A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (21 page)

Rosie was seething. Boswell-Smith had just steamrollered over them. This wasn’t about truth or police work, it was about defending the establishment at all costs. That’s why he’d been sent from London to find out about their investigation. His demand was about selling out everything she, McGuire and the paper had always fought for – their right to unmask the liars and the cheats and the crooks, whether they were in housing schemes, banks or government departments. They were almost there on a massive story that might even spark resignations at Cabinet level. They couldn’t just let that go. How could they? She thought of Ruby, the shitty start she’d had in life, not unlike her own, and so many of the souls she’d encountered over the years, from Glasgow to Kosovo, who had to scrap and fight for everything they had. Judy was all Ruby had. Her eyes met McGuire’s and he looked away. He had already made his decision.

The superintendent looked at his watch again and fiddled with his gold cufflinks. McGuire put his pen down on the table and stood up.

‘We have a deal, Superintendent.’ He looked at the captain. ‘Now, let’s get that poor girl out.’

Rosie felt her shoulders sink, a wave of disappointment and anger hitting her like a punch in the gut. Tom Mahoney had been murdered because he was about to expose corruption and greed at the heart of the MoD. More than that, he died because he was able to reveal how someone, with the stroke of a pen, could allow a lowlife like Tam Dunn and his outfit to sell guns and ammunition that could kill and maim innocent people in Nigeria who were already disenfranchised, who had already lost hope. And the profits that these gangsters here made were ploughed into their stinking drug empires in the housing schemes, in towns and cities where heroin helped blot out their shitty existence for too many people. Everything that underpinned Rosie as a journalist was enshrined in the determination of her newspaper to expose this kind of greed and corruption. Now that very principle was being trampled upon in front of her eyes in the editor’s office. If she couldn’t unmask these kinds of people, there was no point in getting out of bed in the morning. But she knew that by handing over her dossier she might save one life – Judy’s. There
was
no choice.

Don was already at the bar when Rosie walked through the swing doors into O’Brien’s. He eased himself off the bar stool as she made her way through the usual throng of early-evening, well-heeled punters, either in for a drink on the way home from work or getting tanked up to go out on the town. A noisy bunch of designer-smart, twenty-something blokes in party mode were knocking back champagne. Rosie picked her way through them towards the bar, conscious of them eyeing her up. One of them stood in front of her, blocking her path, then moved to block her again, a big, daft grin on his face as she attempted to squeeze past him. It might have been amusing for a nanosecond the first time, Rosie thought, as she forced a smile, but she was not in the mood for it when he did it the second time. She made a give-me-a-break-guys face at him and he moved to the side. Whatever he’d said as she slid past him sent the rest of them into guffaws of laughter.

‘Just what I need’ – Rosie leaned in to give Don a kiss on the cheek – ‘a bunch of bloody hooray Henrys.’

‘Stag party,’ Don said, nodding to the barman. ‘Obviously a rich one. They’re on their third bottle of Dom Perignon and they’ve only been in an hour.’

‘They must be cops,’ Rosie joked as she climbed onto a stool.

‘Yeah, right.’ Don replied. ‘Gin and tonic?’

‘You bet. I need at least one.’

He offered her a cigarette and she put it to her lips as he flicked the lighter. Watching Ruby chain-smoke for the past two hours had put her in the notion for a fag. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the buzz of her first cigarette in a few days, then swallowed a mouthful of her drink, feeling better already.

‘That’s more like it.’ Don scanned her face. ‘You sounded a bit wired on the phone.’

Rosie puffed out smoke. ‘I passed wired about two o’clock today.’ She screwed up her face as the stag party erupted into more raucous laughter. ‘Christ! They’re a noisy bunch of twats. I can’t hear myself think.’

‘They’ll be going shortly.’ Don looked over her shoulder. ‘I see one of them asking for the bill.’

‘Good.’

‘So what’s the story, pal?’ Don ran a hand over his chin and loosened his tie.

‘I’ve got something for you. Big time, Don . . . But whatever I say in the next few minutes goes absolutely nowhere until I give you the nod. Understood?’

Don’s craggy features barely moved a muscle.

‘Sure. Goes without saying.’

Rosie took a moment to decide where to start. She’d spent all morning in the West End at Ruby’s flat, ploughing through a pile of paperwork she’d printed off earlier at the
Post
. Ruby had taken a bit of convincing last night that the only way to get Judy back was to work with Boswell-Smith and the captain. Even though she wouldn’t have to meet them in person, Ruby was still suspicious she was being led into a trap. But she’d made up her mind to go along with it after she’d phoned Tony again to arrange to hand over all the bank details and documents. He kept changing the goalposts. He’d said flatly that
he
would decide when he had time – probably in a couple of days. He told her to be ready. Then hung up. Ruby was inconsolable when she’d come off the phone, weeping that Judy was probably already dead and that Tony was just being an evil bastard. She vowed again to kill him with her bare hands. Rosie had to convince her that she was the only one who could crucify Tony and his mob by turning him in, along with all the bank details. She knew where all the bodies were buried – in financial terms. She could ruin all of them. Not only that, she had witnessed Dunn kick a girl to death. Eventually, fired up, Ruby agreed. And to Rosie’s astonishment, she even decided she would make a statement about the murder of the prostitute, as long as she could be assured that she’d never have to appear in court. But she would only make the statement once she was safely out of the country – hopefully, with Judy. If it worked, it would be a major coup for the cops, bagging all the main players – and Rosie would have a massive exclusive for the
Post
. But they were a long way from that. McGuire remained sceptical, but when she’d told him she had the bank accounts and paperwork in her hands, he was in. All she had to do now was test the water with Don and get reassurances. She knew the pitfalls of passing information to the police, especially the statement about the prostitute’s murder and not bringing in the eyewitness. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

‘Okay.’ Rosie swivelled around in the stool so that she was facing Don. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. ‘Listen. If the information I have is accurate, I can deliver Tony Devlin . . . and no doubt a few of his cohorts . . . including all their dirty money and assets. Everything. Straight into your hot little hands.’

Don stopped in mid-draw, his mouth dropping open a little.

‘Have you been at the drink?’

‘I’m serious, Don. And I mean bank accounts, statements, company names, directors, details on how and where they laundered their money. Everything. I can give you all that stuff, then it’s up to you to move on it and start breaking down a few doors, pulling in the bodies.’

Don pushed his hand through his greying hair, his eyes narrowing.

‘How? I mean how the fuck can you get your hands on that? We have teams of people from the Serious Crime Squad to the Fraud Squad trying to track that kind of shit all the time, but everything is so well hidden these days.’

‘I know. But Devlin, as you know, has companies all over the place. All sorts of businesses, from property to petrol stations. The money moves around them all, getting cleaner the more it’s laundered. Then most of it goes abroad.’

‘So how can you get this information?’

‘Put it this way’ – Rosie looked at him, then away – ‘I have access to the person who set up the companies, the bank accounts . . . the whole shooting match. Even going back as far as Rab Jackson’s day.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope.’

‘So this person is either terminally ill, or they’re about to be.’

‘No. Just very angry. It’s all about retribution.’

They sat for a long moment, Rosie watching Don gnaw the inside of his jaw, his brain ticking over. He signalled to the barman for two more drinks.

‘Retribution?’ he said. ‘There are a lot of poor bastards buried in the foundations of the Kingston Bridge who thought they could dish out retribution to Rab Jackson and his mob.’

‘This is different. This is here and now. I’m talking bank accounts that can show money moving all over the place. I’m not an expert on that kind of shit, and frankly, balance sheets make my eyes glaze over, but I have access to the actual person who has legitimized all the business.’

He looked at her, incredulous.

‘Would they meet us? Totally off the record? Guarantees up front they’d be protected?’

Rosie shook her head.

‘Not a chance in hell. No way.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask, Don.’

‘It’s obviously someone on the inside then?’

Rosie said nothing, stared through him.

‘Fuck me, Rosie!’ Don shook his head, a smile almost coming to his lips. ‘This could make a huge impact, pull the rug from these bastards, if we could get our hands on that kind of paperwork.’ He grinned. ‘I think I’m getting a hard-on.’

‘I thought it was just the way you were sitting,’ Rosie snorted. ‘But seriously. There’s more . . .’ She pushed her hair back, fiddling with her earring. ‘My contact witnessed the murder of a young prostitute. Eastern European.’

Don screwed up his eyes.

‘We don’t have a prostitute murder.’

‘Yes, you do. You just don’t know about it yet.’

‘Fucking hell! When?’

Rosie hesitated.

‘Recently.’

‘How recent? A month, a week, a year?’

‘Very recent.’

‘So why no body?’

‘My contact said it was disposed of . . . And there was another girl who also witnessed it. A hooker – also Eastern European. Don’t know where she is, but I’d be surprised if she’s not dead too.’

‘Shit, Rosie. You need to give me more.’

‘I can’t. I’m not in a position to. Not right now.’

‘So what does this contact want from us?’

‘Nothing. The contact will disappear, no questions asked. You will get a full statement on the murder but they will absolutely not testify in court. So be clear about that.’ She paused. ‘Let me put it this way, the murder is so recent and so bloody, Forensics will find enough DNA once you get the location.’

Don was silent for a few moments, as though he was trying to work out all the rivalry between Rab Jackson and any of his cohorts over the years.

‘I can see you’re trying to figure who the traitor is.’ Rosie looked at her watch and pulled her bag onto her shoulder.

‘I am. I’m all over the place here.’ He puffed. ‘When can we get this stuff?’

‘Soon. In a few days. But you can’t mention it right now. Not to anyone. Just be ready, because we’ll be doing something about it in the
Post
before we hand over the full dossier. And when the time comes you can tell your bosses not to even think about kicking the editor’s door in and demanding to know who the contact is, because that’s not going to happen. Understood?’

Don nodded.

‘It’ll have to be discussed at the top level.’

‘I don’t give a toss if you consult Christ himself. The deal is totally anonymous, or forget it. No names, no pack drill. It’s not up for discussion. And forget even trying to track down the contact, because whatever else they may be – they are not stupid.’

Don drained his glass.

‘Okay. Deal. I’ll wait for your call.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘Oh, by the way, how’re things going with the Mahoney murder? I liked your piece about him being a spy and all that. Good read.’

‘It’s ticking along,’ Rosie lied, keeping her face straight. She finished her drink. ‘I’d better head home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

Don got off the stool.

‘Me, too. But I’ll be up all night now trying to figure out who the “Deep Throat” contact is. You drive me nuts, Gilmour.’

They walked out of the swing doors and into the evening drizzle.

‘You’ll not be saying that when you’re the head honcho in the CID . . . By the way, I hope we can continue to have our wee drinks if you do ever get to the top of the heap.’

Don leaned down and kissed her cheek.

‘Any time, darlin’. I miss you when I don’t see you . . . . You stayed in Bosnia too long.’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said, glancing beyond him into the rain. ‘You’re probably right, there, pal. Too bloody long.’

She waved down a black cab and headed off.

*

As the taxi pulled into her car park Rosie thought she saw a figure on the steps of the entrance to the flats. She rubbed the steamed-up side window with the back of her hand and peered through the rain. Ever since the death threats last year she’d been twitchy whenever she came home in the dark. She peered again and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Adrian. She paid the driver and got out, a little puzzled, as it was unlike Adrian to turn up at her home unannounced. But she was glad to see him.

He stepped out of the doorway, soaked to the skin, rain running down his face and into the upturned collar of his light bomber jacket.

‘Sorry to come here like this, Rosie. I was calling you, but no answer.’

‘Really?’ Rosie pulled her mobile out of her jacket and noticed a missed call on the screen. ‘It must have been the noise in the pub. Sorry, Adrian. Don’t worry. What’s the matter?’

‘I saw the girl . . . The prostitute . . .’

Rosie gave him a bewildered look as she fished her keys out of her bag and pushed them into the lock.

‘What prostitute?’

‘The other girl, who was with the one who was killed by Tam Dunn’

Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘You saw her? How?’

‘I am walking in the city today and I am thinking if she is alive she must be somewhere. I was curious. I have talk to some of my friends from Bosnia and from Poland here – people I knew when I lived here – and one girl tells me that two girls she knows was working with her in one of the factories, packing vegetables. But she said they are also working in nights . . . with an escort agency. She says they haven’t been seen for four days. She gave me the names and where they live.’

‘You’re kidding! You went looking for her?’ Rosie opened the door. ‘Come on in. It’s cold. You’re soaked through.’

She was surprised he’d gone without consulting her. If it had been anyone else working on a story with her, they would have got a sharp rebuke, but she knew Adrian would have been discreet. If the girl was out there, he’d find her. In fact, given his background, he’d probably have a better chance of making a connection with the girl than with her.

As they climbed the stairs to her flat Adrian grabbed hold of Rosie’s arm.

‘Are you angry with me, Rosie? For going to find the girl without asking? I did try to call you, and I thought it best to make a look for her soon instead of leaving it too long. I hope is okay?’

She turned to face him, and for a moment they stood in silence, the rain on his face glistening in the glow from the hall light. Their breath steamed in the cold and she fought to control the rush of desire.

‘No, I’m not angry.’ She heard her voice, weak.

‘Good. I have a lot to tell you.’

Rosie turned away from him and put the key in the lock, pushing open the door. As they stepped into the hallway, she automatically put her hand on the wall to switch on the light, but Adrian slipped his hand over hers. For a moment they stood in the darkness, Rosie’s throat so tight she couldn’t trust herself to speak. He moved closer so her back was to the wall, and she could feel her heart pounding as he leaned down and kissed her face, the chill of his wet cheek against hers. Her body shuddered as she felt him against her, and she could hear Adrian’s breath quicken as he ran his hands gently across her breasts. He pushed her hair back as he took her face in his hands, and they kissed with the same hunger as they’d done when they found each other that sultry night in Sarajevo.