Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.’

  ‘Oh, Jonjo. I miss him so much. When will the pain stop? I’m so sad . . . all the time.’

  Mary wept on his shoulder and he held her, trying with every fibre not to break down himself. He should have been here when all this happened. He hated himself for that.

  ‘We’ll be all right, darlin’,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you. I’ll never leave you again.’

  Chapter Six

  Rosie watched the missing couple story unfold with the same sense of dread as the rest of the country. Two days had passed since their car had been recovered from the loch. Police were saying it had been in the water at least one day. From her desk on the editorial floor, she kept an eye on the twenty-four-hour news channels on the three televisions mounted on the pillars. Each of them led with the same story. Declan, the talented young reporter who sat opposite her, had been sent to the hurriedly convened press conference at Strathclyde Police HQ, where the mother of missing student Martin Black sat alongside the father of his girlfriend Katie. They read out prepared statements, their faces etched with anxiety and disbelief. They looked down the camera lens and appealed for their children to get in touch. Rosie had seen those faces so many times over the years, and seldom did the story end in anything but heartbreak.

  The DCI in charge of the case took over. The questions were routine, and Rosie watched as the reporters took notes. But the elephant in the room was the fact that a serial killer was out there somewhere. Who would be the first to bring it up? Rosie was glad when it was Declan’s voice she heard.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, I fully understand that this is a difficult question, but can I ask if there is growing concern for the couple’s safety, given that there is a serial killer at large?’

  Declan’s words hung in the air, and Rosie watched as a muscle twitched in the DCI’s jaw. Katie’s mother’s head went down and her hand went to her mouth. There was the sound of shuffling feet among the press corps who kept their heads in their notebooks, pens at the ready. The silence seemed to go on for ever. Rosie glanced at McGuire who had come across from the back bench to watch the press conference. She shrugged.

  ‘Well done, Dec, for having the balls to ask,’ she said, looking at the screen. ‘It’s the question on everyone’s lips. But at least Declan asked it.’

  ‘Good lad, that,’ the editor said, arms folded as he continued to watch.

  The DCI cleared his throat, and they could see a flush rising above his shirt collar.

  ‘Look. This is a difficult time for the family. At the moment, we are investigating a young couple who have gone missing in unexplained circumstances. We are hoping that by the family making this appeal, people will come forward who may have seen Martin and Katie while they’ve been camping. Any information, even if you think it’s insignificant, please get in touch.’ He glared at Declan. ‘However, I don’t think it helps to speculate or sensationalise matters in order to get a newspaper headline.’ He paused, scanning across the rows of reporters, but by the look on his face, he knew he wasn’t going to get away with just fobbing this off. ‘Look,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘At this stage, this is a missing person case. Obviously there is grave concern that their car has been found where it was, and as the time goes on, we . . . well, there is growing concern. But it isn’t helpful to start jumping to any conclusions, and we will certainly not be doing that.’ He gathered up his papers. The press conference was over. ‘Now, if there are no more questions, please excuse us.’

  Rosie and McGuire walked away from the news desk.

  ‘I’ll be very surprised if this couple don’t turn up dead,’ the editor said.

  ‘Me too. And I think the cops are probably thinking the same thing.’

  ‘My morbid instinct tells me Boag will be at the end of this.’

  Rosie half smiled.

  ‘We don’t even have any bodies yet, Mick.’

  ‘We soon will have. Remember you heard it here first.’

  Rosie looked at him, put her hand up. ‘You’re not thinking about throwing that out there?’

  ‘No. But you can guarantee the Sun will take a flyer. And they’ll only be saying what everyone is thinking.’

  ‘That’s up to them. But what about the families of the couple? They’re probably thinking the worst – but the last thing they’ll want is to see it all over the papers.’

  ‘Well, our boy Declan asked the question, so it will be reported everywhere. But we’ll do it with our usual measured restraint.’ McGuire smiled wryly.

  Rosie looked at her watch. ‘Okay. I’m off to meet my forensic shrink. See if he can give us an insight into Boag’s twisted mind. But to be honest, the big story right now is this missing couple. People don’t just vanish like that.’

  ‘Of course not. But you just don’t want to be the bastard who says it in the paper. Don’t worry, Gilmour. We’ll play it straight from the press conference, bringing in Declan’s question and all the rest of the stuff we’ve got. But ask your man about it, and see what he says.’

  ‘Okay.’ She shoved her notebook into her bag and headed for the stairs.

  *

  Rosie wasn’t sure what to expect at her meeting with criminal psychologist, Dr Donald McLaren. She’d envisaged an office stacked with wall-to-wall books, and a desk groaning under the weight of folders bulging with case histories. So she was surprised when he had arranged to meet her in an old bar in Partick, in Glasgow’s West End. He liked to escape from the office when he could, he’d told her. She was glad, though, as she always preferred the more relaxed atmosphere of a pub to an office, even if she wasn’t drinking. She pushed open the swing doors of the Three Judges, and stepped inside. It was quiet, apart from a couple of guys in working clothes downing pints at the bar, and four old men playing dominoes at one of the tables in the far corner. The barman shot Rosie an enquiring look. It may have been the kind of bar some women stopped in for a gin in the afternoons, but they didn’t look like her. The Three Judges was a rough-around-the-edges man’s pub, and one of the few bars that still sold quarter-gill measures, so the serious drinkers came here. Rosie flicked a glance around the room, and recognised McLaren from library photographs. He was sitting at one of the tables close to the back, reading a copy of the Post, with a glass of what looked like whisky on the table. As she walked across, he looked up and smiled.

  ‘Good to see you’re a man who likes a tabloid read.’ Rosie stretched out her hand. ‘Rosie Gilmour.’

  ‘Well, who else would you be?’ His eyes twinkled in his round, ruddy face. ‘It’s not as though they get a lot of fine-looking young women in here.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’ Rosie smiled at him. ‘Well, it’ll get you a drink, Dr McLaren. Good to meet you. Another?’ She nodded in the direction of his glass.

  ‘Call me Donald. Never mind all that doctor stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a Glenfiddich, please. I’ve escaped for the rest of the day, so I’m clear to have a couple of drinks. And to be honest, after listening to the questions of a bunch of psychology students all morning, I really need them.’

  Rosie went to the bar and ordered another whisky for him and a soda water and lime for herself. She instantly liked this guy, who had a warm smile and an even warmer handshake. In his crumpled check shirt and tie, it was clear that sartorial elegance was not high on his agenda. She’d never met an academic yet who wore a sharp suit. She returned with the drinks.

  ‘So, do you really read the Post? I’d have had you down as a Herald man, or even the Independent.’ Rosie sat down.

  ‘No. I grew up with the Post. My father worked in the shipyards, and he would come home in the evening with the paper in his jacket pocket, so that’s where I got all my early reading. I take the view that if you want to know what’s going on in the world then the tabloids are the best – short and to the point. I can’t be arsed with all that overwriting that goes on in a lot of the bro
adsheets.’

  ‘Here’s looking at you.’ Rosie raised her glass to her lips and sipped. ‘A man after my own heart.’

  ‘So. Let’s get down to business, because I know what you reporters are like, and I know you’ll be wanting to get back to the office. A lot of big stories on the go this week. Escaped killers and now a missing couple. The plot thickens, eh?’ He swirled his glass and swallowed a mouthful.

  ‘It does. Which brings me to my first question. Out of interest more than anything, Donald: do you think this couple are alive?’

  He sat back, sighed, and shook his head slowly.

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Well. No, I don’t actually. It sends a shiver down the spine that their car was found in that loch. Do you think they’ve been murdered?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not looking good, put it that way. And I take it you reporters are choking to bring in Boag to the equation? I saw the press conference earlier.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the television mounted on the wall above the bar.

  ‘I suppose it’s kind of staring everyone in the face – even though we don’t have any bodies. So what do you think?’

  He took a moment, lifted the packet of Marlboro Lights and offered one to Rosie. She declined and he put one between his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply, and she watched the trail of smoke from his nostrils.

  ‘It’s hard to say. It’s possible that Boag has been living rough since he escaped and came across this couple and their car by chance. But you have to ask why he would kill them. If it was robbery, then why didn’t he steal the car and get away as fast as he could out of this area? Every cop in Scotland is looking for him, so if he was living rough, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. And what would he do with the bodies? Why dump the car and not the bodies?’

  ‘So you don’t think Boag has anything to do with their disappearance.’

  ‘I don’t think bumping off a random couple is his bag. The murder he committed was a homosexual young man – and one still missing so far as we know. We still can’t be sure how the young bloke he killed came to be in his company. Only he knows that. Though from your piece in the paper, we know that Boag did cruise gay bars. But nobody seemed to see him leaving with anyone. Maybe they just didn’t notice. I don’t think people pay too much attention to what’s going on in these places.’

  ‘Do you think he’s gay? Or one of these freak shows who wants to kill gay men?’

  ‘Could be a bit of both. Maybe he’s in denial or something. But then, what about the missing tenant below his flat? Do you have any more on her? She seems to have slipped off the radar. Nothing in the papers of late. If you ask me, I’m pretty sure he’s killed her.’

  ‘Why would he kill her? All of the information is that he was a loner who didn’t talk to anyone in the building.’

  ‘Maybe she heard something, saw something – you know, when he was dismembering the lad in his house. Who knows? It’s strange she’s disappeared, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we find bits of her appearing down the line.’

  Rosie wrote down his answers. This would make for a good sidebar piece for tomorrow.

  ‘How do you think the police manhunt is going? Are they doing the right things? Are you involved with them?’

  He smiled and blew out smoke.

  ‘Ah, the intrepid Rosie Gilmour. On the hunt for an exclusive. I’m sure the police are using all their resources.’ He leaned forward. ‘Including me – but I’m not sure they’re going about things the right way. Let me put it this way, and you can use a flavour of what I’m about to say – but for Christ’s sake it didn’t come from me.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘For me, Boag is clever as well as warped. He’s planned this over the years, including the worst scenario – that he might get caught. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t got bank accounts, credit cards and stuff in false names.’

  ‘Really? You mean he planned for this even before he started killing?’

  ‘We really have no idea when his killing spree started. All we know is the body parts that have turned up so far match one individual. But he could have been doing this for years. How many gay men have disappeared in the last five years? Think about it. People go missing all the time, and police don’t act. But it’s time the police did start to think about this. They need to look back, trawl through the archives.’ He paused. ‘Which is all the more difficult, because they will be shitting themselves every day he’s out there, in case he’s already stalking his next victim. He’ll kill again, Rosie. He’s cunning as well as evil. But in answer to your question, I don’t think he’s got anything to do with the disappearance of that couple, so you might want to tell your editor that. Of course, I could be wrong.’

  ‘I will. But I want to be able to use some of the things you tell me. For example, can I use the line that he’ll kill again and that police should trawl back through the records of any missing gay men?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve no problem with that.’

  ‘And what about him planning ahead, the fake bank accounts, etc.?’

  ‘Well maybe as I said, just a hint of it. Because I know the police are looking at that, so leave it for a couple of days. But he also might have taken a storage place, you know, like a lock-up?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s what guys like him do. He’s not just a nutter who picked up another man at a club and had a row. This is a proper maniac. He kills either because he likes killing, or he’s on a mission; perhaps there is some religious attachment to it, or some deep-rooted childhood situation that has helped create the monster he is.’

  They sat for a long moment as Rosie tried to picture Boag out there, planning, waiting. It gave her the creeps.

  ‘By the way, you’d want to watch your own back, Rosie.’

  Her stomach flipped over.

  ‘I know. The editor wants to get me some protection. It does worry me. Boag gave me such a chilling look when they were taking him to the cells. I’m looking over my shoulder, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘And it’s keeping you awake at night. I can see that from the shadows under your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, cheers for that.’

  ‘It’s quite attractive actually, gives you character. But I’ve read a bit about you, Rosie. I’ve followed some of your stories. You sail a bit close to the wind, do you not?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Yeah. Sometimes, I suppose. It just happens. I don’t plan it that way.’

  ‘Well, just be careful. You should get some protection until this bastard is caught.’

  ‘Now you are making me nervous.’

  He downed his drink and sniffed, then looked at his watch.

  ‘Okay. I’ve got to move, if that’s all right. I’m meeting a mate for dinner. And I’m taking a couple of weeks’ holiday from tomorrow – going to the South of France to see some old mates.’

  ‘Fine. You’ve been more than helpful, Donald. I really appreciate it. Thanks.’

  He stood up and shook her hand, held onto it a little longer than was necessary and looked in her eyes.

  ‘Take care of yourself. You can buy me a curry some time, if you ever want a chat about things in general. Life’s hard sometimes. Jobs like yours – you walk in and out, you move on. But not always, I’d say. Not in your case, I can see that.’

  Rosie looked at him, a little surprised that he could apparently see into her head.

  She smiled.

  ‘Thanks. I’d love a curry with you some time. We can analyse the world over a bottle of good wine.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ He winked as he turned and left.

  Rosie watched as the small round figure made his way to the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Rosie stared in the bathroom mirror at the tired, pale blue eyes looking back at her. McLaren was right. The dark smudges under her eyes had grown worse over the past few months. She needed a holiday. It had been a long haul of recent stories and investigatio
ns – one or two of them full-on, leaving her with sleepless nights and bruised ribs. Now this. There was a serial killer on the loose, and she might be next on his list. She told herself that was a ridiculous notion, but her vivid imagination created all sorts of scenarios, particularly when she was in bed at night – alone, as she had been last night, after cancelling her dinner with TJ. Her phone conversation with him played out again in her mind, when she’d told him about the stories she was working on.

  ‘I want to have an early night, TJ. I need to get my head around all this. I need to straighten it out in my mind, because I’m beginning to freak a little.’

  ‘You need to listen to your editor, Rosie, and get some protection.’

  ‘I just can’t face that. If I keep running for cover every time someone makes faces at me, I’d never go out of the house. It’s up to me to be able to handle it.’

  ‘This is not making faces. This is a serial killer on the loose, and you helped get him arrested. The idea that Boag is out there, and you could be on his list, should freak you out. It makes me shudder. You need to look at some more security. Your editor’s right. Maybe you should move out.’