Betrayed (21 page)

‘Don. Howsit going?’

‘You still in Spain, Rosie?’

‘Yeah. Here for at least a few more days.’

‘Aye. Hooligan watch.’

Rosie detected the sarcasm in his voice.

‘Uh-huh. So what’s happening?’ If Don was phoning her when he knew she was abroad, it wasn’t for a social chat.

‘Can you talk for a minute?’

‘Sure.’

‘Listen. We’re working on a very brutal assault back here. Torture. Very gruesome. The guy’s in some nick.’

Rosie couldn’t figure why he’d be phoning her about a brutal attack. It’s not as though they were unusual in Glasgow.

‘What do you mean, torture? Is it a drugs beating?’

‘Don’t know yet, Rosie. But it’s not looking like it. The guy was a pretty nondescript kind of fella. A baker. Worked in that big place over on the south side. No history of drugs, no form. Nothing. He was in a coma. He only regained consciousness this afternoon, so I’ve not been able to get much from him. Only that he was kidnapped and bundled into the boot of a car. Then taken somewhere and tortured.’

‘Tortured? How?’

‘Electric shocks to his balls.’

‘Really? Bet that hurt in the morning.’

‘Yeah, makes me shut my legs just thinking about it. But that’s not all. They smashed up every bone in his hands. Like they were giving him a lesson. He’s had to have emergency surgery, but he won’t get much movement in them again. Plus, they fractured his skull. Split him wide open. Then left him for dead.’

‘That’s grim.’ Rosie wasn’t sure what to say, still guessing at what a gruesome torture like this would have to do with her, especially since she wasn’t in Glasgow. ‘So what can I do? Have the cops not put out an appeal yet?’

‘Not yet. We’re making discreet inquiries before we release it. But a couple of things came up on the radar and that’s why I phoned you. The guy wasn’t married. Lived on his own and worked at the bakery for years. He was their top baker there. A master baker, I think they call it. Kind of like a masturbator but not as much fun – but he’ll not be doing any of the two of them for a very long time.’

Rosie smiled at Don’s black humour. ‘Good that you’ve kept your compassion despite years at the frontline.’

Don chuckled. ‘But seriously. The reason I’m phoning you is this: remember we had that talk about big Eddie McGregor, the UVF man?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well. Word is – and it’s not confirmed, but we got it from a decent source – word is that this guy was shagging McGregor’s wife Donna.’

‘No kidding. He must be very brave – or have a death wish.’

Rosie tried to keep her reaction as flat as possible, but her heart was doing double time. McGregor’s wife having an affair, and while she turns up here on this trip, her boyfriend gets the hiding of his life.

‘So have you talked to her? To McGregor’s wife?’ she asked. She felt a pang of guilt holding out on Don, knowing she already had pictures of McGregor and his wife in a restaurant just a stone’s throw from where she was sitting.

‘No. Apparently she’s in Seville with McGregor for the match. It was a surprise he sprung on her. She phoned one of her pals to tell her that big Eddie had given her a ticket at the last minute. The night before they left.’

‘So you think McGregor took Donna out of the way so he could get her boyfriend done over?’

‘Definitely. But of course I’ve not got a scrap of evidence to back that up. Not a fucking thing.’

‘Which makes it a perfect job from where McGregor’s sitting.’

‘Exactly. He’s an evil bastard.’

‘Do you think it’s true that McGregor’s wife would be shagging a guy when she knows what her man’s capable of? She must know how easy it is for him to make someone disappear.’

‘I know. That’s the bit I can’t understand. And this guy
Andy. Word is that he’s a really decent mild-mannered bloke. He must be off his nut to get mixed up in all that.’

‘So what you want me to do, Don?’ Rosie could see the intrigue on the faces of Javier, Matt and Adrian, who were only hearing her side of the conversation.

‘Don’t know really. Just keep an eye out for McGregor. I know there are a lot of fans there. But you never know. You might see him.’

‘Yeah, but I can hardly approach him about that. Or her, for that matter.’

‘I know. Just saying. Look, I need to go. But I’m going to have a better talk with the guy tomorrow if he’s more
compos mentis
, and I’ll see what comes up. If it’s anything interesting, I’ll give you a shout.’

‘Sure. That’d be great.’

‘And don’t drink too much of that sangria pish.’

‘I never touch it, Don. You know me.’

‘Aye. Right.’ He hung up.

Rosie put her phone on the table and let out a long slow breath, shaking her head.

‘Sounds like a fascinating conversation,’ Javier said.

‘Not half.’ She looked at everyone, speaking slowly so Garcia could understand. ‘That was a cop contact of mine in Glasgow. Some guy has been brutally attacked back there. Tortured. And the word is that he was having an affair with McGregor’s wife.’

‘Fuck me!’ Matt said. ‘He must be mental.’

‘Yep. That’s what I said.’

‘When did it happen?’ Javier asked.

‘Night before they left for Seville. The guy wasn’t found till the early hours of the morning.’

Javier raised his eyebrows. ‘So McGregor brought his missus here not just to fuck her up so she couldn’t see the boyfriend, but so he could get someone to beat the shit out of him?’

‘That’s what the cops think. But they can’t prove it. He was just telling me because we’d had a conversation about McGregor a while ago, after Wendy vanished. McGregor was the last person to see her, and we know that he raped her. But of course the cops don’t know that.’

‘So what now?’ Javier said. ‘It doesn’t change what we are doing, does it?’

‘No. Of course not.’ Rosie paused for a moment. ‘But when McGregor’s wife finds out what has happened to her lover, then things could change. Depends on how keen she was on him.’

‘What, like you mean she might be willing to stick McGregor in for the shit he’s done? She’s not that daft. She’d get bumped off.’ Javier looked at the others.

‘I’m just thinking. If she was in love with the guy, she’s going to be in a right old state.’ Rosie glanced at her watch, then lifted her mobile and dialled Don’s number. ‘Give me a minute, guys.’

Don answered on two rings.

‘What’s up, Rosie?’

‘Listen, Don. I’ve been thinking. I need a line about that Andy guy getting battered. I want to get something in the
Post
for tomorrow.’

‘But we haven’t released it yet.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean to say it’s not out there. You know how it is. Someone – anyone – could have phoned the papers about the beating. Someone from the hospital, or the guys who found him, even one of his workmates. I need it in the paper tonight.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘I’ll tell you as soon as I can. I promise. Just give me the name and address and a bit of detail that won’t affect your inquiry. I won’t mention the details of the torture.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie. You’ll get me sacked.’

‘They can’t sack you. You know where all the bodies are buried. And, listen. I promise, I will return this favour big time very soon. Just trust me.’

‘Okay.’ He reeled off the details and Rosie wrote them down on a napkin. ‘But you didn’t get it from me.’

‘Course not,’ Rosie said. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ Don hung up.

She phoned McGuire, who would be at the back bench putting the paper to bed. She just needed five paras on the front page.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

From where Jimmy was sitting outside the bar with Eddie and Mitch, he could just see his father through the noisy throng of Rangers fans that had spilled out of the crammed bar into the sultry night air. Most of them were staggering around, as they belted out ‘Derry’s Walls’. He thought of a few weeks ago, and how proud his father had been, leading the sing-song at the fundraiser night. Now he looked hunched over, suddenly old and tired.

‘Guys, I’m going over to see my old man for a wee while. Maybe take him for a pint and a bit of a walk.’ Jimmy stood up.

‘On you go, mate,’ Eddie said. ‘Where is he? I didn’t see him here.’

‘He’s over there.’ Jimmy pointed. ‘It’s been a long couple of days for him on the bus. I just want to make sure he’s all right and not getting too pissed.’

‘Right enough,’ Mitch said. ‘You wouldn’t want him to
fall down around here with these Spanish cops. The fuckers are on every corner, and they look like they’re just itching for somebody to make a wrong move so they can set about them.’

‘Cops are cops the world over,’ Eddie said, puffing on a cigar. ‘Only difference here is these bastards are all swaggering around because they’ve got a gun in their belt.’ He lifted his shirt a little to show the small pistol in a pouch attached to his belt. ‘Well, they’re not the only ones tooled up.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Eddie. Hope you don’t get caught with that.’

‘No chance, son. But I never leave home without it. Never know when I might need it. I’ve got one for each of you. You’ll get them tomorrow.’

‘Are you coming back?’ Mitch asked. ‘It’s just starting to liven up here.’

‘Yeah. I’ll not be long. Just want to get him out of here for a bit.’

Jimmy walked away from the table and squeezed his way through the sweaty bodies until he found his father, the only guy at the table not guffawing at whatever joke had just been cracked.

‘C’mon, I’ll take you for a drink, Da. Just you and me,’ Jimmy said as cheerfully as he could.

His father’s face brightened and he stood up.

‘Good idea, son. Could do with a wee walk.’

‘Well, mind you two don’t get pissed and end up in one of these chapels,’ one of his dad’s mates shouted after them as
they pressed through the crowd and onto the street. ‘Place is fucking full of them. You might get kept in, Jack. Especially if you went to confession.’

They took a left up a side street off the main square, away from the noise, and within a minute they were in what could have been a different city. Tourists strolled among the elegant, well-dressed Spanish couples in the cobblestone alley. Not a football jersey or a fan in sight. Candles flickered on restaurant tables strung side by side and the strains of a Spanish guitar drifted from inside one of the cafes. Jimmy saw his father’s glance fall on an older Spanish man around the same age as himself who reached across the table to gently touch the face of the woman he was with. For a moment he caught the loneliness in his father’s eyes, and he fought the urge to put his arm around his shoulder.

‘Some place, this,’ his father said, as if to snap himself out of the gloom. ‘The only ’Gers fans you’ll find here will be the mega-rich bastards running the club.’

‘Aye,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s pretty classy though. And peaceful.’ He pointed. ‘Look, there’s a wee bar at the end of the street. C’mon, we’ll go in there and try one of the local drinks.’

They walked along in silence, and Jimmy couldn’t help the heaviness in his chest, knowing that they would never walk this way again, just the two of them on a warm summer’s night; not in a place like Seville, anyway, and probably not in Glasgow, or anywhere else, because there was so little time left.

They got to the bar and sat at a table outside where two old Spaniards sat with drinks in front of them. A waiter appeared at their table.

‘What you want, Da?’ Jimmy said.

His father shrugged and sighed. He looked at the waiter.

‘What’s that, son?’ He pointed at the two old men. ‘What’s that they’re drinking?’

Jimmy smiled. ‘I don’t think they speak much English in Seville, Da. He’ll not understand you.’

The waiter smiled.

‘Ah!
Los hombres están bebiendo pacharán
. They are drinking
pacharán
. It is Spanish liqueur. Very good. You like?’

‘Aye, all right, son. We’ll have two of them. With ice.’

‘Christ,’ Jimmy said. ‘This is all we need on top of everything else we’ve been drinking.’

‘Fuck it! You’re a long while dead,’ his father said, and they both looked at each other, the words hanging in the air like a prophecy. Then he puffed, ‘Christ, Many a true word spoken in jest, eh?’

Jimmy was surprised at the tears suddenly stinging his eyes. He looked at the ground.

‘I wish I could do something,’ he managed to say.

His father looked at him, his expression somewhere between helplessness and compassion. He reached across and squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder.

‘You’re doing it now, son.’

Jimmy sniffed and blinked away the tears as the waiter put the drinks on the table.

His father lifted his drink and they clinked glasses, then gestured to the old men, who smiled back as they raised their drinks in salute.

‘No Surrender!’ Jack declared.

Jimmy had seen him utter that mantra many times from as early as he could remember. As a little boy he’d got a clip around the ear from his mum after he mimicked him at breakfast the morning, lifting his mug of tea and declaring ‘No Surrender’. The night before he’d watched from the top of the stairs as his father had come in drunk from a wedding and poured himself a large whisky, then knocked it back with ‘No Surrender’. Jimmy could see through the crack where the door was slightly open, his mother sitting on an armchair with a look of disgust on her face, but he knew she wouldn’t dare say a word. No Surrender. It’s what they were. It’s what he was, and as a kid he couldn’t wait to be big enough to drink like his da and say it before he knocked back a stiff whisky. But watching him now, Jimmy thought the way he’d just said it was more from habit than conviction. They fell into silence for a while, then his father spoke.

‘So what’s the score with big Eddie bringing his wife on the trip? Never seen him do that before.’

Jimmy shrugged, swirling the ice in his glass, and said nothing.

His father pressed. ‘I suppose it’s a bit of cover for all the fucking drugs he’s going to be bringing back.’ He shook his head. ‘Scumbag.’

Again, Jimmy didn’t answer. They were silent as his father gazed at the dying flame of the candle on the table.