To Tell the Truth (21 page)

‘It was Vinny who lost the plot that night,’ Nelson said. ‘She was drunk when she came in to our house and we had been taking pictures of some boys. She started shouting that she was going to shop us and Vinny slapped her. Then she grabbed the bread knife and lunged at him, and I managed to grab her and get it off her. I shoved her and she hit the floor. I heard her head crack. I didn’t know if she was dead but there was blood. Then Vinny just went berserk. He took the knife and stabbed her chest about ten times, so we had to get rid of her. We put her in a wheelie bin and took her to the sea and weighted her down and dumped her.’

He paused.

‘So you moved to Tenerife.’ Rosie didn’t want to hear any more of the murder of his neighbour or his earlier life. She had read about all that in the newspaper cuttings.

‘Aye,’ Nelson said. ‘That’s when we really got involved with the porn flicks.’

He told her that he and Vinny made porn films in the basement of an apartment in Las Americas, with kids they had picked up at train stations and on the streets. There was a huge market across Europe where you could buy porn movies with kids in them from almost anywhere in the world – Asia, Africa, India. Take your pick, he said. It had been organised in recent years by Russian and Albanian gangsters who were involved in everything from drugs to people-trafficking. Making porn films with kids was just another strand of their organisation.

‘Can you tell me any names, Frankie? Where the main players are?’

‘Morocco,’ he said. ‘People out there who work with the Russians. That’s where Vinny is now. Or he was …’ His voice trailed off.

‘What do you mean?’ Rosie asked. ‘What happened?’

Silence. She waited.

‘Okay, I’ll tell you something. It’s up to you what you do with it, but it’s dangerous.’

Rosie nodded.

‘Snuff movies.’

She felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest.

‘Vinny wanted us to go into that. Killing weans on film.’

‘Jesus,’ was all Rosie managed to say.

Nelson shook his head.

‘That’s not me.’ He looked at Rosie. ‘You think I’m a monster. I don’t care what you think, but I don’t kill weans.’ He paused. ‘But Vinny did.’

‘Vinny killed a child? Who did he kill?’ Rosie whispered.

‘A wee boy in Tenerife. He was always in the papers as reported missing, if you check back. He was never found. But I know what happened to him. Vinny killed him. He filmed it. That’s when I left. That night. He filmed it. I haven’t seen Vinny since, but I know he’s still in this.’ He shook his head. ‘There was always a streak in Vinny. He wanted to push things further and further. He didn’t know when to stop.’

‘Do you think Vinny or any of the people he works with could be connected to the missing girl?’

Nelson nodded slowly. ‘You find Vinny, and you’ll find that wee lassie.’

The bell rang to sound the end of visiting. Nelson stood up and stretched out his hand.

‘That’s all I can tell you.’ He shook Rosie’s hand. ‘You still think I’m a monster, don’t you?’

Rosie looked at him.

‘Thanks for your information, Frankie. I hope it helps.’

CHAPTER 27

In the steady drizzle, Rosie drove down London Road in the East End of Glasgow towards St John’s Hostel. She’d tried to brace herself for what she might find there when she asked for a man called Martin Gilmour, but how could she really prepare herself for a moment she’d waited for all her life. Now all she had to do was knock on the door.

Part of her wanted to drive past and keep on going. She already had more than enough on her plate. But a much bigger part of her wanted to see what he looked like, to hear his voice, see what childhood memories it would trigger. For so long he’d been like a phantom to her, and when she’d tried to picture him older, the way that Marion had described him when he’d come to the
Post
, she couldn’t. The only way to find out was to do it now. By tomorrow night, she’d be back in Spain. Whoever it was she was going to meet now was not a part of her life any more.

She parked her car close to the hostel and hurried through the rain to the front door. She pressed the bell
and the door buzzed and unlocked without any voice coming through the intercom. Security obviously wasn’t a strong point.

The smell hit her as soon as she stepped into the dingy foyer. Stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes mingled with a vague odour of onions and cooking fat. The black and white tiled floor in the hallway looked dirty in the gloomy light, and the reception appeared to be in semi-darkness. If you ended up here, just looking around you would tell you how crap your life had turned out. Rosie shuddered to think what the rooms must look like – though in a place like this there probably weren’t rooms, dormitories more likely, with rows of rancid, festering down-and-outs sleeping off the booze.

‘Can I help ye?’ A skinny girl popped her blonde spiky head up from below the reception desk.

‘I’m looking for Martin Gilmour,’ Rosie said, stepping towards the desk. ‘I believe he’s staying here.’

She didn’t want to say guest. It wasn’t the kind of place that had guests.

‘Gilmour?’ The girl licked her finger and flicked open a big red book and scanned down the names. She let out a sigh. ‘Martin Gilmour. Right. I see him.’ She chewed gum with her mouth half open, and looked Rosie up and down. ‘Aye. He’s staying here.’

Rosie gave her an impatient look. ‘Well, do you know if he’s in? I’d like to talk to him.’

She would have liked to wipe the bored expression from the teenager’s face.

‘I’ll go and see if he’s in the residents’ lounge. Everyone’s
out of their rooms by this time.’ She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Pubs are open. Most of them are out of here by now.’ She walked from behind the reception. ‘Who will I say wants him?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Rosie said, giving her a look that dared her to try and stop her.

The girl said nothing and her high heels clicked as she walked along the corridor with Rosie at her back. They came to a door with a small glass window. The girl peered through the wire grille into the room.

‘He’s in there. I think that’s him over at the window.’

Rosie glared at her, irritated by the affectation of looking up his name in the book, when she already knew who he was and what he looked like. The girl gave her a dirty look and walked away. Rosie stood in the corridor until she disappeared.

Her mouth felt dry. This was it. For more than thirty years – long after she’d stopped waiting, long after she stopped hoping – she’d wondered what had become of her father. And now a door with a little window was all that stood between them. She put her head to the grille and looked in.

One man sat in an armchair sound asleep, his mouth open. Another was on the couch, reading a newspaper. Then, at the large bay window, a third man with his back to her stood gazing out at the rain.

He was shorter than she remembered, and instead of the shock of wavy black hair that had always been neatly slicked back, she saw a grey unkempt fuzz and a bald patch. The broad shoulders he used to carry her on were
slumped. Jesus! Who was this old man? She tried to swallow but there was nothing there. Her stomach churned. She could turn about now, walk away and never look back. An image of her mother, the way she used to be when all three of them sat around the table listening to the animated stories of his travels, flashed behind her eyes.

Rosie felt the cold metal of the door handle on her fingers. She pushed open the door and walked in. The man on the sofa looked up.

‘Hello, hen,’ he said, and went back to his newspaper.

Rosie didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the man with his back to her, now turning around slowly, as though a sixth sense told him she was there.

Their eyes met. No words were spoken. They just stood there looking at each other. The only remnant of the man she remembered were the pale blue eyes she’d inherited. They’d grown dim with age, but they were his alright. Then, to her dismay, he began to crumple. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and she could see tears well up in those blue eyes.

‘Rosie,’ he said, standing at the window as though frozen to the spot. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

Rosie’s tears stung her by surprise and she couldn’t stop them. The old man on the couch looked at both of them, then he got up and left the room. Rosie put her hand to her mouth. She tried to speak but her throat was closed.

She took a couple of steps towards him as he stood gazing at her, tears now rolling down his cheeks. This
was her father, this sad, weak old man, who used to make the world safe for her, who was now weeping. And she too was crying in this bleak, chilly, damp room, where the stories of thousands of desperate, broken lives must have unfolded down the years.

‘Where were you?’ Rosie’s heard herself saying in a voice that seemed to come from the child inside her. ‘Why didn’t you come back for me?’ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

His head dropped to his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I couldn’t. I couldn’t face it.’ He covered his face with one hand. ‘I’m a coward, Rosie. I failed your mammy.’ His chest heaved. ‘And I couldn’t come and get you … I knew I couldn’t take care of you on my own, Rosie … I was a waster.’

Rosie looked at this wreck of a man, remembering his strength, his laughter. She saw the tremor in his hand as he wiped his tears and sniffed. She saw the cuffs of his jumper, ragged at the wrist, and the shapeless trousers that were too long for him, bagging over his scruffy shoes. He wasn’t out of place here among the down-and-outs. What had he become?

Rosie shook her head. Even though she knew she owed him nothing, and she could justify it to herself if she turned and walked away right now, she couldn’t. Because, in the tired blue eyes that looked back at her, she could picture her mother and the look on her face when she saw her big strong man coming up the path from his travels and waving up to the window where they’d stood bursting with anticipation. Now it was Rosie who found strength.

‘Come on,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll go for a cup of tea.’ She watched as he picked up his jacket. He followed her as she led the way out of the room.

In the cafe around the corner from the hostel, Rosie listened as her father told her his story. While they’d hurried through the rain, Rosie noticed he was out of breath, and his face looked a little grey by the time they got inside. She motioned him to sit down at one of the corner tables, then ordered tea; and he asked for some toast from the waitress, who was looking at them from the counter as though she’d seen it all before.

Rosie waited for him to speak. Eventually he did.

‘I didn’t know, Rosie,’ he said, his voice just above a whisper. ‘About your mammy. I … I hadn’t been home for nearly two years before it happened.’

‘I know. We waited every day for you.’ She wasn’t going to make it easy.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head and looked at her. ‘I know it’s too late for that now – sorry’s not enough, but …’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

‘So how did you find out?’ Rosie poured the tea for both of them, and pushed a cup towards him.

She was trying to be detached, as though she was interviewing someone. But inside she was shaking.

‘I came back. I’d changed my job. The boat I was working on went out of business and we were stranded in Brazil. I had to find another boat and that took time. Finally, I got a job and started making my way back home.’ He
sipped his tea, searching Rosie’s face for a flicker of understanding.

‘You could have written a letter telling her what happened.’

‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘but I was that busy trying to survive and get some kind of job.’

Rosie said nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t enough just to say he was busy trying to survive. It wasn’t nearly enough, when her mother was being driven to the point of suicide with every passing week waiting for word from him.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘I came back in the December.’ He gazed beyond Rosie. ‘The boat that was heading to Europe was taking months, but it was steady work and at least I knew I was on my way. I left it at Liverpool and made my way back up the road. I had stuff for you and your mammy – presents.’ He almost smiled. ‘I was nearly at the house when I went into the pub for a drink and who was standing at the bar but big Joe Campbell from up the road from us. Remember him?’

Rosie nodded.

‘Well. He told me … I …’

He covered his mouth with his hand and started crying.

‘I’m so sorry, Rosie.’

Rosie felt her throat tighten. She wanted to tell him how, during that December, she was stuck in the children’s home in Dundee; how she’d sat at the window every night looking at the snow falling on the long, winding driveway, convinced that her daddy would come for her and take her home. But the words wouldn’t come.
And so they sat, both of them imprisoned by memories that had haunted them for so long. Then her father reached across the table and put his trembling hand on hers.

Rosie’s mobile rang, crashing in on the moment. She fished it out of her pocket. It was Adrian. She quickly composed herself.

‘Hello, Rosie.’

‘Adrian. Hi. You okay?’

Adrian would not be calling her unless something was happening.

‘When are you coming back? I have very important information for you. Very important.’

‘I’m back tomorrow night, Adrian, I’ll see you then. But what’s happened?’ Rosie knew he wouldn’t talk much on the phone, but she was curious.

‘I know why the girl was taken. Why Amy was kidnapped. Is to do with her grandfather, Martin Lennon’s father. Something happened in Russia.’

‘What?’ Rosie was confused. All she knew about the Lennon family was that Martin’s father, who had owned the estate agency, had died of a heart attack while he was in Amsterdam on business a few months ago.

‘I can’t talk now. I tell you when you come. Call me when you are here.’ The phone clicked off.

Rosie looked at her father, conscious that he’d been watching her while she was on the phone.