Screams in the Dark (22 page)

‘Mick,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘Listen. It’s not as if they’re going to phone the cops if they’d found out is it?’

‘No. They wouldn’t call the cops. They’d just bloody put a bullet in you. It looks like they’ve just bumped off Tanya’s man, so these guys don’t mess about. Are you completely out of your tree?’

Rosie put her hands up to stop him.

‘Listen, Mick, please. Listen. Just forget how we did it. What’s really important is what Matt got.’ She paused. ‘He took a picture of a human finger. Christ, Mick. There was all sorts of stuff just dumped in a bin. Something that looked like a bit of a brain.’

McGuire looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fucking hell. Where are these pictures? Let me see them?’

‘Matt’s about to ping them over to you any minute.’

McGuire dialled the picture editor’s number. ‘Pete. Get in here quick.’ McGuire turned to his screen.

The picture editor came in and he told him to sit down, then relayed what Rosie had just told him.

‘You’re fucking joking,’ he said.

‘Here they are.’ McGuire scanned his screen.

Pete went behind the desk with Rosie and they looked over McGuire’s shoulder. As the pictures began to feed through, Rosie talked them through the images which she’d already seen on Matt’s camera. The first few snaps he’d taken were just general views inside the slaughterhouse, and it didn’t look any different from a butcher’s back-shop or a restaurant kitchen. Most of the long steel benches and worktops were empty. But he’d managed to take pictures of glass containers with what looked like bits of flesh or bone inside them. There had been several containers of varying sizes, filled with some kind of liquid they’d guessed could be some sort of preservative. Matt had said he only got a couple of minutes to look at them, and couldn’t make out what was inside, but there were enough of them there to convince him that it had to be something crucial to whatever it was they were doing. Some of them looked like gristle or muscle. Others had spongy flesh in them, but they were cut into such tiny pieces it was hard to say what they were, or had originally been. It was only when Emir took him to a room at the very back of the building that Matt knew he’d hit the jackpot. Inside two ordinary household bins were pieces of bone and flesh that were clearly human remains. He’d kicked the bin over, and photographed the contents that scattered onto the floor. Among them was part of a human finger. And to his horror, pieces of what looked like brain.

‘Oh fuck,’ McGuire zoomed in on the shots. ‘I cannot believe what I’m seeing. It
is
a finger! Christ almighty!
What the fu—?’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Sit down, Gilmour. We need to work out where we go with this. But we’re going to have to move on it quickly. Especially with this Josef murder. And now that you’ve been in there and they know someone’s been rummaging around the place, you can bet their little operation is all going to go tits up – if you’ll pardon the pun.’

The picture editor burst out laughing.

Rosie sat down, and the decision was made to start putting the heat on Frank Paton. Then they’d hand over Emir to the cops – but they wouldn’t tell them everything they had. Not yet.

*

Rosie looked at her watch. Paton had already been in the bar fifteen minutes, so she crossed the road and braced herself for the showdown.

The wine bar was dark when she walked in out of the glare of the midday sun, and at first she couldn’t see him. There were only two men at the bar, and one at the wall-seating close to the door, reading a newspaper. As Rosie walked towards the bar, she glimpsed Paton in the far corner, sitting alone with a copy of the
Post
in front of him. But he wasn’t reading it. He sat staring straight ahead, and Rosie watched as he swirled the ice around in the whisky glass, then took a swig and winced. Whatever he was drinking it must be strong. She ordered a soda water and paid the barmaid, who immediately sat down and went back to her magazine. Rosie went over to Paton and stood in front of him.

‘Frank …?’ She knew he would recognise her from
years of dipping in and out of the courts, even though they’d never actually met.

In the dim light, Rosie couldn’t see if his face had drained of colour, but she’d definitely caught him off guard.

‘Rosie Gilmour? The
Post?
’ Paton gave her an enquiring glance.

‘Yeah.’ Rosie said, thinking that he feigned the surprised-to-see-you-here look quite well. But not well enough. She waded in.

‘I was trying to get you last night. About your cleaner’s boyfriend, Josef, being found dead.’

He looked at her then at his drink.

‘I’d also like to talk to you about refugees, Frank. Asylum seekers.’

‘If you don’t mind, Rosie, can you not see that I’m out having a bit of a break?’ He lifted his drink. You can make an appointment with my secretary. I’ll try to fit you in.’

Rosie saw his jaw tighten.

‘Well,’ Rosie sat down. ‘You see, Frank, I think it’s best not to talk in the office. That’s why I came here.’ She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. ‘Frank. I want to talk to you about refugees going missing … And I’m not talking about vanishing into the black economy, the story that was in the
Post
the other day.’ She paused for effect. ‘I’m talking GOING MISSING, Frank,’ she emphasised, fixing him with her eyes. ‘I think you know what I’m saying here.’

Beads of sweat formed on Frank’s top lip, and he swallowed nervously. Rosie could almost hear his heart beat. She watched as he tried to look bewildered.

‘What?’

‘You know, Frank.’ Rosie took out the list of names. ‘Here’s a few names for starters, Frank.’ She read out three names and addresses, glancing up to see his trembling hand come up and flick the sweat from his lip.

‘Stop,’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s going on here? These are clients of mine. Where did you get their names?’

‘So if they’re your clients, then where are they, Frank?’ Rosie looked at him coldly. ‘They’re not at these addresses. Haven’t been for months. But then you know that, don’t you?’

Frank pushed his drink away from him and moved to stand up. A bit of bluster, Rosie thought, trying to put her off.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you have a list of some of my clients. I don’t know where you got it or what nonsense you’re talking, but I’m not listening to any more of this.’ He stood up and stepped away from the table.

Rosie got up and stood closer to him, so he would need to push past her.

‘That’s why Tony hanged himself, Frank, isn’t it?’

The words stopped him in his tracks.

‘What?’

‘You heard, Frank. Tony couldn’t cope any more with what you two were doing.’ Rosie kept going as he pushed his way past her. ‘We have the story, Frank. We know it all,’ she bluffed. ‘And this Josef murder. Tanya’s man. It’s all connected, isn’t it?’

He turned briefly and squared his shoulders.

‘Well, go ahead with your story then. But you’d better have your facts right before you go around accusing lawyers of getting rid of their clients.’

Rosie couldn’t believe he’d said that. By the look of shock on Paton’s face, he couldn’t believe he’d said it either. For a second, he didn’t know what to do. Rosie had to bite her lip to stop her from smiling.

He turned on his heel and scurried out of the bar like the cornered rat he was. When he was gone, Rosie put her hand into her pocket, took out her tape recorder and rewound it just to make sure he’d actually said ‘lawyers getting rid of their clients’.

*

The dinner invitation at Cameron House from Al Howie was at short notice, but Frank Paton knew it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. There were a couple of business associates, who’d been playing golf at Loch Lomond earlier in the day and were staying over at the hotel, that Al wanted Frank to meet. Al told Frank it was a wee thankyou for his good work. He asked him to drive his own car down, but he could still have a few drinks, and Clock would drive his car back up to Glasgow. Frank’s wife was furious when he told her he was going to be busy for the evening. It was school parents’ night, and he’d promised he would go. She was still shouting at him when he put the phone down. He put on a fresh shirt he always kept in the office for emergencies, splashed water on his face, and headed for the dinner. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Not by any stretch.

*

He drove up the sweeping driveway into the secluded country mansion hotel, a one-time retreat for old money and class but often now the haunt of chav footballers and their appalling entourage of birds and minders. But nothing, not even the drug dealers and thugs who had lowered the tone, could detract from the lavish hotel and splendid surroundings nestling on the banks of Loch Lomond. How the other half live, Frank thought to himself, as he pulled up outside the hotel where Clock Buchanan stood on the steps waiting for him.

‘I’ll put your motor in the car park, Frank.’ He jerked his thumb to the building. ‘Al and the boys are in the bar. You’ve to join them for a drink before dinner.’

‘Cheers,’ Frank said, tossing him the keys. He took a deep breath, climbed the wide stairway and pushed open the heavy stained-glass swing door.

‘Frankie boy!’ Al was leaning on the bar with a drink in his hand. His coked-out eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree.

‘Hey, Al.’ Frank nodded at the two other men standing alongside him and strode across the room.

‘Frank, this is Milosh, our main man up here.’ Frank turned to the squat man with the dark close-cropped hair. Frank guessed he was about the same age as him.

‘How you doing?’ Frank said, shaking Milosh’s hand.

Milosh nodded and looked at Frank but said nothing. His expression was flat, and Frank could feel his dark eyes scanning his face as he gripped his hand.

‘And this is Goran.’ Al turned to the other man.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Frank said to the tall, middle-aged,
weedy-looking man with the same deadpan look as his mate. They both gave him the creeps. He waited for some kind of explanation from Al as to exactly who they were. He’d heard the name Milosh before, and knew he was the guy in charge of things at the plant, but he’d made it his business never to ask questions about who was who and what role they had in this despicable operation that he and Tony had got themselves swallowed up in. Frank was well aware of what they’d become; he didn’t need reminding by meeting the personnel at the heart of it.

‘Goran’s over from Germany,’ Al said. ‘Bit of golf, bit of business. He’s been at a couple of places down south, just to see the supply lines.’

‘Oh, right,’ Frank said, not knowing what else to say.

There was an awkward pause, then Al ordered a round of large drinks from the young barman. Frank had to stop himself from downing his in one gulp. A bit of small talk continued, and Frank was glad when the head waiter arrived to announce their table was ready. He led them to a small private dining room with all the deference of a footman from the royal household. Frank looked at his watch and felt a sharp pang of remorse, thinking of Louise at her parents’ night waiting for her daddy to turn up. He’d be glad when this night was over.

*

Two hours later, Frank was in the front seat, half drunk as Clock drove him out of Cameron House and down onto the main road. He’d been glad the waiter had continually topped up their wine glasses because at least it took the edge off his nerves.

The two men, he’d learned over dinner, were both Serbs from the former Yugoslavia, who were now businessmen working at the forefront of the operation Al was fronting in Scotland for Big Jake Cox. Frank listened, stealing the odd glance at Clock, who sat sipping mineral water while the Serbs knocked back wine, then brandies.

In their broken English they’d described the success of the international tissue trade, and how the spare parts industry was the way forward. They also made jokes about how it also solved two problems at once. Apart from making them money, some of the tissue, brains and torsos they supplied helped for medical research, while also getting rid of the refugees who were a constant drain on any country’s resources. Nobody cares about them anyway, Milosh had said. Al, who kept popping out to the toilet and coming back more and more spaced out, was laughing as he drank a toast to Frank for his tireless work in the area of refugees and asylum seekers. Everyone around the table had burst out laughing. Except Frank. He felt sick to his stomach.

Now he sat staring out of the windscreen as Clock drove his car up the Glasgow road. He was so morose he didn’t even notice Clock had turned off the main road until he spoke to him.

‘I need a pee, Frank,’ Clock said, getting out of the car. ‘All that fucking mineral water.’

In his boozy state, Frank hadn’t seen the car that was sitting at the edge of the lay-by with its lights off. He put his head back and sighed, closing his eyes, while he waited for Clock. When the back door opened he jumped,
but he didn’t get time to turn around. Even if he had, all he would have seen was the masked man with the gun in his hand.

‘Say goodnight, Frank.’

Then nothing. Not even time to see the image of his little girl one last time. The gunman shot him in the back of the head and his brains exploded like a water balloon across the windscreen.

Clock came back into the driver’s seat. ‘You follow me, Marty.’ He reversed the car, pushing Frank’s slumped body out of the way as he turned the car around. ‘You made a right fucking mess here, man.’

They drove along the single dirt-track road that led down towards the edge of the loch. Clock eased the car so it was off the road and onto the grassy bank that sloped into the water. He let the handbrake off and jumped out as the car rolled down and slid into the water. He watched as it slipped beneath the surface until all he could see was the roof, before there was a kind of bubbling sound as Frank and his car disappeared into Loch Lomond.

CHAPTER 23

Rosie was surprised at how emotional she felt when Emir suddenly threw his arms around her at the police station. She hugged him back, feeling the tension in his wiry body as he held onto her. She caught Don and his boss making a face at each other, and reprimanded Don with a look.