Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  She could see the colour rise in the chief’s face as she spoke, but now it was calming down. He clicked his pen, knuckles white.

  ‘Okay, Rosie. I think we’re quite clear here on who should be doing what. But right now, this Kosovan man is in custody, helping police with inquiries, and it will stay that way until we can eliminate him. So we’ll need a full statement from you. Then we can make a decision regarding your part in this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean whether or not you will face charges of harbouring a suspect.’

  ‘Aw, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Is that the start of your statement, Rosie?’ There was something resembling amusement behind his eyes, and she realised he was toying with her.

  ‘Yeah. It is. Make that the start of my statement. And, I have to phone my editor. I’m not making a statement without my lawyer present.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’ The inspector stood up. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ He turned to the other officer. ‘Get Rosie a coffee, will you?’

  She sat fuming, filled with disbelief and worry over what they were doing to Tadi. She scrolled down to McGuire’s number.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rosie finished her coffee as she watched Sky News, where a Strathclyde Police inspector from the public relations department was trying to say as little as possible about the fact that a Kosovan man was helping them with their inquiries.

  ‘Does this mean you are following a direct line of inquiry, Inspector?’ asked one reporter.

  ‘It means we are currently interviewing this man as part of our investigation.’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’

  ‘I cannot comment further at the moment. All I can say is what we put out in the statement earlier – that we are questioning a man who worked in the area,’ the inspector replied.

  ‘I understand he disappeared while police were digging the field. Is that true?’

  ‘I cannot comment,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Inspector. One last question,’ said another hack. ‘Is it true that police are also questioning a newspaper reporter regarding withholding information?’

  The inspector looked at the reporter and sighed. ‘No comment. Now if you don’t mind, we’ll keep you informed of any developments.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Rosie said out loud. She recognised the voice asking the last question as the big reporter from the Sun newspaper, who was always at least four steps behind her on every story. But he obviously had contacts somewhere inside the police who had dropped him the titbit that Rosie had been quizzed last night. It wasn’t an important part of the investigation from where anyone was sitting, but it was always a good ploy to get the boot into the opposition. And now that he’d said it on camera in front of the rest of the media, they would push the police for a proper answer. She cursed again and got up, taking her cup to the kitchen and running the tap on it. She came into the living room and stood at her balcony window, gazing at the traffic and the movement of people starting their day. She thought of Tadi – wondered what kind of night he’d had. Don had called her last night to say that Tadi was being held overnight, because he had confessed to the robbery. He was in trouble over that, Don had said. But he got the impression that the detectives interviewing him, including DI Morton, believed his story. He told her not to get her knickers in a twist, and that Tadi was being looked after. But he was being held as much for his own protection as the investigation. They were also going to be looking at the O’Dwyers today. They’d previously been interviewed by a couple of plods in plain clothes that they’d managed to deceive, but the gloves were off now. Rosie told Don they’d be lucky if the O’Dwyers were still there, but he said that Rory O’Dwyer would brazen it out, because he was that pig-headed and cocky. He believed he was untouchable.

  But even with all of Tadi’s information about the farm and the man he saw being murdered, nothing shed any light on the young couple and the mother and baby who were also in the grave. They were no further forward on that. Rosie made her mind up to go down to the farm at some stage today, and see if she could get a chance to talk to O’Dwyer’s wife. Tadi had said she was kind to him, so this just might be the way in. She picked up her bag, and as she was heading down the hallway, her front doorbell rang. When she opened it, the postman stood there with a package.

  ‘Recorded delivery. Needs a signature.’

  Rosie smiled at him but got no response. Nothing like an all-singing, all-dancing postman to start your day.

  ‘Cheers.’ She took the package and signed his clipboard.

  She closed the door and examined the postmark, but it was smudged and she couldn’t make it out. It felt quite heavy. She wasn’t expecting anything, so she looked at the large brown box with suspicion. Old habits died hard. What if it was a bomb from the UVF – a parting gift for her big drugs mule exposé on them last year? She would take it to the office and open it, she decided. She put it under her arm, went downstairs and sat it on the passenger seat of her car.

  *

  The editorial floor was already busy with early shift reporters at their desks, mostly chatting and answering phones – nobody had really started serious work yet. The news editors were glued to their screens. She could see McGuire at the back bench, sitting with his feet up on the desk sipping coffee, chatting to one of the artists. He looked up, shook his head and smiled as he saw her. She hadn’t come into the office after Hanlon got her sprung from the police last night. She’d called him to say she was free, and he’d joked about starting a petition to release her. She put the package on the desk and greeted Declan who was about to pick up his phone.

  ‘You made it then, Rosie? I thought they’d try to do you on withholding information.’

  ‘I think they’d love to. But I honestly don’t think it would fly. Anyway, the good news from my contact is that the cops believe Tadi’s story – so far anyway. So at least he’s not getting charged – well, not right now.’

  Rosie lifted the package.

  ‘This came in the post to my house this morning. So I thought I’d bring it down here – in case it’s a bomb.’ She smiled at Declan.

  ‘Cheers for that,’ he said, putting the receiver back down. ‘I might just get out of the way while you open it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Do you think you should open it? I mean, really? What if it is a bomb?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be some mail order crap that I can’t remember ordering.’

  Rosie took the scalpel she used for sharpening her pencils from her drawer and cut it open carefully around the tape. Inside, bubble wrap covered a box. The box had a clown’s face on the lid, and she tore away at the bubble wrap until the box was unwrapped.

  ‘Maybe it’s a jack-in-the-box. Like Jack jumps out and stabs you in the eye?’ Declan said as he stood back a little.

  ‘Look at you, shitting yourself,’ Rosie joked.

  Then she sliced the tape from the lid and eased it off.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  Rosie gasped and staggered backwards, the shock almost knocking her off her feet. Inside the box was the severed head of what looked like a woman. Perfectly preserved. Bloody at the neck where it had been hacked off, long hair matted with blood. Suddenly the whole room was swimming and she steadied herself on the desk and slumped onto her seat. Her hand went to her mouth.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick. Fuck! Declan. It’s a head. Oh, Jesus Christ!’

  Declan stepped forward and looked inside.

  ‘What? Oh, fuck! Fuck’s sake, Rosie! Oh my God!’

  The editor looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then he saw Rosie, jumped to his feet and rushed across the few yards to her desk.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  Rosie looked up at him.

  ‘Shit, Mick. It’s a head. A severed head. A woman.’

  McGuire looked at her, incredulous, then glanced in the box and stood back, aghast.

&nbs
p; ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake! Call the cops! Quick! Fucking Christ almighty! What the fuck is going on?’

  Declan was standing at the box again, his face ashen.

  ‘Rosie. That’s . . . That’s Jenny Cassidy, if I’m not mistaken. You know, the downstairs neighbour of Boag? The woman who’s been missing for months? I recognise her from her picture. I’m sure it’s her. Look. There’s a bit of paper stuffed in her mouth.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Rosie looked up at McGuire. ‘It’s Boag, Mick. He sent this to me. It came to my bloody house. I’ve carted it all the way down here in the passenger seat of my car. Jesus wept!’ She stood up. ‘I need to go to the loo.’

  ‘Dec. Phone security,’ the editor said. ‘I want someone here til the cops come. Keep people away from these desks.’ He spread a hand indicating the immediate three desks, where some reporters stood dumbstruck. ‘And put the fucking lid back on before I bring up my kippers.’

  Rosie rushed to the toilet and promptly vomited up her breakfast. She sat on the toilet afterwards, shaking, her face sweaty from retching. Every nerve in her body was on edge. Boag knew where she lived. He had sent a severed head to her home. To her home. Christ almighty! The toilet door opened and one of the young reporters came in.

  ‘You all right? The editor says to come into his office when you’re ready. The cops are on their way. Fucking hell, Rosie. This is right off the scale.’

  *

  Rosie was somewhere between hysteria and disbelief as she sat in the editor’s office. She sipped from a mug of sweet tea Marion had put into her hand. Judging by the grim look on McGuire’s face, he was as stunned as her.

  ‘It doesn’t get much more serious than this, Rosie.’

  She nodded, a sudden choking in her throat with the realisation that nothing would be the same from now on. It wasn’t just the image of the head. Boag had sent this to her home. Had he been watching her? Following her every move? Maybe he had even been in her flat. She shivered.

  ‘I’m scared, Mick.’ She picked at her fingernails.

  McGuire rushed to the sofa and sat beside her. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said, pulling her a little closer and patting her hair. ‘I know.’

  They sat that way for a long moment, Rosie allowing herself to be held. McGuire’s phone rang on his desk and he let go.

  ‘That’ll be the cops.’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘You okay?’

  Rosie nodded, pulling in a breath and puffing hard.

  ‘Yes. It’s just the shock. I’ll be fine in a little while.’

  McGuire went to his desk and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Okay, Marion. Send them in.’

  His door opened and Rosie looked up as the tall figure of Detective Inspector James Morton came in, his face a mask of concern. A younger detective was behind him and they both looked from Rosie to the editor.

  ‘Chaps,’ McGuire said. ‘Some fucking turn-up for the books this, is it not?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ The chief strode across to the editor and stretched out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector James Morton.’ He jerked his head behind him. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Alan Mason.’

  McGuire looked across at Rosie and was about to introduce them.

  ‘We’ve already met.’ The DI looked at Rosie, his expression softening a little. ‘Christ, Rosie. Can you not give us plods a bit of peace?’

  Rosie smiled thinly. ‘Yeah. Just attention-seeking, Inspector.’

  ‘Jim.’

  His demeanour was completely different from the confrontational figure she’d encountered yesterday, when he was flexing his muscles.

  The inspector turned to the editor. ‘Rosie and I had a chat yesterday after she brought the Kosovan to our office. Well, more of a run-in than a chat.’

  ‘Good. So what do you think, Jim?’ McGuire asked. He motioned them to sit. ‘Take a seat, lads, I’ll get some tea. What happens now?’ McGuire went to the door and told Marion to bring some tea.

  ‘Right now, we’ve arrived with a full team. Forensics, the whole shooting match. We’ll get the box out of your way as soon as we can, Mr McGuire. But it’s a bit of a process with forensics. They’ll be checking everything in case there are any fibres or stuff they can trace.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘It came to your house then? Can you talk us through it, Rosie? And listen, I know this is hard and you’ll be in shock. So just take your time. You okay with that?’

  ‘Sure. I’m a bit better now. I just about passed out though, when I opened the box. I’ve seen some stuff in my life, but that’s just right out the park. My nightmares will be a bit special now.’

  Rosie was trying to tough it out. She couldn’t cope with the sympathy in the room right now, or she’d break down in front of everyone, and that just wouldn’t do. She described her morning and how she’d met the postman. The DS took notes as she told them how she had carried it to her car and brought it to the office. She suddenly burst out laughing,

  ‘I still can’t believe I drove down here with a woman’s head on the passenger seat. I mean, really. You couldn’t make this up!’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Forensics will need to go through your car, and your house, I’m afraid. Everywhere you put the box down.’

  Rosie nodded and they sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘He’s following me, isn’t he? What was that stuffed in her mouth? A note?’

  The DI looked at the editor, then at Rosie. Marion came in with a tray with cups of tea and put it on the table in front of them.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Is it from Boag?’

  ‘It would appear to be.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  The DI nodded. He went into his inside pocket and took out a clear polythene evidence bag. Everyone watched as he put rubber gloves on and eased it out. Rosie could feel her heart beating faster.

  ‘I can tell you what it says, Rosie. But if you don’t want to, we can leave it.’

  ‘I want to know,’ Rosie said a little too quickly. ‘I . . . I need to know.’ She put her hand to her lip to stop it trembling.

  ‘Rosie.’ McGuire frowned at her.

  ‘Mick, I need to know what I’m dealing with here. This bastard’s delivering a head to my door, I need to know what he’s saying.’

  ‘Have you ever met Boag, Rosie?’ The DI asked.

  ‘No. Course not. Well, not to my knowledge anyway. Why?’

  ‘Well, he hints that he knows you.’

  Rosie felt her stomach lurch.

  ‘Can you read me the note, please?’

  He glanced at the DS, then cleared his throat as he began.

  ‘ “This is what happens when you ask too many questions, Rosie Gilmour. I’m watching you. You’re not that clever. You don’t see me, but I see you. Petrol stations are lonely places at night.” ’

  A chill ran through Rosie and she visibly shuddered.

  ‘Jesus! Bastard is following me!’

  ‘That bit about the petrol station. When were you last at a petrol station at night?’

  For a few seconds Rosie’s mind went blank. All she could see was herself looking over her shoulder every moment of the day. She heard the DI’s question in the distance. Then she remembered.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ She looked from Mick to the chief. ‘I was in the petrol station three nights ago, on the way home. About half ten. The one up off Byres Road.’

  ‘Great. We can check the CCTV. I don’t suppose you noticed anyone. Was it busy?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Actually, I don’t even remember. Sorry. To be honest my head has been all over the place the last few days. Snowed under with work, and I can’t even remember where I was coming from the other night. You know what it’s like. You go in, get petrol and you barely look at the guy on the til. I’m sure everyone’s the same.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you think he could have been in there? Maybe even behind me or something?’ Rosie lifted her cup, but fe
eling her hands shaking, she put it back down. She could see McGuire clocking it.

  ‘We need to get you some protection, Rosie. Proper protection this time.’

  She didn’t protest.

  ‘We can take care of that, Mick. In fact, we’ll be taking care of it from here on in, Rosie. You should move out of the house, and we’ll put you somewhere safe.’

  ‘But I’m working. I’m in the middle of an investigation. I’m on the story about Tadi and his family, and the O’Dwyers. I want to do that. What’s happening to Tadi, by the way?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him at the moment. He’s not going to face charges, but we have to hold onto him. Leave that for the moment. Can you think of any other places you’ve been to lately where there might be CCTV?’

  Rosie considered for a moment.

  ‘Maybe in the street? I had dinner at a bistro the other night with a friend. I was at the supermarket. I can give you some details of where I was in the past week if I can get time to think. But what if he’s been watching me for a while – maybe even before he was arrested? What if he was reading my stories before the cops moved in? Jesus! It could have been my head in that box.’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to allow that to happen,’ the DI said. ‘Look. I’m going back out there for a bit to talk to the lads. You have a think and relax a bit, then we’ll make some plans for you. But listen, try not to worry. I know that’s all right coming from me, but you’ll be protected, Rosie. We’ll have someone with you twenty-four seven.’

  He stood up, his DS also got to his feet and they left the room.

  Rosie looked at McGuire.

  ‘This is serious, isn’t it, Mick?’

  ‘Yeah. But you’ll be fine. Let’s work out where you want to go. You can still work, but you need to be somewhere safe.’

  ‘I don’t want cops with me all the time. Not in my face, anyway. I can stay in my house. The cops can watch me from there.’ She paused. ‘I have my friend here.’