A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (27 page)

Rosie looked out of her hotel bedroom window onto Kensington Gardens in all its autumn glory, wishing she could go for a relaxing stroll through London’s pleasant streets. One of these days.

She reflected on the meeting earlier with the Serious Crime Squad detective superintendent in McGuire’s office – Hanlon on hand in case things got rough. The big cop was reasonable but kept pressing her for Adrian’s name. She didn’t know his real name, she lied, or even where he was. He changed his contact numbers all the time. The cop made a face that said he knew she was lying through her back teeth. If she said that in the witness box, he told her, it could get her a three stretch in Cornton Vale for perjury. He told her not to leave town, that she could be facing charges. Rosie promptly ignored his command and breathed a sigh of relief when the plane took off from Glasgow Airport to London.

McGuire’s brief was simple. Find Terence Rygate, get his picture and a reaction. Tell him he’s nicked, that it’s not up for discussion. Then bail out.

Kavanagh had told her that Terence Rygate was single, a fitness fanatic and gay. He drank in a popular gay bar close to his flat most evenings. Rosie was hoping they could melt into the background when they went there, but homophobic Matt was already uncomfortable.

There was a knock on her hotel bedroom door and when she opened it, Matt stood there smiling in faded jeans, a T-shirt and a leather bomber jacket.

‘You’re looking well,’ Rosie said. ‘I was a bit worried you’d turn up like one of the Village People.’

‘I thought about it, but where was I going to get an Indian headdress at this time of the day? Do I look gay, though?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. There’s no such thing as looking gay. Don’t be daft.’

‘Yeah, but do I look like I’m up for anything. I mean, I don’t want to have to fight anyone off.’

‘Stop being homophobic. Just act normal, because if you look all freaked out every time somebody gives you a second look you’ll blow our cover.’

‘As long as it’s the only thing I blow.’ Matt grinned.

‘C’mon. Let’s do this.’

*

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, where they downed a bottle of red wine between them, they headed in a taxi to the bar.

Inside, the place was jumping, every table packed, and at least three deep at the bar, cheering on a drag artist who was strutting across the stage in fishnet stockings and a leather dress . . . with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball. There were a few women in the bar, too, and Rosie assumed it was a mixed bag of people, not exclusively gay. They sat in a corner watching the bar and hoping for the best.

‘I’ll have a pint of lager,’ Matt said to the waiter.

Rosie noticed that Matt’s voice had dropped an octave, and that he avoided the waiter’s eyes.

‘Lighten up, you, for God’s sake.’ Rosie dug him with her elbow. ‘You don’t have to go all macho. Nobody’s going to pay the least bit of attention to you. Just keep your mind on your work and don’t worry about who’s looking at you.’

‘I’m fine,’ Matt said. ‘I’m cool. Honest. Just that there’s a guy at the bar and he’s been staring at me for ages. Should I smile back?’

‘Maybe best not to. There’s a lot of activity goes on in the toilets at these places and often it’s agreed with just a nod and a smile.’

‘Fuck me!’

‘I wouldn’t say that too loudly either.’ Rosie chuckled.

They sipped their drinks and relaxed.

‘So, is big Adrian gone?’

‘For the moment, yes.’ Rosie had told him earlier about the scene in the flat with Olenca. ‘I’ve left a couple of messages on his mobile, but no answer. He’ll be all right though. He’ll call when he can. Unless he’s already gone back to Sarajevo.’

Rosie said it as though it didn’t matter, but it niggled that he hadn’t got in touch. Of course, she understood why he had to make himself scarce, and knew she was being irrational. But because things had moved on between them, it clouded her judgement. She chastised herself for getting involved in the first place. It felt like a mistake, and it probably was. But she couldn’t help wanting to see him again.

‘Shit!’ Matt said.

‘What, you getting eyed up again?’

‘No.’ He leaned forward. ‘Don’t look now, but our man has just walked in.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘At the bar, four down and close to the stage. He’s ordering a drink now.’

Rosie strained her eyes to see the figure Matt was describing. He did look like the image Kavanagh had sent her this afternoon. But it was hard to tell from this distance.

‘I’m going up to the bar to get a drink.’ Rosie got to her feet. ‘I’ll stand next to him and see if I can strike up a conversation.’

‘He’ll not be in here to meet a woman.’

‘I know. But it’s quite a relaxed atmosphere. People are just at the bar having a chat and a night out. Maybe it’s not exclusively a gay bar.’

Rosie went up to the bar and squeezed in through the throng so that she was next to Rygate. She heard him talking to the barman. He ordered a large vodka and tonic.

‘There you go, Terence? How’s it going, mate?’

Game on. Rosie ordered herself a gin and tonic and another beer for Matt. She glanced at Rygate and smiled.

‘Good crowd in tonight.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, sipping his drink and looking away. ‘Always.’

She didn’t pursue it, but she was certain it was him. The barman handed over her change, and as she was putting it in her purse she heard the voice over her shoulder.

‘Terence, darling, how the hell are you?’

He turned and embraced the man who’d come up behind him.

It had to be Rygate. But she needed to be a hundred per cent certain. They’d have to hang around until he was going home, then follow him.

They watched the bar for nearly an hour as Rygate chatted animatedly to other punters, then he went to the toilet. After a few minutes he came back out, drank up and left. They followed and watched him get into a taxi, then followed him in another cab. Matt had already reccied the street, so he was pleased they were going in the right direction. Rosie asked the driver to let them out a few yards before the block of flats where Rygate lived, and they stood in a doorway while the other taxi drew up and he got out. He walked towards the flats.

‘It’s him,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s all we need to know. We’ll hit him in the morning as he’s coming out for work.’

‘Don’t you want to do something now so we’ve got it in the bag?’

‘No. He won’t open the door at this time of night unless he knows who it is. He’ll probably have a security chain and won’t even open enough for you to get a snap. Let’s leave it till the morning so we can get him out in the open.’

*

The following morning Rosie and Matt were outside the flats first thing, both of them a little hungover and regretting staying up in the hotel bar for too long. The main door of the flats had been opening all morning, with people going to work, but no Rygate. Then suddenly the door opened and he appeared.

‘I’ll go over first and make the approach. You just keep snapping,’ she said to Matt.

She crossed the road and went up to him.

‘Terence Rygate?’

There was a flash of recognition in his face, as though he were trying to work out where he’d seen her.

‘Sorry?’

‘Terence,’ Rosie said, ‘I spoke to you last night at the bar. Terence Rygate?’

‘Yes. But . . . what do you want?’ He looked puzzled.

‘My name is Rosie Gilmour, Mr Rygate. I’m a reporter from the
Post
newspaper in Scotland. I want to ask you about J B Solutions.’

She waited while his face changed colour.

‘What? Excuse me.’

He stepped out to pass her. Rosie blocked his path. He stopped, irritated, trying to pass her again, but she blocked him.

‘J B Solutions, Mr Rygate. They’re part of Damar Guns, international arms dealers. The people who were banned by the government but were able to continue dealing because they were given a fake licence to trade arms, granted by your department? By
you
, in fact? And you were, in turn, paid by Mr Thomas Dunn, the boss of J B Solutions?’

‘Look here.’ He glanced around him furtively. ‘Whoever you are, you’re quite obviously deranged. And, to be honest, I’m a bit troubled that you stalked me from last night. So please get out of my way or I will call the police right now.’

Rosie flashed her press card.

‘There’s my ID. I’m here for your reaction and comments to the story we are about to publish.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? I’m going to call the police.’ He took his mobile from his pocket.

‘So call them.’ Rosie stood back. ‘But you won’t. Because you’re up to your eyes in this. And now that Tam Dunn is in police custody, he’s singing like a canary, about everything he did . . . all about the money he squirrelled into your bank accounts offshore. It’s all there. We have it all, Terence . . . documents, the lot . . . so . . . this is not up for discussion.’

By now Matt was at her side, snapping away. Rygate stood and for a moment his eyes were filling with tears, his face crimson. He shook his head, backing away, then turned, put the key in his lock and scurried back inside.

‘Did you get plenty of pictures?’ Rosie asked Matt.

‘More than enough. Great stuff. Looks like he shat himself.’

‘Just a bit. He tried a bit of bluster, but it’s him all right, and he’s guilty as hell. Stuff him.’

‘So what now?’

‘I think we should GTF before anyone turns up.’

As Rosie said it, they both turned, startled by the sound of tyres screeching. For a moment it didn’t register. There was a black Jaguar speeding up the tight side street towards them. Then they realized it wasn’t stopping.

‘Shit! What the fuck?’ Matt’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘It’s coming for us.’

‘Oh, Christ, Matt. Run.’

‘Run? We can’t outrun a Jag.’

The car sped towards them, its main beam full on. Rosie glanced around for somewhere to jump into – a doorway or alley. But there was nothing. She spotted two huge industrial wheelie bins and a skip outside a building.

‘Quick. The bins, Matt.’

They both sprinted, the car on their heels. Rosie dived behind the bin, but not before she saw Matt getting clipped and hurled across the bonnet and onto the road. The Jag stopped for a second, then the wheels screeched as it sped off.

‘Matt! Christ! Matt!’ Rosie jumped out from behind the bins and dashed where he lay on the road. She bent down. He looked up, groggy, blood coming from a graze to his head.

‘Fuck me!’ Matt said. ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ He moved, groaning and grimacing. ‘Quick, help me up. We need to get the hell out of here. Is my camera all right?’

Rosie picked it up. There was a crack on the lens.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll check it later. They might come back. Hurry, Matt! Take my arm.’ Rosie crouched down and helped him to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’

‘Yeah, I think so. But my leg’s jumping with pain. Shit.’ He limped.

‘Let’s just get to the end of the street and we’ll get a cab.’

They walked as fast as they could, blood dripping from Matt’s head.

‘Is that okay?’

‘Yeah. Flesh wound.’ He wiped it with his sleeve. ‘I hope it leaves a scar, though, so I can brag about it.’

Rosie smiled.

‘You’re nuts.’

‘I must be – working with you.’

Rosie spotted a taxi and waved it down.

She helped Matt into the back seat.

‘What’s going on? I don’t want no trouble,’ The driver said.

‘It’s okay,’ Rosie said. ‘He just slipped off the kerb. Can you take us to the Tara Hotel in Kensington.’

The driver pushed his car into gear and drove off, keeping a suspicious eye on his rear-view mirror.

Rosie sat in front of her computer screen, re-reading and tweaking the main piece for tomorrow’s splash and spread. It was written as carefully as possible, given that they were hanging a Ministry of Defence official out to dry, as well as suggesting that a government minister was, at the very least, reckless, for not researching the company where he’d once been a non-executive director. At an earlier meeting in McGuire’s office with Hanlon and the boss of the legal firm playing devil’s advocate, they’d pointed out that the minister’s links to the company had been a number of years ago. They suggested the story wouldn’t lose impact by dropping the minister and Rygate out of it. They already had a fantastic exposé of J B Solutions’ illegal gunrunning and the fact that an investigation was going on at government level. They didn’t need to name names. But if we do that, Rosie had protested to them, then we leave it open for somebody else to dig deeper. Then they would get the claim of unmasking Rygate and the minister. We have to name names, she told them. Her mobile rang. It was Adrian, and her stomach did a little unexpected leap.

‘Rosie, I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your calls.’

‘It’s okay,’ Rosie said, even though deep down she didn’t mean it.

‘Look, I have to go. It’s not safe for me here. Can you meet me?’

‘Yes. When are you going?’

‘Now. Well. In a couple of hours. I have to.’

Rosie looked at the time on her computer screen. She knew that as soon as she sent her piece she’d have to be available for queries from the lawyer as well as the editor and subs. It was going to be a long night. She checked all the various parts of the stories once more, then sent it to McGuire.

‘Where are you?’

‘At Central Station. I’m taking the train to London, then to France and will drive from there.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Rosie grabbed her bag and jacket and called McGuire as she was getting out of the lift to the car park, telling him she had to go out for half an hour, but the copy was on his desk.

*

In Central Station Adrian stood at the coffee bar smoking a cigarette and drinking from a paper cup. He raised his chin a little when he saw her walking across the busy concourse, then put his cup down and came to greet Rosie, flinging his arms around her. He kissed her on the lips, fleeting at first, then a little longer.

‘Sorry, Rosie. It was not safe for me to be around the city. I think people will be looking for me.’

‘No change there, then.’ Rosie hugged him again, then stood back.

She was suddenly stuck for words. They’d come a long way since their first encounter in a café years ago. She swallowed, wondering if the reality was that she might never see him again, or if she did, how different things would be. They couldn’t keep this kind of relationship up, because it had moved on from what it had been, yet she wasn’t sure there was anything they could really build on.

‘I kind of don’t know what to say to you, Adrian,’ she said. ‘I’ll miss you . . . I . . . I . . .’ What she wanted to say was that she had feelings for him but didn’t know what to say or do about them in case he didn’t feel the same way. The words wouldn’t come. She felt disarmed and stood looking into his eyes.

Adrian nodded.

‘I’ll miss you, too,’ he replied.

There was an awkward silence, and Rosie looked at the ground. Suddenly, to her surprise, she was choked.

‘Sometimes I wish it could be more than this,’ she ventured, her eyes flicking at Adrian and then away. ‘What I’m trying to say, Adrian, though I’m not saying it very well, is that I’ve so loved being with you these past couple of weeks, that I wish . . . I mean, I know it’s impossible because of how we live . . . But I wish we could . . . well . . . be more like that.’

Adrian gently touched her face and half smiled.

‘Is the same for me.’ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘But . . . is not easy . . . And I think . . . is hard for a woman like you to stop your life and be with somebody. I can see that, Rosie. I . . . I respect you for that. Is very important. You . . . you are very important to me. But also . . . I’m not good at these things . . . I don’t know sometimes where my head is . . . so much of me is in my past.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I want . . . Maybe we can see each other again . . . Like in Sarajevo. I see you then and you are different, away from all this . . . I think you were happy there. No?’

‘Yes, I was, Adrian. Really happy. But I know myself. And after a while I’d be wanting this again.’ She gestured with her hands. ‘All this crazy shit I do.’

‘That is good. It is you. I like that. You are my friend and I love you . . . all of the things I see about you.’

Rosie swallowed. He had mentioned the ‘love’ word. Not commitment and love like TJ, just the love of a friend. Yet they’d been more than that. She couldn’t quite get her head around it. But she had a feeling this wasn’t over.

She looked at her watch.

‘I need to get back, Adrian. The editor is waiting for me. We have a big hit in the paper tomorrow, so I have to see it through tonight.’

Adrian stepped forward and took her in his arms. He kissed her on the lips for a long time and she could feel him holding her tight against his body. Then he released her.

‘I must go. I will call you tomorrow,’ Rosie said, her eyes searching his face.

He nodded. Kissed her one more time, ran his hand through her hair.

‘Goodbye, Rosie. I will see you. Be careful.’ His lips brushed her cheek again, then he turned and left. She watched him as he made his way across the concourse to the platform for the London train, hoping he would look back, because if he did maybe it would mean something more, that he wanted more, that he felt deeply. She willed him to look back. But he didn’t.

Her mobile rang and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket. It was McGuire.

‘Where are you, Rosie?’

‘On my way back.’

‘Hurry up.’

*

‘You’ve to go straight through,’ the night news editor said, peering over his pince-nez reading glasses as Rosie stepped on to the almost deserted editorial floor.

The day-shift reporters had all gone home and there were only a couple of night-shifters working quietly at their desk. Rosie glanced at the back bench, where the editors were working on their screens, and she squinted to see if she could catch a glimpse of anything that looked like her story. There was nothing. On screen was a picture of some bimbo model and a kiss-and-tell football story. They must be saving her story for the final edition, which they often did with a major exclusive. That way it outwits the opposition, who aren’t able to steal it from the front page and claim it as their own in the morning. The door was open in McGuire’s office and she went straight in.

Hanlon was sitting at the conference table, and next to him was the boss of the legal firm. Fair enough, she thought. It was a big story; it needed a lot of attention. But there were glum faces all round, particularly from McGuire.

‘Sit down, Rosie.’

‘You’re all right,’ she said, glancing around at everyone. ‘Is there a problem? Copy okay?’

‘Copy’s great, Gilmour.’

‘So what’s happening?’

‘We’ve had a call from Westminster. About the government minister.’

Rosie’s stomach sank a little. She knew what was coming. She looked at the managing editor, who was sitting next to the
Post
’s managing director.

‘And?’

‘Sit down,’ McGuire said again, this time a little more sternly.

Rosie sat next to Hanlon and he gave her a troubled look. She’d been here before.

‘But first of all I’ve got something to tell you. That Rygate – the guy you fronted up in London. The corrupt civil servant who faked the licence?’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s been found dead in his flat.’

‘Jesus. When?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘I only saw him this morning.’

‘Well. Might have been not long after that.’

‘What happened. Suicide?’

‘Christ knows. Trussed up like a turkey and zipped into a hold-all.’

‘Christ almighty! What . . . like Harry Houdini?’ Rosie almost smiled.

‘Well, not quite. Harry Houdini always managed to get out. This guy didn’t.’

‘Well he certainly didn’t zip himself inside a fucking hold-all, Mick. I mean, who the Christ does that?’

‘Well, the cops are saying it might be one of these sexual asphyxiation things. A fetish.’

‘A fetish? Where you zip yourself into a hold-all and there’s nobody around to get you back out? Absolute crap. First, you couldn’t actually zip yourself into the hold-all, not completely anyway, and secondly, you just wouldn’t even if you could – no matter how perverse your sexual fantasies were. But hey, it makes for a right good front page.’ She glanced around the room. ‘The spooks have bumped this guy off. No
doubt
about it. This story gets better every minute.’

‘It does. And you need to get it done pronto.’ He paused. ‘But that’s not all.’ McGuire fiddled with his tie then looked at Hanlon.

‘This stuff about the minister and his involvement. It was years ago, Rosie, and though we’ve nailed it down, he’s apparently claiming that the company at the time of his involvement was completely unblemished. It was totally legit. We had a call from Westminster an hour ago.’

This time Rosie did laugh.

‘Now there’s a surprise. Well, I hope you’ve told them to take a flying fuck to themselves.’

Silence.

‘Mick. You have, haven’t you?’

The managing editor piped in.

‘It’s not as simple as that, Rosie.’

‘Yes it is,’ Rosie snapped back.

‘It’s not,’ the managing director said.

Rosie looked from Hanlon to the MD and then to McGuire.

‘Mick, it is as simple as that. And I’ll tell you why. It’s okay with Westminster and the cops and the Special Branch if we’re exposing the gangsters and helping stick the guys behind this in jail. In fact, the cops have even turned a blind eye to bodies lying all over Glasgow so they can nail these bastards. But when it comes to the shady bastard at the top, they think that’s going a bit too far. Come on! For Christ’s sake, guys! This is staring you in the bloody face. We have to be able to link the minister. He’s part of the story. Can’t you see that the government wants to cover up the shit trail because it leads right to them? They’re sacrificing everyone to save their own skin. Tom Mahoney . . . Gerard Hawkins – murdered in his bed. Now Harry Houdini in a fucking hold-all? But when it gets too close to them
we
have to back off? Tell them to fuck right off, Mick. You have to.’

‘They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest, Rosie,’ the managing editor said. ‘For withholding evidence about the deaths in the Polish girl’s apartment. And for not naming your contact.’

‘They can piss off with that,’ Rosie blazed. ‘When did the bastards do that?’

‘Around the same time I got the phone call from Westminster,’ Mick said, disconsolate.

Rosie stood up.

‘Shit! And we’re all just going to wet our pants because of that? Are you kidding me?’

‘They’ll arrest you, Rosie, and you’ll go to jail. If you lie in court you’ll commit perjury,’ the MD said.

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘How do you know?’ asked the managing editor.

‘Well, if it does, we’ll cross that bridge when it comes.’ She looked at the editor, whose face was flushed. ‘Mick, we need to tell this story.
All
of it. And then we worry about what happens. That’s what we do. Christ, guys!’ She turned to the others. ‘That’s why we’re here at this time of night working, that’s why we take the risks. If we don’t fight back now we can shut up shop and forget it. We can’t bow down. If we let them get away with this, next thing is we’ll end up running every bloody story past them for their approval. Christ, guys!’

Silence. Rosie looked at all of them.

‘We can leave the minister out,’ the managing editor said. ‘The story will still have impact.’

‘But it’s not the whole truth.’ Rosie heard her voice go up an octave.

Silence. She took a deep breath. She needed to get out of here now, before she said any more. Maybe they were right, maybe she would see sense in the morning.

She looked each one of them squarely in the eye.

‘Okay. Do what you like. I’ll phone in copy with a few paragraphs about Houdini in the zipped-up hold-all. You guys can just sit here and try to find each other’s balls. I’m out of here.’

She strode off and downstairs, out of the revolving door, her eyes filled with tears. When she got home and closed the door of her flat, she poured herself a glass of wine, lit a cigarette then went out onto the balcony and stood staring across the city. Then she dialled the copy-takers at the
Post
and began relaying the story off the top of her head about Ryegate in the hold-all. It would be the new nose to the front page – whatever the watered-down story that followed it would be.

She stood for a while until the evening chill forced her off the balcony, then sat staring at the television for the best part of an hour, her mind racing through all the events of the last forty-eight hours. She drained her glass and was about to pour a refill when her mobile rang. It was McGuire.

‘Gilmour. Where are you?’

‘Well, I’m not in the pokey. Not yet anyway.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In my flat. I’ve sent the copy over. What’s the problem?’ She was deadpan.

‘Right. Listen. Get yourself out of there tonight and booked into a hotel, and in the morning make yourself scarce for a couple of days.’

‘Why?

‘Because all sorts of shit is about to hit the fan when the story comes out tomorrow. The
full
story. Not the abridged pish they were trying to sell me in my office an hour ago.’

‘Christ, Mick!’ Rosie felt her face smiling. ‘You’re really using everything?’

‘It’s my shout. I’m the editor. Fuck Westminster and these bastards who think they can call the shots if it gets too hot for them.’

‘I do love you, Mick. You know that.’