reek anywhere. ‘Christ! There’s a body somewhere, Bertie.’

He nodded. ‘Was about to say that myself.’

The hall was dark and bleak, but a door was ajar at the far end. They tiptoed and could hear the unmistakable mumbled conversations of junkies. They stopped.

‘I’ll go first,’ Rosie said. ‘Don’t want to spook them.’

She went towards the door and pushed it open, gasping as she put her head around the door and saw inside. A pall of smoke hung over a torn sofa and two emaciated faces were sitting smoking heroin. Another girl sat on the floor against the wall pulling a band tight against her arm,
trying to find a vein to inject. Two other junkies were passed out on the floor. She walked in, but nobody looked up. Bertie and Matt followed, and stood there, taking in the scene. One guy eventually looked at them, his eyes dreamy, and half smiled, then lay back to doze on the sofa, cigarette burning in his hand.

‘He’s not here. Let’s try the other rooms.’ Rosie backed out. ‘There’s something dead in this bloody house, though. I can smell it. Putrid!’

They followed the direction of the stench.

‘I’m going to throw up,’ Matt said, zipping his bomber jacket over his mouth. ‘Holy fuck, Rosie!’

The stench was coming from the door at the far end of the hall. Rosie looked at Bertie and Matt. It was already feeling like a wasted trip, another image to haunt her sleepless nights.

‘Let’s try.’ She pushed open the door and the smell almost knocked her off her feet. ‘Oh, Christ!’

Bertie coughed and Matt had to steady himself against the wall. Inside, among the mountain of rubbish, beer cans and debris, a woman lay on a sofa, her face blue and beginning to swell. She had been dead for at least a day, by the look of her. But the sight of the toddler on the floor beside her, eating out of a box of Frosties, made Rosie’s head swim.

‘Oh, Jesus wept!’

The toddler looked up out of dark-circled eyes and, for all the misery it sat in, smiled at them.

‘Shit!’
Bertie said suddenly. ‘Look, Rosie. Behind the sofa.’

Rosie glanced down to see Dan out for the count, his face deathly pale, a bubble of saliva at the side of his mouth. Her legs felt so heavy she couldn’t move.

‘Fucking hell!’ Bertie said. He dived across to him and dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse under his neck, and slapping Dan’s face at the same time. Nothing. Rosie watched, unable to move or speak, the baby still staring at her. Bertie was wiping the saliva from Dan’s mouth and opening it gently. He bent over to give him mouth-to-mouth.

She heard herself murmur, ‘Please don’t die, Dan. Please, God, don’t let him die.’

Bertie pumped Dan’s chest, then breathed into his mouth alternately. Dan’s head flopped from side to side, not responding. Then suddenly he gurgled. Bertie turned him onto his side. He made a grunting sound. ‘He’s alive! But maybe not for long. Let’s get him to fuck out of here.’

Bertie picked him up and held him in his arms as they made for the door. Rosie glanced back. ‘What about the baby? We can’t just leave her in the middle of this shit, Bertie.’

‘We can’t take her either, Rosie. Come on. Let’s get out of here and call the cops for her as soon as we get to the car. Go!’

They were in the hall when two young guys came through the
half-open aluminium door. They didn’t look spaced out and one was brandishing a machete, the other a knife.

Rosie glanced at Matt. Suddenly, Bertie slung Dan over his shoulder, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun. ‘Out of my fucking way, ya pair of fannies, if you don’t want to die in the next three seconds.’

They stopped in their tracks, put their hands up, the machete clattering to the floor, and stood with their backs to the walls as Rosie and Matt slipped past them, then Bertie, carrying Dan. Matt could hardly get the keys into the car door, he was trembling so much. Rosie sat on the passenger seat and twisted round to Dan as they sped out of the street. His eyes were flickering, but he was deathly pale. ‘We need to get to the hospital, fast.’

Chapter Thirty

Rosie
sat in McGuire’s office, only half listening to him. She was still trying to take in what they’d witnessed in the stinking junkie hellhole. It wasn’t the first time she’d stepped into somebody’s tragic story. She’d been in refugee camps when people had died in front of her, or children they’d been photographing would be dead by the time she and Matt had got back to their hotel. Her work was about walking into and out of people’s lives. She should have been used to it but she wasn’t: she couldn’t get the picture of the dead woman on the sofa out of her head. Who would tell the story of her short life? And what of the wide-eyed toddler who had already seen too much? She knew only too well that you could never erase a moment of trauma. It shaped who you became. She hoped the baby was young enough to forget.

‘You’re not listening to me, Gilmour.’ The editor clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. Snap out of it.’

Rosie
blinked. ‘I
am
listening, Mick. I just keep thinking about the dead woman and that wee kid.’

‘Well, don’t worry about the kid. He or she’s better off out of it, and will get a real chance at life now. I know you’re a soft touch, but that drug-addict mother cared so much for her baby she was mainlining in front of it, probably since the day it was born. What chance would the wee thing have had in that shithole of an environment? Look at it this way. You did the kid a favour barging in there. You’ve probably saved its life.’

Rosie shrugged half-heartedly. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll try to see it that way.’

‘Good. What about Dan? He’s going to make it, isn’t he?’

By the time Rosie had left Dan’s bedside, he was awake and lucid enough to talk to her. He felt awful that he’d let everyone down and couldn’t understand why it had happened. He told her he’d had a panic attack, and before he knew what he was doing, he was running through the streets of Glasgow and heading up to Ruchill. He was in tears, apologizing, saying he was no good, that he’d been trying to be strong but he was shit at it. Rosie had to reassure him that nothing was lost. She knew he was in the safest place right now, so she’d left him, as the doctor had said he would be kept in overnight.

‘Also, what’s the score with this Bertie bloke? Christ, Rosie! You can fairly dig them up. He just produces a handgun out of his pocket? I thought you said he was a hotel
owner in the borders. Why is he getting so involved? I know he’s an ex-cop, but is he a bit of a nutter?’