Screams in the Dark by Anna Smith Page A

later, Rosie’s phone rang.
    ‘You’ve to come through, Rosie.’
    ‘Thanks, Marion.’
    Rosie said nothing to Reynolds as she got up and headed for McGuire’s office.
    ‘Gilmour,’ McGuire said. ‘I feel as though you’ve been missing for days. You’re such a ray of sunshine.’
    ‘That’s touching, Mick. Not days, actually. Just yesterday. I was out all day seeing people.’
    ‘Right. Well I hope it’s paid off, because I don’t want this refugee story to go cold.’
    ‘Cold?’ Rosie said, sitting on the leather sofa opposite his desk. ‘You must be joking. This is so hot now, Mick, it’s burning a hole in my notebook.’
    ‘Christ, Rosie, when you say things like that I can hear the lawyers gasping for air.’
    ‘Well, I don’t think we should even go near the lawyers with this stuff, Mick. At least not yet.’
    ‘Now I am nervous.’ He took his feet of the desk and sat forward. ‘Come on. I’m all ears.’
    ‘Okay. Brace yourself.’ She fiddled with a pencil. ‘Here’s the scenario, Mick. Hold on to your pants for this. Refugees are being kidnapped and killed for the illegal trade in body tissue.’ Rosie put her hands out theatrically. ‘You know, a line like that should really have had a drum roll.’
    McGuire looked at her, his face serious. ‘Don’t fuck about, Rosie.’
    ‘I’m not, Mick. I’m absolutely not fucking about. I’m telling you. That’s what I’m hearing.’
    McGuire got up from his desk and came around to sit on the armchair opposite her.
    ‘Tell me. Chapter and verse.’
    Rosie began with the story from Tam Logan’s widow Jan, of how she’d spilled it all out to her that day before she disappeared to Spain. Rosie really hadn’t expected to hear any more from Jan, even though she felt she was holding out, but last night she’d called Rosie on her mobile with more information. She had found a piece of paper in the pocket of Tam’s denim shirt he sometimes wore to work.
    ‘She told me the name of the guy they called Doctor Mengele.’ McGuire shot her a come-off-it glance. Rosie put up a hand. ‘No, I’m not kidding! She gave me his name – Milosh Subacic. She says Tam told her he was Bosnian, but she isn’t sure. And she told me where the place is where they’re doing all this cutting up bodies stuff. When I spoke to her at first she said it was somewhere outside of Glasgow, but last night she was more specific. Said it was a disused slaughterhouse out near Drymen. But I think she’s given quite a good location, or area at least, so I’d say it’s findable. We need to go there, but I’ll come to that in a minute.’ She took a deep breath, ready to continue.
    ‘Fuck me, Rosie,’ McGuire interrupted. ‘Are you asking me to believe that some Bosnian guy is over in Drymen cutting people up like Josef Mengele?’
    ‘So it would seem, Mick.’
    He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this.’
    ‘Wait. It gets better.’ Rosie uncrossed her legs and sat forward.
    ‘I also tracked down the office cleaner at Paton, Murphy, the Ukrainian bird, Tanya. My cop pal swears itwas her who sent the suicide note to Murphy’s wife – thinks she swiped it from his desk when she found him swinging that morning. But of course they’ve no way of proving it. I mean who else could it have been? Apart from Frank Paton, and I don’t think it was him.’
    McGuire’s eyebrows knitted.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Well why would he?’
    McGuire shrugged. ‘Well, if they were involved in something together …’
    ‘I supppose that’s possible.’ Rosie conceded.
    ‘Right. Okay. Carry on.’
    ‘Well,’ Rosie continued, ‘I went to see her and she wasn’t going to play at all at first, shut the door in my face. Then to my surprise she invites me into her flat.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Nothing, Mick. She asked if we’d pay for information and I put her right about my feelings about making money out of stricken refugees, and suddenly she changed her mind.’
    ‘You’re a