Screams in the Dark by Anna Smith

information that you think would be important for refugees?’ Rosie didn’t want to let it go.
    Tanya got up and went to the kitchen. She took a cigarette out of a packet on the worktop and lit it, and stood watching Rosie for a moment. Then she went into her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. She came back and sat down on the sofa.
    ‘I have this,’ she said, unfolding the paper and handing it to Rosie.
    Rosie’s eyes quickly scanned the sheet of paper which had a list of foreign names on it, possibly refugees, andaddresses in Glasgow. Each of them had the words, ‘alone, no family’ written at the side, and she could see that some of them had been scored through with a pen. It could have been a random list of refugees, and it wouldn’t have meant much to Rosie, had one name not jumped out at her. Emir Marishta. She remembered the surname he’d given her at the station. Next to it was Jetmir Hasani, his friend who’d gone missing, and the address of the door she had knocked on in Balornock. Her heart skipped a beat.
    ‘It’s a list,’ Rosie said. ‘Refugees I suppose. Where did you get it, Tanya?’
    Tanya looked at her with a sort of cold defiance.
    ‘I took it,’ she said. ‘From the file in Frank Paton’s office. It was the file he took from Tony’s desk when he came in that morning and found he was dead. He took the file away before the police came.’
    Rosie took a deep breath. ‘Do you want to talk to me, Tanya?’
    Tanya nodded, looking at the floor.

CHAPTER 11
    Rosie was at her desk trying to make small talk with Reynolds, the crime reporter who was so far out of the loop he might as well still be in the pub. And that’s how it would stay as far as she was concerned. Reynolds was running down the clock on his final month’s notice after McGuire made sure the redundancy deal was an offer he couldn’t refuse. He may still officially have been the crime reporter, but he was kept completely out of any big investigations because the editor considered him a spy for the police.
    ‘So what are you hearing on the Murphy suicide, Rosie?’ Reynolds sat back, sticking his pen behind his ear.
    ‘Nothing much, Bob, that’s the problem,’ she lied. ‘I can’t get a damn thing on him – no reason why he would top himself.’ Rosie shrugged. ‘That’s the problem with suicide. No warning. It just happens. I reckon there was some personal trauma in his life, but the wife is saying nothing and neither is Frank Paton.’
    ‘Weird though, with that suicide note arriving nearly a week after he died.’ Reynolds looked smug. ‘I had a tip from one of my guys. I’ve passed it on to Lamont.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Rosie hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. ‘I heard that too, but the cops have absolutely nothing to say on it. It’s up to McGuire if he wants to run it.’
    Rosie kept one eye on the conference room at the end of the editorial floor. Any minute now the door would open and the various editorial heads would spill out of the room, armed with their schedules and plans for tomorrow’s paper. Some would emerge flushed and agitated, having been given a good kicking by McGuire who could be a monster in conference, knocking back their stories, panning their opinions, or warning them they’d be out of a job by the end of the day if they didn’t buck up their ideas. Lately, Rosie had seldom attended the twice-daily conferences, even though she was officially an assistant editor in charge of investigations. When she was working on an investigation herself, everything she did had to be kept tight as a drum – usually just between her, McGuire and the picture editor. She’d managed to convince McGuire that Lamont should be kept in the dark on every investigation until the last minute, because he was a slippery bastard who couldn’t be trusted. Now she was champing at the bit, desperate to offload her latest information to McGuire. The door opened and out they came. Less than a minute