Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  This ebook edition first published in 2017 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2017 Anna Smith

  The moral right of Anna Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN 978-1-78429-484-7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design © 2017 blacksheep

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Anna Smith has been a journalist for over twenty years and is a former chief reporter for the Daily Record in Glasgow. She has covered wars across the world as well as major investigations and news stories from Dunblane to Kosovo to 9/11. Anna spends her time between Lanarkshire and Dingle in the west of Ireland, as well as in Spain to escape the British weather.

  The Rosie Gilmour thrillers

  The Dead Won’t Sleep

  To Tell the Truth

  Screams in the Dark

  Betrayed

  A Cold Killing

  Rough Cut

  Kill Me Twice

  For Tom and Marie Brown.

  Old friends, bookends, inspirational.

  ‘I didn’t write. I just wandered about.’

  Martha Gelhorn, novelist and journalist

  Near Lennoxtown, August 2000

  Tadi watched, frozen with fear, as the dark blue pickup truck screeched into the yard and came to a shuddering halt, sending up swirling clouds of dust. He knew what was coming. He’d been here before. He wiped the sweat off his brow with an oily rag and shoved it back into the pocket of his dungarees. Then he turned back to the engine he’d been cleaning and kept his head down. Across the yard, where the sweltering heat rose in waves, the old man he knew as Jake was buffing the bonnet of the red Jaguar til it gleamed in the sunlight. He looked back nervously, polishing faster. They both knew there would trouble, even before they heard the shouting from the boss man as he came storming out of the house, kicking over a bin and ranting as he strode towards the pickup. Tadi kept one eye on the scene as it unfolded.

  ‘Get the fucker out!’ big Rory O’Dwyer bellowed, his beer belly shaking as he roared, his Irish accent as strong as the day he left Limerick twenty years ago.

  Tadi watched as O’Dwyer’s son, Finn, and his brother, Timmy, dropped open the hatch on the back of the truck and climbed in. They roughly grabbed the limp body and heaved it over the side. It hit the dust like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘I hope you’ve not killed him yet.’ O’Dwyer glared at his sons, who shook their heads as they jumped back out.

  The body on the ground moaned and shifted in the dirt.

  ‘Get up, you cunt!’ The boss stood over him.

  ‘I . . . I c-can’t.’

  O’Dwyer glanced at his sons and jerked his head. They bent down and dragged the man to his feet. Tadi had to strain his eyes to recognise the skinny figure – it was Bo, and he’d been here for seven years. His face was bruised and bloodied, his eyes puffy slits. His shirt was half ripped off, and crimson welts raged across his puny chest. The brothers must have given him a good kicking when they found him. He knew how that worked. He’d been there too.

  ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ The boss took a step closer to Bo, whose legs were buckling as he tried to stand. ‘Going to the bizzies, were you? Going to report us to the fucking cops, you shitebag!’

  Bo started to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘You’ve fucking tried to get away twice, you prick. You’re fucking right you won’t do it again.’

  From where Tadi was standing, forty feet away, he could hear the sickening crack as O’Dwyer’s fist crunched into Bo’s face. Blood and teeth flew through the air, and he slumped to the ground. But Finn hauled him up, grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, so the boss could punch him again. Then they let him go and he collapsed and gurgled on the ground, curling into a defensive ball. The boss laid into him, the force of his kicks moving Bo’s skinny frame along the ground like a burst football. He lay there limp and still. O’Dwyer nodded to Finn, who climbed into the back of the pickup and brought out a petrol can. Tadi glanced at Jake, who had stopped polishing and stood open-mouthed. Two of the other workers who’d been cleaning the path and tending the garden also stopped and watched. Timmy, O’Dwyer’s youngest son, wore the same wide-eyed, crazed expression he always did, grinning like the psycho he was as he doused Bo in petrol. As the fumes filled the air, there was a slow, sickening realisation of what was going to happen. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the hysterical barking and growling of O’Dwyer’s Dobermans, straining behind their high wire fence, as though sensing the drama. Tadi looked away, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to see this.

  Suddenly O’Dwyer turned to the workers and shouted. ‘You fuckers take a good look at this . . . and learn!’

  He took a box of matches out of his trousers pocket and sparked one, holding it up like a torch.

  ‘You hear me?’ he snarled.

  Then he dropped the match onto Bo, and his body burst into flames. There was only one piercing scream, but by that time Bo’s entire body was engulfed in flames, black and red and sending plumes of smoke up to the sky, quickly filling the air with the smell of burning flesh. Tadi blinked and looked at the ground. He couldn’t watch this. He thought of his Ava and their little boy, Jetmir. Wherever they were being held, at least they weren’t here to witness this.

  ‘Tadi!’

  The boss man’s bark made him jump and he straighte
ned up.

  ‘C’mere.’ He curled a beckoning finger.

  Tadi walked towards him, hesitantly.

  ‘Get the digger and move this piece of shit from here. Then you and the lads bury him.’ He pointed to a field beyond the yard. ‘Go over there to where that clump of trees is and bury him there.’

  Tadi swallowed, looking from the boss to the brothers to the smoking pile of what was left of Bo. He swallowed the urge to throw up.

  ‘Bury him?’

  The boss man looked at him, incredulous, his lip curling to a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Well, unless you want to eat him, if you’re fucking hungry enough.’

  The brothers sniggered like the halfwits they were.

  ‘Now get moving, don’t be standing there like a stupid cunt.’ He shouted over Tadi’s shoulder so the others could hear. ‘This is what happens if you fuck with the O’Dwyers. So make sure all your dipshit mates understand that.’ He hawked and spat in the direction of Bo’s body. ‘Now get to work, or I’ll fucking barbecue the lot of you.’

  Tadi said nothing, but found himself nodding as he turned and walked slowly away, his legs like jelly. The others were standing next to old Jake, their faces a mask of fear and disbelief. Tadi couldn’t help but notice that Jake had wet his trousers and was snivelling, wiping his tears with the duster he’d used to polish the car.

  ‘They’re going to kill us all. I know it, Tadi.’ His voice trembled.

  The others shuffled from one foot to the other and looked to Tadi for an answer. He looked at their lean, unshaven faces, hollow cheeks from hunger, not knowing what to say. He barely knew these middle-aged men. All he’d learned from his three months here was that they were prisoners, just like him. They’d been homeless down-and-outs, living rough on the streets of Glasgow, when they’d been offered a place to live and a job by Finn O’Dwyer. They were alcoholics, they had no family they could remember, and were totally alone in the world. Tadi was nothing like them, yet he too was a prisoner here. He’d been a mechanic back in Kosovo, before the war made him flee to the UK as a refugee. His wife and baby son were here – out there somewhere. The O’Dwyers had taken them in, offered him work and board in return for fixing their machinery and vehicles. He’d accepted, because he had overstayed his time in UK. If the authorities had found him he would have been sent back to Kosovo, where the country was still in ruins from the war. But he didn’t know that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave. An image of Ava and Jetmir came to him, and his chest hurt. Where were they? Every day he didn’t see or hear from Ava, his heart broke. It was punishment, big O’Dwyer had told him, for his own attempt to escape. Three weeks on, and Tadi was still pissing blood from the beating Finn and Timmy dished out to him. He couldn’t afford to try to escape again. They would kill Ava and the child, they told him. He would live with what he had for the moment. He had no choice.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the men. ‘We must do this. We have to be strong. Bring some spades.’

  He walked away from them to the digger at the far side of the yard, climbed onto it, and started the engine. The O’Dwyers passed by without looking in his direction, and went into the big, long, low bungalow that was their home. Tadi could smell the food being cooked for the family lunch and his empty stomach groaned. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He drove the digger towards where Bo lay, his body still smoking in the dust. The men followed him, afraid not to. Then between them they picked up Bo’s body and placed it carefully into the dumper bucket. As they did, Bo’s head slumped to the side, his face an unrecognisable mass of burnt and singed flesh. Tadi looked at the others as he climbed onto the digger, and jerked his head, beckoning them to follow on foot. They did, and he drove on slowly with them walking briskly at his side. When they got to the clump of trees, the sun had disappeared behind some clouds and the place was suddenly darker.

  ‘I think he means here,’ he said. ‘Wait. I open up the ground first before you dig.’

  He lowered the digger and it clawed at the ground, dragging back moist, black earth. The engine roared as it scraped more and more earth, digging deeper. The men stood watching helplessly, waiting to be told what to do. Then Tadi stopped suddenly. He saw something white in the ground. He switched off the engine and jumped off the digger.

  ‘Give me a spade,’ Tadi said to one of the men.

  He stabbed the spade into the earth and there was a sharp sound as it hit something solid. He stepped closer, clearing the muck. Then he gasped and stood back. It was a long bone, like a thigh or a shin bone. He carefully scraped away more earth. A skull. Not a whole skull, but one that looked as though half had been caved in. He could feel his heart beat faster as he carefully dug around the bones. Then he saw it. A much smaller skull. Like that of a small baby. It couldn’t be. A baby? He stopped, his whole body trembling, then he turned to the men, who stood, their eyes wide in shock. Jake started to cry again, then the other two began blubbing.

  ‘Stop!’ Tadi snapped at them. ‘Stop it now! Don’t let them see you. Do you hear me?’ He threw away the spade and shook Jake by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me. We didn’t see this. Okay? We saw nothing.’ He looked at all three of them. ‘Come. We bury Bo.’ He threw down the spade and walked to the dumper bucket. ‘Is all we can do for him now.’

  Chapter One

  You could have heard a pin drop in the crowded courtroom as Thomas Boag got to his feet, handcuffed between two policemen. Rosie Gilmour studied him intently from the packed press benches, where reporters shuffled their feet impatiently, desperate to see him led downstairs to the cells so they could get out and hit the phones with their colour pieces for tomorrow’s front pages. In the flesh, Boag – stocky, balding, his face pallid – looked a harmless figure, the kind of individual you wouldn’t give a second glance to if he sat next to you on the train. There was nothing remarkable about him. That was the beauty of the deception. He didn’t look threatening. Rosie scribbled the word ‘invisible’ in her notebook. That’s what he is, she thought. Nobody suspected him, because nobody saw him. The big uniformed sergeant turned his head around and they exchanged a look somewhere between relief and satisfaction. They were old pals during the many years she’d covered trials in the High Court as a young reporter. She knew he was retiring in a few weeks, so he’d be glad to have this one to tell his grandchildren. It wasn’t over yet though. Boag had been captured, charged and remanded in custody in the past few days. In the next couple of hours he’d be on his way to HM Prison Barlinnie to await his trial. The hard men in the jail were already baying for his blood and word was out that he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the day, let alone his trial. Boag was a beast and he’d get what was coming to him. He had butchered a young gay man he’d picked up in a late-night bar, and the hunt for the killer had gripped the entire country. The twenty-year-old’s hacked-off body parts, strewn between beaches and woods, had been pieced together like a forensic jigsaw. Detectives were still hunting for one missing teenage boy, as well as the young female tenant from the flat below Boag’s, who hadn’t been seen for months.

  But the young student he’d butchered wasn’t just anybody. He was Jack Mulhearn. His father was Jonjo Mulhearn, the notorious Glasgow gangster, who’d been banged up for the past twelve years, but was due out any day. He’d been given the news of his only son’s brutal murder while in jail, and the media had watched in droves when he came out in handcuffs for the boy’s funeral. The fact that one of the hardest men in Glasgow’s son had been frequenting gay bars was a talking point, but someone had murdered Jonjo’s boy, and that person would pay. The tabloids loved the sensationalism of a murder story, but grisly details of this one were turning stomachs, and Rosie was glad that the end game was in sight. In the past few months, she’d interviewed the traumatised families of the missing woman, and the parents of the other young gay man who never came home from a night out and whose body had never been found. Jack Mulhearn’s mother had never spoken – and friends had said that both she and
Jonjo were completely broken.

  It was Rosie’s exclusive in the Post that led to Boag’s eventual arrest, and for that she’d be remembered as the journalist who helped put a suspected serial killer behind bars. But right now she felt an icy chill as Boag turned to the press benches and scanned the faces of the reporters, until he finally stopped at hers. It was only a fleeting moment, but his dead eyes met hers and she stared back, defiantly, as she held her breath. She thought she saw the slightest curl of his lips before he was prodded on the back by the other policeman and led downstairs to the cells.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie! You got the cold stare there, all right.’ Bob Burke, an old rival and friend from the Sun newspaper, gave her a nudge as the reporters squeezed their way out of the courtroom doors. ‘He obviously read your piece on him. Did you see the way he looked at you? You’d better not go home in the dark!’

  ‘Yeah. Gives me the bloody creeps,’ Rosie said. ‘I hope some of the lags cut his throat before the week’s out.’

  ‘Me too. Don’t know about you, but I might need a drink after that. Are you coming to the Ship?’

  ‘I’ll maybe call in, Bob. I’ve a couple of contacts to see here first.’

  Rosie stood in the corridor as the press pack filed out and made their way through the big swing doors and into the street. She took a long breath and massaged the back of her neck to take the tension out of her shoulders.

  ‘Do you want me to get that for you?’

  Rosie spun round, recognising the voice of the Strathclyde Police detective who was her close friend and informant.

  ‘Hey, Don. How you doing? You’ll be glad to see that bastard getting huckled downstairs then?’

  ‘You bet, pal. Beyond evil. You can quote me on that. Was it you he was staring at before they took him down? Weird as fuck that was.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie grinned. ‘This is actually my nervous smile.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’ He gestured to the lawyer beside him. ‘You know Brian McCann, don’t you?’