To Tell the Truth by Anna Smith Page B

house. Then they went to O’Hara’s house. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at those interviews.’ He sipped his wine.
    Rosie imagined the scene at the Lennon’s house when they were confronted by the cops.
    ‘Jesus, Andy. Can you imagine the guilt bouncing off the walls in those houses right now?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Andy said. He was relishing the turn of events, whereas Rosie was trying to imagine the horror. She never did have that killer punch. Her mobile rang. It was McGuire.
    ‘Rosie. Have you seen the Mail ?’
    ‘No, but I know the story. The reporter’s just told me. Puts an entirely different light on things.’
    ‘That’s a fucking understatement, Rosie. All bets are off with these people now. No more Mr Fucking Nice Guy. From what I’m reading between the lines, these people have got something to hide. Maybe O’Hara’s been getting his leg over Amy’s mum. If that’s the story, our readers will crucify them. And so they fucking should.’
    ‘I know,’ Rosie said, but she couldn’t help the littlepang of sorrow for them. Jenny Lennon’s world had fallen apart when her daughter disappeared, and the only thing that could be worse than that would be having to live with the fact that it was her fault. And now, she may be about to be exposed.
    ‘She’ll get torn apart. They both will.’
    ‘You bet,’ McGuire said. ‘And we’ll be leading the charge. Listen, Rosie. I’m not at all bothered that we didn’t get that story. Though a part of me wishes we could have broken the Taha story about what he saw. But it’s not solid enough, coming from a rent boy. Anyway, we’re hunting bigger fish. But we need to be on this too. Do you need a runner down there? I can send Joe Dawson to give you a hand, you know, the day-to-day press briefings and stuff? You can concentrate on the bigger picture. Carter-Smith, and that wee rent boy Toha, or whatever he’s called. Have a think, and talk to me in the morning.’ He hung up.
    Rosie’s paranoia kicked in. Was McGuire losing faith because she had missed the windsurfer story? Did he think that maybe she wasn’t focused enough? Self doubt forever hovered over her shoulder.

CHAPTER 13
    Besmir watched as the ferry that should have been taking him back to Algeciras disappeared into the setting sun. He drew on the last of his cigarette and flicked it into the harbour.
    He bit the inside of his jaw. What the hell was he playing at? But even though he cursed himself, he felt a surge of adrenaline at the snap decision he’d made. Six months ago, no, six days ago, he would never have done anything like this. But something had changed in him, as though he’d lost the iron self control that had been the very centre of his life. He felt beads of nervous sweat under his arms at what he was about to do. He dialled the number.
    ‘I am here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t take the boat. Come. Meet me at the little bar on the harbour.’ He lit another cigarette and ordered a coffee and a cognac.
    Besmir dialled another number and spoke to Elira. He told her he would not be taking the boat to Spain tonight as planned, and that he’d met a young lady. He was goingto relax for the night. He smiled to himself when Elira made a dirty remark. He was a good liar. She said that Leka had been phoned from Morocco and that he was pleased Besmir had made the delivery. She’d let him know he would return tomorrow. He put the fake passport in his pocket, and watched the ferry vanish on the horizon.
    The driver had seen something in Besmir that he himself hadn’t known he was capable of. He had done other jobs that involved transporting kidnapped women, even girls as young as fourteen or fifteen. It was a job, nothing more. He had never kidnapped anyone before, but he delivered them to wherever Leka told him, he got paid, then he moved on. Besmir didn’t analyse what made him the man he was. To do that would be to revisit the orphanage that turned out dehumanised individuals