A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (10 page)

Just as the taxi dropped Rosie in the car park of the
Post
, her mobile rang. Gerard Hawkins. She got out of the car before she answered it, and headed for the front door. ‘Rosie?’

He paused, and Rosie thought she detected an anxious intake of breath.

‘Yes, Gerard. How are you? Everything all right?’

‘Yes . . . Well . . . Actually, er . . . I’m not quite sure.’ He was edgy, and Rosie found herself automatically walking back towards her car. She pressed the key, unlocking it.

‘What do you mean? Something wrong?’

‘Listen, Rosie. Are you very busy? I’m wondering if you could come up to the flat. You know . . . that matter we talked about the other day? I’ve got something to give you.’

Rosie hoped the little triumphant ‘Yesss!’ in her head hadn’t actually come out of her mouth. He was giving her Mahoney’s envelope.

‘Of course, Gerard. I’ll come straight up now. You okay?’

‘Yes. I think so . . . But there’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘I’m getting into my car now, Gerard. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes. Just relax. Make sure all your doors are locked.’

Rosie sped out of the car park and up towards the West End, swearing at every red traffic light and jumping at least one set as angry motorists honked their horns.

‘Gimme a break,’ she muttered. ‘Shit. Something’s wrong. I know it.’

She picked up her phone and was about to dial McGuire when she changed her mind. He’d tell her to hang on until he sent someone with her. Maybe it was just Hawkins getting a little freaked out because of Mahoney. Perhaps the delayed shock from the murder was all beginning to get to him. But her gut instinct told her different. Finally, she was past the university and up the long tree-lined avenue of old sandstone buildings where Hawkins lived. She ditched her car and raced towards the house. On the doorstep she took a deep breath and rang the bell. She didn’t even wait until he had time to answer before she bent down and opened the letterbox.

‘It’s me, Gerard.’

She could see him coming up the hall.

‘Hello, Rosie. Thanks for coming so quickly.’ He stepped back to let her in.

His face was grey and unshaven and his greying hair unkempt. He pushed it back self-consciously.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess. Didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

They walked down the hall and into the kitchen, where he had two mugs sitting on the worktop.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please,’ Rosie answered, relieved that, although he looked rough, he wasn’t going to pieces.

‘What’s happened, Gerard? You sounded worried on the phone.’

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Into the living room.’

He motioned her to sit on the sofa and handed her a mug then set his down on the table. He went across to a small cupboard on the wall, opened it with a key and took out a Jiffy envelope. He turned to Rosie.

‘This is it.’ He clutched it to his chest. ‘It’s the package Tom handed to me that morning, just before he was executed.’ He swallowed hard and handed it to her.

Rosie could see how choked he was, and she had to put aside her desperation to rip open the envelope and look inside. She placed it on her lap.

‘So has something happened? Has there been a problem?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sat down, shaking his head, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I just get the feeling I’m being followed or something.’

‘Followed? Did you go out?’

‘Only for a newspaper and back yesterday evening. Then when I got back to the house I just had the feeling someone had been in here.’

Rosie frowned. ‘Has anything been moved? What made you think that?’

‘It was as if someone had been in, looking around, but nothing was ransacked or anything. I’m not even certain if there has been anyone here, I’ve just noticed things – like a small rug in my bedroom has been pulled over and put in a different place. I’m sure I didn’t do that. I never move that rug. It’s at the other side of the bed and it seldom gets walked on. But last night it had moved, and then I noticed a couple of drawers were open. But nothing was taken, as far as I can see. I want to know why someone would come in the house, and, if they were looking for something, why they didn’t pull the place apart. I had the package hidden in a leather bag I keep at the back of my wardrobe with old photographs in it. I only took it out today. It would have been hard to find unless someone knew what they were looking for. I’m glad I hid it now.’ He seemed to shiver.

‘But would they really be looking for this?’ Rosie held up the envelope. ‘How would they know it was here in the first place?’

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb.

‘Those men. The killers. I’ve been thinking back. They were in the café when we came in. I can’t remember how many of them. Then, after a few minutes, another bloke came in and joined them. I just happened to notice that, and actually, I forgot even to tell the police. I’ve been so distraught. But perhaps he was following us, and they were probably watching us from the café. They could have seen the package being handed over.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

Rosie knew he was right. Perhaps word was only now filtering back to whoever ordered the killing that Mahoney had handed a package over. In the immediate aftermath of the execution the priority would have been to get the assassins away, and they would have gone straight to ground. She decided not to share her thoughts with Hawkins. It would freak him out even more.

‘I wanted you to have the material, because I made a promise to Tom that I would get the information out.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I promised him. But now I fear they’re on to me.’

‘What about the police?’

He shook his head.

‘I . . . I don’t trust them. I can’t trust anyone . . . well, apart from you, I hope. I’m not even sure who killed Tom, and that morning in the café he was convinced it was MI6 who were on to him. But I just don’t know. I only know that I’m frightened.’

He looked as though his life were falling down around him.

‘You need to go away, Gerard. Get out of here and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. I can organize it for you. Get you on a plane, or get a car to drive you somewhere. Maybe up north, somewhere quiet?’

He nodded.

‘Yes, I know. I’m already making plans. I’ve packed, and I’m leaving first thing tomorrow. Thanks so much for your kind offer, but I’ll make my own way – get in my little car and disappear. You’re right. Probably up north for a bit, and then maybe take a ferry to the Shetlands or the Orkneys. I spent a lot of time there as a child in summer holidays. I still go on sailing trips there. I can go someplace from that area by ferry if I want to go abroad – the long way.’

He was trying to be pragmatic, but Rosie sensed how acutely alone he was.

‘I wish you would let me organize something for you.’

‘No. Honestly.’ He seemed to shudder as he looked around. ‘I don’t feel safe. Not even in my own home.’

‘Then leave tonight, Gerard. Now. With me.’

He managed a thin smile.

‘Thank you, Rosie. You are really very kind. But I’ll manage for the night, and I’ll be up as soon as it’s light and on the road.’

Rosie sighed as she stood up.

‘If you’re sure. But I really think if you feel worried you should come with me and I’ll get you into a hotel for the night.’

‘No.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thanks.’

She didn’t want to push him any further. They stood facing each other, Rosie not quite sure what to say to him but suppressing an urge to hug him. She held out the envelope.

‘Gerard . . . I want to thank you for this.’

‘I haven’t looked in it, so I’m not sure what’s there. Could be Tom’s old shopping list . . . The old bastard did have such a wicked sense of humour.’

He gave a little chuckle, shaking his head as though he’d pricked a memory. Then his face crumpled and he put his hand to his mouth to stifle a sob.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, tears spilling out of his eyes. ‘I . . . I miss him so much.’

Instinctively, Rosie took a step forward and put her arms around him, feeling a little awkward to be embracing a relative stranger.

‘I know how hard it must be for you,’ she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. ‘But I’m sure Tom would be happy that you have carried out his wishes.’

She eased herself away from him, and he sniffed, regaining some composure.

‘You will get better, Gerard. In time,’ Rosie said, and she meant it.

He nodded.

‘I’m stronger than people think.’ He gripped her arm. ‘Please, Rosie. Promise me you will not let me down. Promise me you will tell Tom’s story in your newspaper. It’s all that matters now.’

Rosie put her hand over his. ‘Trust me, Gerard. When I study what is in this envelope, and if it is as incriminating as Tom believes it is, then I will tell his story. Nothing will stop me.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I can ask.’ He led her down the hall.

‘Will you phone me when you’re somewhere far away from here?’

‘Of course. I’ll call you by tomorrow afternoon. You’ll have read the contents of the envelope by then, I hope.’

‘You bet.’ Rosie smiled. ‘I’ll have it read by tomorrow morning – even if it takes me all night.’

He gave her a long hug before he opened the door.

‘Good luck, Gerard. Please keep in touch.’

He nodded.

‘Go on, Rosie. Tell the story. Don’t let Tom’s death be for nothing.’

She turned back as she walked down the steps and gave him a mock salute.

The darkness had come down and Rosie subconsciously quickened her step as she walked up the long, deserted avenue towards her car on the corner. A gust of wind whipped up the sycamore leaves piled up beneath the half-naked trees. She thought she heard footsteps behind her and turned around, but there was no one. Christ! She was getting as freaked out as Hawkins. She walked even faster, feeling her heart race, her boots clattering on the pavement the only sound in the street. A front door slammed shut and she jumped. She got to her car, breathing hard, and climbed inside, immediately locking the doors then taking a long breath and letting it out slowly. She started the engine and put the lights on full beam then reversed and pulled out onto the road. Did she see a figure in the shadows on the grass verge in her wing mirror? Calm down, she told herself. It was probably someone taking their dog out. Rosie was glad when she turned onto Woodlands Road, towards the reassuring city-centre evening traffic buzz. She drove towards her flat at St George’s Mansions and was about to turn into the car park when she decided to do a quick drive round the block to make sure nobody was following her. She wished she could phone TJ, or Adrian, or Don. Anyone, just to ask them to come and spend some time with her. But there was nobody. She could call Matt, the photographer she mostly worked with on major stories, and ask him for a drink, and he’d be happy to come up. They’d already talked about the story and he was waiting until he was needed for the pictures. She looked across at the envelope on the floor of the car beside her handbag. Come on, Gilmour, she told herself. Get a grip. You’ve got a whole night’s reading to do. She drove quickly around the corner and into the car park then sprinted up to the door and inside, rushing up the steps and inside her flat, quickly sliding across the extra locks and bolts McGuire had insisted were fitted after her last attack. She stood with her back to the door and let out a sigh of relief. The flat was like Fort Knox: double locks on every window and panic alarms in every room. There were also CCTV cameras on the front of the building trained on the car park and street nearby. She was safe. She needed a drink.

*

Gerard thought he was dreaming when he saw the blurred image before him. It looked like a man – two men even – silently drifting towards him out of the darkness of the doorway into his bedroom. A shaft of moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains, and he could see them now as he began to focus. He opened his mouth to gasp, but a hand was suddenly clamped over it. Someone big and heavy climbed onto the bed and sat on his legs, trapping him where he lay. Then he saw the syringe. He shook his head violently, trying to free himself from the grasp of the big man holding him down, pinning his shoulders back, forcing his face to one side. The room was silent except for Gerard’s muffled cries behind the hand pushing on his face. Then he felt the sharp prick of the needle in the side of his neck and he could feel his pulse pumping inside his ears. Somebody was telling him to ‘Ssssh’. He thought he heard someone say, ‘Just let yourself relax. It’s over now.’ In his stupor, he thought it sounded like Tom. Because now he could see Tom in the faces of both men, who sat motionless, watching him. He was drifting away. Flickering images of his life ran through his mind. He was young again, with Tom, striding out in the Scottish hills in blazing sunshine; drinking champagne in Venice pavement cafés; walking in the rain-soaked cobbled streets of East Berlin. He could feel a smile spread across his face as he closed his eyes. It was over now.

Rosie was groggy from lack of sleep. It had been well past midnight when she’d finally flopped into bed, having spent the evening sifting through the contents of Mahoney’s envelope. Some of it was like a handwritten journal, his tiny scrawl difficult to read. She was grateful there was also a typewritten overview, detailing why he was blowing the whistle. It looked like he’d been compiling a dossier in recent weeks or months.

J B Solutions, arms dealers, came up several times. A subsidiary company, Damar Guns, international arms dealers, was also named; they had had their licence revoked. But, Mahoney wrote, they were still dealing. He described how they had recently shipped container-loads of weapons to Nigeria – ‘guns and ammunition, enough to equip an army’. He posed the question, ‘How the hell did they do it without a licence . . . they didn’t. They had a fake one.’ Damar Guns also supplied gangsters and were rotten to the core, he wrote.

Rosie ploughed on to the end, looking for an answer, then she found it. Mahoney had been part of an international criminal investigation looking at fake paperwork for arms being exported abroad, and he was part of a sting set up to trap them.

Other names, highlighted with a pen, meant nothing to her, though Mahoney’s notes identified them as key MoD figures – ‘spooks’, he’d actually written, ‘just like me’ – and said they’d been in key positions back in the sixties and seventies. She couldn’t believe her eyes. There were old black-and-white photographs of men, some of them with women who Mahoney identified as Russian prostitutes. Then one killer paragraph jumped out from his narrative, and Rosie’s eyes popped. Alex Goldsmith. Now Sir Alex Goldsmith, Mahoney wrote, the former head of MI6.

She stared at the snapshot of a young Goldsmith sitting on a sofa, smoking a cigarette, with a drink in his hand and a half-naked woman draped over him. She glanced at her watch and was about to phone McGuire to tell him when she decided to leave it till she saw him in the morning. There was also a grainy black-and-white photograph of a beautiful young woman – Katya
–
with the date – 1968, written in pen on the back. But no image of how she had looked in recent years.

Rosie’s head was buzzing when she went to bed and switched off the light. Then she got up, paranoid, and made another check to make sure all the doors in her apartment were securely locked. When she finally did fall asleep, her dreams were of shadowy figures in cold Eastern Bloc apartments and dismal hotels, and a vague nightmare of a woman trying to run away after being shot in the back.

In the morning she stood in a cold shower for as long as she could bear it then downed a quick jag of strong coffee to get her mind firing on all cylinders before heading to the office. It was going to be a long day.

*

McGuire closed the door and told Marion not to disturb them when Rosie came in clutching the envelope.

‘Right. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m knackered,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I spent half the night reading this and trying to get my head around it, then I couldn’t sleep for planning how to write it.’

‘Great.’ McGuire smiled. ‘You can sleep tomorrow.’

Rosie opened the envelope and carefully took out all of the photographs, spreading them on the coffee table in front of them.

McGuire sat down opposite her.

‘He gives a kind of narrative confirming everything I’ve been told – about him being targeted by Stasi when he was over there as a young lecturer,’ Rosie began. ‘There’s detail about the kind of spying he did at that time, and how he worked for both sides. So there’s plenty of juice. But the big story is the stuff about J B Solutions. They’re the guys who supplied the government and police with guns and ammunition for years, yet at the same time their subsidiary wing, Damar Guns, was also supplying Nigeria in the middle of a war back in 1997. It’s all in here. Damar’s licence was revoked when the UK government discovered what it was doing. But the company continued to sell arms to Nigeria – enough to equip a whole army, Mahoney says . . . So someone was turning a blind eye.’

‘Who? Who was turning a blind eye? Does it say?’

‘Well, yes. He’s described it. Apparently, the licence and papers were faked up and stamped officially when shown at borders. According to him, since the fall of the Soviet Union, both Damar and J B Solutions have been involved in illegal arms dealing with Russian and Eastern European gangsters.’ Rosie pointed to the sheaf of paper. ‘It’s all in there. That’s what the sting was about. They were trying to catch Damar’s people setting up a deal selling arms to Russian gangsters based in Spain and the UK. Mahoney explains it all. And also, he’s quite frank about his affair with Katya.’

‘Fucking magic! But a lot of the stuff on the company will be hard to prove. They’ll just say Mahoney was a fantasist who read too many spy novels. The lawyers will have a seizure. But even if we get nothing else to use, we can write about his affair and his claims that he was a spy. That’s all good.’

‘Well.’ Rosie grimaced. ‘I feel for his poor wife if we blast his affair all over the front page.’

‘Tough. Nobody forced him to get his leg over.’

‘Yeah. But he has stipulated in his letter that he would like Katya referred to as his trusted confidante and friend, as well as his KGB handler.’

‘Yeah, right.’ McGuire snorted. ‘She obviously took the handling part quite literally. Is that her?’ McGuire pointed to the black-and-white snapshot of the beautiful young woman.

‘Yeah. It’s from a while ago, though, in his heyday.’

‘ “Ice-cool Beauty” . . . I can see the headline . . . What’s that film called that they’re all talking about at the moment? . . .
The Spy Who Shagged Me
?’ He laughed.

‘Yeah. But wait, Mick. There’s another belter in here.’ She sifted through the photographs.

They scanned them together. Several were black and white, and from the clothes and hairstyles had clearly been taken back in the sixties and seventies. They were of men and women drinking and partying.

‘Who are they? What’s the significance? It’s years ago.’

‘Look closely.’ Rosie pointed to one particular picture of a man who looked as though he was in his thirties, with a Russian woman draped around him. It was in a bar somewhere. ‘Don’t you recognize him?’

McGuire shook his head, peering at the picture. ‘Alex Goldsmith. Sir Alex Goldsmith now. Former head of MI6,’ Rosie said triumphantly.

‘Fuck me! You’re kidding. I don’t believe that.’

Rosie leaned forward, picking the photograph up.

‘Look closely. It’s about twenty years ago, but there’s no mistaking. Plus, Mahoney has written about it. Look.’

She took the note out and showed him the piece in the narrative that referred to the picture. She read it out. Here’s what Mahoney says:

‘Fucking hell!’

‘Of course, they’ll deny all this on a stack of bibles,’ Rosie cautioned. ‘Even with the pictures, especially of Goldsmith. They’ll say it was all in the line of duty . . . life of a spy and all that . . . They’re expected to get involved with girls . . . or at least they do in the movies. But it’s still a good tale.’

‘Who’s the other guy next to him?’ McGuire pointed to the photograph. ‘And who are these two privileged-looking wankers? Definitely Brits.’

‘No idea. It’s a long time ago. We’ll probably never be able to find out.’

McGuire sat back. He puffed his cheeks and exhaled in little drumbeats, gazing at the ceiling.

‘So what do we write tomorrow? I want to get a flavour of this moving – nobody will have a sniff of what we have.’

‘We’ve got so much material here, Mick. We should drop a big hint of what we’ve got in the paper tomorrow and see what happens. Why don’t we leave the Goldsmith angle out for the moment and just write something revealing that Tom Mahoney was a spy for Stasi –
and
a double agent. We can throw in plenty of colour without naming names. Keep our powder dry.’

‘That’ll put the wind right up the MoD.’ McGuire shot Rosie a mischievous grin.

‘Of course. But they won’t know what we’ve got. They might even think we’ve taken a flyer. They won’t know we have all this.’

‘Right. I like the sound of that. What about this J B Solutions mob?’

‘We need to delve further into them. Mahoney’s talking about people on the inside being on the take. That can only mean the MoD. He doesn’t mention names or give us anything we can prove, but he hints that someone must have been getting paid. Because if Damar Guns had no licence yet continued to supply guns to Africa, then it means someone inside was faking up papers to let them go through. Maybe someone inside Customs, too. It could have been a whole chain of corruption, for all we know. We need to get more on the people behind J B Solutions. I want to get into Thomas Dunn – he’s the guy who runs the company.’

McGuire chewed this over for a few seconds.

‘Okay. First, let’s get a piece written up on Mahoney the spy and fire it over to me. Nothing about the arms dealers yet. Just that Mahoney was a spy for Stasi – explaining all about them, of course – and hinting that we’ve got more detail, from way back years ago. Say we’ve got the low-down on major figures within the intelligence service. That’ll fuck them up.’ He stood up and walked towards the door.

‘Okay. First, I’m going to nip up to see Hawkins at his flat. He was a bit nervy last night. I just want to make sure he’s all right. He’s a good guy.’

*

Rosie drove up past the university and hit an unexpected backlog of traffic as she reached the quiet avenue where Gerard Hawkins lived. The blue light of a police car flashed on and off, and a smattering of people were gathered on the pavement. Dread throbbed across her gut. She quickly pulled her car over and jumped out, walking hurriedly towards the flat.

‘Oh my God!’ she said under her breath, picking her way to the front of the crowd.

‘What’s going on?’ Rosie asked a couple of elderly ladies.

‘There’s been an accident.’ One of the women pointed to the ground-floor flat. ‘In there.’

‘What? What’s happened?’

‘I think his name is Hawkins. We’ve lived in the same block for years, but didn’t really know him. He was very quiet . . . Used to be a lecturer over the road at the uni . . . I—’

‘What kind of accident,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘Is he . . .?’

‘Yes.’ The woman nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead. Police and ambulance . . . They’re all in there . . . I heard it was suicide.’

‘No.’ Rosie shook her head, backing away. ‘No way.’

The women looked confused as she turned away from them and went up the steps to the front door.

‘Sorry, madam. Are you a relative?’ The uniformed policeman stepped forward, blocking her path.

‘No. I’m a friend.’

‘Could you hold on a minute, please?’

He spoke into the walkie-talkie on the lapel of his anorak.

‘The DI will be here in a moment.’

Rosie felt her chest tighten with emotion. She glanced around at the throng of faces on the pavement. She’d have been lynched if they knew who she was . . . A tabloid journalist, the lowest of the low, they’d say, using a poor old man to make a headline. Guilt hung over her like a cloud.

A round-faced woman with curly short hair and wearing a raincoat arrived a minute later and approached Rosie.

‘DI Miller.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You are?’

‘A friend of Gerard Hawkins. I didn’t know him that well, but we had coffee yesterday . . . and also a few days ago.’

‘And how was he?’ The DI looked Rosie up and down.

‘Er . . . Fine . . . He was okay. He was obviously very upset by the murder of his friend Tom Mahoney.’

‘And how do you know him?’

Rosie hesitated for two beats, looking back at the DI.

‘I’m a journalist. I was working on the murder and we were talking about his friend.’

The DI pursed her lips and glimpsed at the uniformed officer. Rosie squared her shoulders. Just what she needed – a cop who despised journalists, blamed them for everything and did all they could to make sure they got nowhere near the truth. Rosie had stumbled along more than enough of them during her chequered life, but she wasn’t about to let this one get in her way.

‘What kind of state was he in when you left him?’ Her tone was accusatory.

‘Put it this way,’ Rosie said deadpan, ‘he didn’t seem to me like a man ready to commit suicide. He was very . . .’ She chose her words. ‘. . . Very determined.’

‘Determined about what?’

‘Determined to stay strong for his friend.’ Rosie’s tone was measured. ‘He was upset, but he knew Mahoney wouldn’t want him to give up, and that he’d want him to get on with his life. They’d been friends since they were students. He wasn’t suicidal. Definitely not.’

‘Well. Unless you’re a qualified shrink, that’s not really for you to decide. Who do you work for?’

‘The
Post
,’ Rosie answered drily.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Rosie Gilmour.’

The DI took a notebook out and wrote it down. In some quarters of Strathclyde’s finest the name Rosie Gilmour was loathed – especially among the cops she’d turned over down the years.

‘At the moment there isn’t a lot to say. There’ll be a post-mortem. But it looks like a straightforward suicide.’

‘What do you mean? How? Was there a note? Overdose? . . . What method of suicide.’

‘As I said, it’s early doors.’

‘A note?’

‘Inquiries are ongoing.’ She put her notebook back into her raincoat pocket. ‘There was no note. That’s all I can say. We’re trying to trace his next of kin.’

‘I’m not sure he had any. I . . . I honestly don’t know.’