A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (28 page)
Read A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) Online
Authors: Anna Smith
‘Aye. Fine. There goes my fucking knighthood, and maybe even my job.’
‘That won’t happen, Mick. You’ll get huge kudos from it. Everyone will follow our story.’
‘Listen, Rosie. You’ll be getting lifted by the cops in the morning, so get the fuck out of there until we come to some kind of agreement with them about what they’re going to do.’
‘Okay. Will do.’
Rosie put down the glass, phoned a taxi and was out of the flat in five minutes.
Rosie stood in the shower, the cold water taking her breath away. It had been a restless night. Her fevered dreams were a collection of everything that had happened – from the beatings in the warehouse, to the body flying through the air and crashing on to the concrete at Olenca’s flat. She woke up unable to breathe, panicking that she was suffocating inside a zipped-up hold-all. Jesus! That brought a new dimension to her nightmares. Her mobile rang as she came out of the bathroom and she saw Ruby’s number. She’d told her last night that she was leaving early and wanted to say goodbye. Rosie asked her to come to the car park of One Devonshire Gardens, the discreet boutique hotel where she was holed up in case the cops came to her flat to arrest her.
She saw Ruby standing by the car as she came out of the hotel door into the morning sunshine. Rosie peered into the car. Roddy Thompson sat in the driver’s seat. He nodded to her. Judy was in the back and Rosie waved to her, but she didn’t really register her, just stared out of the side window.
‘Hello, Ruby.’ Rosie came forward and hugged her. ‘Great to see you. All set?’
‘Yep.’ Even in her casual tracksuit bottoms and a baggy sweatshirt, Ruby still looked stunning – apart from a few bruises. ‘Can’t wait to get out of here. Christ knows when or if I’ll ever come back. New life for me now, Rosie.’
‘How’s Judy?’
‘She’s good. She might look like she’s miles away, and she still is a lot of the time, but we’re working on it. I’ve got a really good therapist lined up in France. I’m gradually getting her back. I always knew she was in there. Maybe I won’t get the same person back, but Christ – I’m not the same person. Judy didn’t even get a chance to grow up. We have a lot of years to make up.’
‘I’m so glad for you. It’s taken a lot, Ruby, for you to get this far.’
‘Yeah.’ She sighed. ‘I saw your story this morning. Blew me away. Nearly choked on my coffee.’
Rosie smiled.
‘There’s a warrant out for my arrest. They want me to give up Adrian. But I can’t do that.’
‘Good on you. They’re all fucking gangsters – cops, politicians . . . all of them. It’s only the likes of us who gets shat upon from a great height. No wonder so many kids turn out the way they do. Angry and hitting back.’
Rosie nodded.
‘So what will you do now?’
‘Just live my life in France. I’ve made enough money. I’ve siphoned off plenty from those thieving, robbing bastards who did my mother in. I made them pay, all right, and I’ll be fine. I gave my statement to the cops about what I saw that night, so Tam Dunn will get jailed for life. Fuck him.’
They stood in silence for a long moment, then Rosie looked Ruby in the eye.
‘Did the cops question you about the fire in the house in Spain and in Ayrshire at Malky Cameron’s house?’
‘Of course they did. They’re not that thick.’
‘And what did you tell them?’
‘I told them not to be so stupid. That I wasn’t daft enough to even think about bumping them off.’ She turned to the car. ‘Listen, I need to get moving.’
Rosie couldn’t resist it.
‘But you did, Ruby. You did kill those two bastards.’
Ruby gave her a long, hard look, then shrugged her shoulders.
‘And your point is?’
She turned and walked towards the car. Rosie stood watching as she got in, turned to Judy and said something that made Judy wave a hand. Then they were off, and Rosie watched as they drove out of the car park and onto the road.
Rosie’s phone rang. It was McGuire.
‘I hope you’re out of the way, Gilmour.’
‘Yeah. I was in One Devonshire last night, and I’m going down to Loch Lomond today. Stay somewhere smart.’
‘Well, don’t mind my fucking expenses.’
‘Don’t worry, Mick, I won’t.’
‘And Rosie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Great paper today. We stuffed every bastard. But there’s a shitload of trouble coming our way. The cops are looking for you.’
‘Tell them I’ve gone AWOL. I’ve had a breakdown or something.’
She hung up, a satisfied smile spread across her face as she walked back into the hotel.
It’s a strange old life being a writer – euphoric and lonely in equal measure – and always rewarding.
I count my blessings every day. Especially having so many people around me – family and true friends who are always there in some form. So this is a chance to say thanks to them.
To my sister Sadie, my rock, and without her I’m not sure how I’d function; my brothers Des, Hugh and Arthur, and all their children and grandchildren, who spell out the bright future.
Thanks to my niece Kat Campbell – my PR guru – and Matthew Costello along with Paul Smith for the website wizardry and great banter. And Christopher Costello who makes me laugh.
A Cold Killing
involved a bit of research into the Eastern Europe of old, and for that I thank Eve Rosenhaft, Professor of German Historical Studies at the University of Liverpool.
Thanks also to Andrew Gumley, Professor of Psychological Therapy at Glasgow University, for his advice on the effects of childhood emotional trauma. Thanks also to Dr Iain Campbell, Clinical Psychologist.
And thanks to the great friends who have stayed the course. Here are a few of them who have been with me through the best and worst of times.
Eileen O’Rourke, Liz Dorman, Anne Sharpe, Annmarie Newall, Helen and Irene Timmons, Sarah Hendrie and Alice Cowan.
All the Motherwell Smiths – and the Timmonses and the McGoldricks.
Mags, Annie, Mary, Phil, Helen, Barbara, Donna, Jan, Louise, Si, Lynn, Annie, Maureen, Keith, Mark, and Thomas.
In Dingle, thanks to Mary, Paud, Siobhan, Martin, Cristin, and Sean Brendain.
On the Costa del Sol, thanks to Lisa, Lillias, Nat, Mara, Yvonne, Wendy, Sally G, Sarah, Fran, Sally, Jean and Dave, Billy and Davina.
And I’m very grateful to all my Facebook friends and random readers who get in touch. All of this encourages and enriches me as a writer, and always surprises me.
A huge thanks to Jane Wood, my publisher at Quercus who inspires me every time we meet, and to my brilliant editor Katie Gordon for all her hard work, Lauren Woosey in publicity, and all the Quercus team.
And also my agent Euan Thorneycroft, and hopefully a great future.
Tracy Eadie’s decomposed body washes up on a beach near Glasgow. Junkie. Prostitute. Fourteen years old.
When Rosie Gilmour receives evidence that the highest levels of the establishment are connected to the murder, only she can fight for justice – but at what cost?
A three-year-old girl is snatched from a beach. Nobody heard a sound. Nobody saw a thing.
A child’s life is at stake, but as Rosie hones in on the truth, she realises the penalty for missing this particular deadline could be her own demise.
A body is discovered in a Glasgow canal – a refugee, missing limbs and vital organs. It’s the first of many.
Is this the work of a vigilante group, or is Rosie about to discover something much more sinister?
When barmaid Wendy Graham goes missing, Rosie Gilmour is tasked with uncovering the truth. But when the investigation leads her into the path of Glasgow’s vicious sectarian gangs, has Rosie finally met her match?
Quercus
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