A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (11 page)

Over the DI’s shoulder Rosie saw two paramedics come out of the hallway, carefully bearing a stretcher. On it was a black body bag. She moved to the side as they came on to the threshold then watched, swallowing back her tears, as they carried Gerard Hawkins’s body down the steps and into the ambulance.

‘They’ll take him to the mortuary for tests. It’s very sad when someone ends up like that,’ the DI said matter-of-factly. ‘They get so lonely, these old guys, their whole lives about teaching and education, then when it’s over there’s so little left if they’ve got no family. I’ve seen it before, over the years.’ She took her notebook out again. ‘I’ll need a contact number for you, as one of the last people to talk to Mr Hawkins.’

Rosie gave her mobile number and she wrote it down.

‘Can you tell me what you were discussing?’

‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘I can’t.’ She turned to walk away.

‘Until this investigation has concluded that the death is not suspicious, police inquiries will be ongoing.’

Rosie kept on walking to her car and didn’t look back. She slumped into the driver seat and closed the door, leaning back on the headrest and staring out of the windscreen. They’d got to him. Whoever it was had decided that Hawkins had to be eliminated, the way they had wiped out Tom Mahoney. The claims he’d made in his dossier were now ringing painfully, scarily, true. Rosie spread her hands on the steering wheel and noticed they were trembling. She rolled down the window and gulped a mouthful of air. A shudder ran through her and she quickly started the engine. What if someone saw her come out of Hawkins’ flat last night? What if whoever did this was already in his flat when he went out to the shops last night and was lying in wait? She had to call McGuire to tell him, and to make sure the material from the package was locked in his safe. She picked up her mobile as she drove out of the street and was about to dial McGuire’s number when it rang. It was Don.

‘Hey, Rosie, I’ve got some interesting news for you.’

‘Gerard Hawkins has been found dead in his flat? I know. I just left the place. Christ, Don! What the hell is going on?’

‘Haven’t a clue, and that’s the truth.’

‘I’ve just been given the evil eye by some woman DI who was outside Hawkins’ flat.’ Rosie described the detective. ‘She said they’ll want to speak further to me if his death is suspicious.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘DI Miller.’

‘Yeah. Nippy sweetie. And I suppose you told her to GTF in your own inimitable way.’

‘Kind of. I’m not good at police interviews, as you know. They bring out the worst in me. And, anyway, there’s nothing to tell. It looks like suicide, but I’m sure it’s not.’

‘What do you mean it’s not? You and your conspiracy theories.’

‘Look, Don. I just know. I can’t tell you. And please respect this. But I’ve been working on something. Hawkins was helping me and now he’s dead. It stinks to high heaven.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie.’

‘I can’t tell you about it. Read the paper tomorrow. But something’s rotten here.’

‘You going to upset the cops again? I can tell.’

‘Just read the paper. But I’m sure Hawkins has been bumped off – same as Mahoney.’

‘Anyway,’ Don said, ‘that aside. I
was
just about to phone you and give you a heads up on Hawkins’ death when I got another call about the King’s Cross murder CCTV footage.’

Rosie perked up.

‘Yeah?’

‘That bird who they say was in the café? Well, she’s spotted on CCTV leaving the place immediately afterwards – just as the waitress claimed. Right behind the big Eastern European guys. They’re on the CCTV as well. Big lumps of men they are.’

‘And?’

‘They tracked the CCTV back along King’s Cross round to St Pancras Station, and it shows the bird coming off the Eurostar. So whoever she is and whatever she was doing, she came from France on the train.’

Rosie took a second to process the information. Her head was all over the place.

‘Fine. But it doesn’t take us any further on who she is.’

‘Unless, of course, you know what I know.’ He was toying with her.

‘Come on, Don. Give me a break, man.’

‘Listen to this . . . Some eagle-eyed bastard in Scotland Yard has clocked the likeness to the woman who was photographed in that covert op eighteen months ago in Spain that I told you about.’

‘What? The one with Rab Jackson?’

‘Yep. That’s what they think. Looks like the same woman, as I told you. She was never identified officially at the time – only from a snitch that said she was this Ruby bird from Glasgow.’

‘You’re kidding. Could it be Ruby Reilly? The one you told me about? Could she be involved in the murder with these Eastern Europeans?’

‘Who knows? It’s just unexplained at the moment as to why she was in the café. And why she left so quickly after the guys. She must have something to hide. She didn’t play any role in the shooting and didn’t talk to the men who did it. All it does is muddy the waters for the Met, but they’re not ruling anything out. She could even be involved.’

‘Shit, Don. This story is growing arms
an
d legs.’

‘Aye. And our boys are beginning to get interested at the Serious Crime Squad, because if it
is
Ruby Reilly then it’s a Scottish connection, and we need to find her. So whatever you’re digging up, I hope you’ll share it with your favourite detective.’

‘Sure,’ Rosie said, knowing that that depended on what it was.

Don hung up.

Rosie tore down the A77 towards Ayrshire, overtaking everything despite the driving rain and creeping late afternoon darkness. Her conversation with Gerard Hawkins played out again and again in her mind, and she could still see his face, a mixture of grief and admiration as he told her the inside story of Mahoney’s secret life.

McGuire was completely black and white about it when Rosie phoned to tell him Hawkins was dead. Now the gloves were off. They had to pull out all the stops and get this story in the paper. Whoever had come to kill Hawkins was in search of whatever they suspected he had, and wasn’t taking any chances. Rosie also told him about the development from the CCTV cameras and the mystery Scots woman.

Before she left for Ayrshire she’d headed back to the office to rewrite tomorrow’s front page, as her initial story had changed because of Hawkins’ death.

Now, she kept glancing at her mobile phone on the passenger seat, willing it to ring with the voice of the mystery woman who’d claimed she was in the café in King’s Cross. If she was genuine, she was crucial. How the hell could she not be involved in the murder if she was able to give her the name of J B Solutions, the arms dealers? How was it all linked? Why did she do a runner? Rosie’s brain ached from going around in circles. She wasn’t even sure herself if there was any point in driving to Ayrshire, to the home of the retired Strathclyde detective chief inspector, the cop Humphy Boyd used to pass information to. All she had was gut instinct, based only on Don’s phone call and what he’d told her before about the murder of Jackie Reilly.

She took the slip road into the tiny rural village of Kilmaurs, hoping the DCI’s home wasn’t in one of the outlying areas, mostly farms and deserted roads with little chance of meeting anyone to ask directions. She’d dug his address out of the voters’ roll, as it wasn’t listed in the phone book. Her first stop, at the newsagent’s to fuel up on chocolate and peanuts had been successful – the paperboy delivered to his house, the shopowner told her, and he lived nearby. Rosie got back into her car and drove past the old church as directed and up his long driveway. Most of the lights in the house were off, except for one in what looked like the kitchen at the side. Rosie rang the bell, hoping instinct would kick in to galvanize her frazzled brain. Sometimes, if she was stuck for words, a little panic helped pump the blood to the brain. A light came on in the hall and she braced herself as she heard the door being unlocked. When it opened, a tall, silver-haired man stood before her.

‘Roddy Thompson?’ Rosie gave him an eager look, as though she’d been trying to track him down for years.

‘Who are you?’ He raised his eyebrows and looked down at her.

‘My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the
Post
.’ Rosie took a breath, ready for her pitch, when he interrupted.

‘Rosie Gilmour?’ He nodded slowly, a wry smile spreading across his youthful face. ‘I know that name.’ He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, looking relaxed. ‘The Rosie Gilmour who likes giving the cops a good kicking?’

Shit, Rosie thought. She braced herself for an onslaught, but there was a softness about his expression. She tried a half-smile, putting her hands up.

‘Only the bad ones, Mr Thompson. I’m on the side of the good guys.’ She stood her ground, looking him in the eye. ‘Always.’

‘So what brings you here?’ He looked her up and down. ‘I
was
one of the good guys.’

‘Jackie Reilly.’ Rosie pushed her hair back and wiped a drop of rain from her cheek. ‘I’m working on an investigation and your name came up.’

He stood for a long moment, gazing over her shoulder at the rain and the blackness. Then he stepped back.

‘Come in out of the rain.’ He turned and walked through a small utility room. ‘My wife’s out at one of her charity meetings,’ he said over his shoulder as he pushed open a door into the kitchen.

Rosie went in behind him, her mind firing on all cylinders, not quite believing her luck.

‘Where did you get my name?’ He crossed the kitchen and clicked on the kettle.

‘It just came up, Mr Thompson.’

‘Roddy,’ he said.

‘Your name came up after a bit of digging, Roddy.’

He motioned her to sit down on one of two armchairs at the side of an old fireplace.

‘I heard you do a bit of digging. You should watch some of the people you upset, or you could dig your own grave.’ He folded his arms, leaning against the worktop.

His tone was friendly and Rosie relaxed a little.

‘I have a few police contacts, Roddy, who I value and respect and who help me from time to time. People know the kind of things I dig into, and if sometimes I come up with some dirt on people on high places, then so be it. I don’t shy away from that, but that’s not why I’m here.’

The silence hung for a moment, then he spoke.

‘Jackie Reilly,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t a bad woman, you know. I’ve known plenty of complete bastards in my day – women who would sell their children for money without turning a hair. But Jackie was all right. She had a good heart.’ His eyes rested at the fire flickering in the hearth, then he blinked himself back. ‘Coffee?’

‘That’d be great.’ This was going much better than she’d hoped. ‘So, Roddy, can I ask you a little bit about Jackie Reilly and her kids?’

He stood with his back to her as he poured boiling water into two mugs.

‘What are you doing about her? Why do you ask?’ He turned around. ‘Sugar? Milk?’

‘Just black is great.’ Rosie cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m working on a story and her name came up. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders of Rab Jackson in Spain and his old mate Malky Cameron here. Both burned to death in their homes.’

‘Good enough for them.’ He handed her a mug and sat down opposite, placing his coffee on the low table. His lips tightened. ‘Two bastards who should have been drowned at birth. The stuff they did to people – innocent people, some of them – would make you shudder, Rosie. Someone should have shot the bastards long ago. I’m surprised it’s taken so long, to be honest. But I celebrated anyway when I heard – and that’s the truth.’

‘They murdered Jackie Reilly, didn’t they?’

He nodded slowly.

‘Aye. They did. Burned her to death in her house. Raped one of her girls. Christ! I can see the faces of those two wee lassies yet.’ He shook his head. ‘And Jackie. Burned black. What a fucking thing to do to a woman. Or anybody, for that matter. Everybody and his dog knew it was Jackson and Cameron, but nobody would say a word. That pair of evil bastards had everyone in the scheme terrorized, so we couldn’t get anywhere near them. Nothing.’

They sat in silence, Rosie waiting, watching to see if he was going to volunteer anything. But he looked miles away.

‘I was told Jackie was killed because she helped police with tip-offs.’

He looked hard at her.

‘ “Grassing” is the word you’re looking for.’

Rosie swallowed and said nothing.

He sighed. ‘I don’t like to think of her in that way. It was all about survival. Jackie did what she had to do. She took people in.’ He flicked a glance at Rosie. ‘Men. They paid her. She was on her own – had to keep shoes on the kids’ feet and food on the table. They were hard times in Maryhill, Rosie, back in those days. Men like Jackson and Cameron – scum of the earth – they ran everything. People didn’t stand a chance, even if they wanted to play by the book.’

‘She was taking a real risk talking to the police, though.’

‘She was protected,’ he said, looking straight at her. ‘I protected her.’ His voice dropped to a whisper, and he shook his head. ‘I was sure I had her protected as tight as a drum.’ He ran his hand across his chin. ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’ He looked at Rosie, his eyes full of hurt. ‘It’s haunted me my whole life. The guilt. I blamed myself. Still do.’

‘You never found out how Jackson and Cameron discovered she was talking to the cops?’

He shook his head.

‘You were close to her, Roddy?’

He nodded.

‘Very close?’ Rosie ventured.

He didn’t answer.

‘Sorry.’ Rosie said.

Then he looked through her. ‘Too close.’ He swallowed. ‘It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. I knew what she did with men, how she sold herself, but the truth is, I just let it happen. It was like I couldn’t stop myself. I was married, two kids, but there was something about Jackie. She was like one of these old screen goddesses. Honest to Christ, Rosie. She should have been out of Maryhill when she was a teenager, before some bastard got her up the duff at fifteen and saddled her with two kids. In another world, with other opportunities, Jackie Reilly could have been anybody. She had a great mind as well. Sharp. A good human being.’

‘You fell in love with her.’

‘It’s a cliché, but I did.’

‘Did you ever hear what happened with the girls? I heard one of them – Judy – died and the other one was put in a home. Were you ever in touch with Ruby . . . or ever hear what happened to her?’

He said nothing but the muscles in his jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked back at Rosie.

‘Why do you ask? What’s it got to do with anything?’ He shrugged, staring at the fire. ‘She’ll be grown up now. She was the living image of her mother. A real beauty. And the same spirit. A cheeky wee bugger, and could fight like a tiger.’

‘You never saw her again? Any idea where she is?’

He shook his head.

‘Why?’

‘Just a crazy notion that occurred to me a few days ago when Jackson got torched in his home on the Costa del Sol and then Cameron’s house got burned down. Obviously old scores – somebody with a grudge . . . and balls like coconuts. And none of the cops I spoke to know anybody who’d have the wit or the courage to pull that off.’

He snorted, a smile on his lips.

‘Ruby? Is that what you’re asking?’

‘Just a thought.’

‘I can imagine her growing up with a rage burning inside her. That’s for sure. She was feisty enough before that night, so Christ knows how she ended up. Tell you what, though, I’d be well tickled if she did kill the bastards. That would be the kind of retribution that should be celebrated big time.’ His eyebrows knitted. ‘What makes you even think that? You must have a reason?’

‘Well, you see . . .’ Rosie examined her fingernails then looked at him. ‘I don’t know if you know this, but Ruby went on to do all right for herself. She went to university and studied accountancy but dropped out in her last year – just before she graduated, apparently, but she did all right. Makes you wonder how she managed it.’

Roddy’s face softened. He looked proud.

‘Maybe the kid had a secret benefactor.’ He smiled. ‘If ever anyone deserved one, it was her.’

‘Somebody told me that Ruby came up on the radar as working for Jackson,’ Rosie said. ‘It came from a good contact.’

Roddy shook his head.

‘Hard to imagine that, given what happened to her mum and sister.’

‘Have you seen her since she was a kid?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Did you help her? I mean, were you her secret benefactor?’

He looked at the floor and didn’t reply and they sat in heavy silence, but Rosie knew from the look in his eyes not to pursue the question any further. Then he looked straight at her and stood up.

‘I think you should go now, Rosie.’