Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  ‘Better or worse?’

  ‘Better for the liver and the head, I’d say. But we do get out to play now and again.’

  He gave her a slight smile, then grew serious.

  ‘I heard you were out at my house after Jack . . .’ His voice trailed off as though he couldn’t say it. For the first time he looked vulnerable.

  The direct question startled Rosie.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, spreading her hands. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Jonjo. I hate doing these kinds of things – having to knock on the door of someone who’s lost a loved one. But that’s part of my job.’ She paused, conscious he was studying her face. ‘I’m so sorry about Jack, for your loss. I can only imagine—’

  ‘You can’t imagine.’ He cut her off, his eyes dropping to the table for a second, then back to her. ‘I couldn’t have imagined it myself until it happened. Then you’re just . . . well . . . your life is just what it is after that – which is really nothing.’

  They sat in silence, Rosie listening to the swing door opening and shutting and the ping of the til. She wished he would say something. He didn’t.

  ‘Anyway.’ She couldn’t take the silence any longer. ‘I fully understand that nobody wanted to talk. But we had to try. I honestly didn’t push it too much, but I was left having been told in no uncertain terms that nobody would give an interview.’

  ‘My wife wanted to talk, but the boys wouldn’t let her – my brother. They said I would explode. They asked me afterwards, and I said to say nothing.’

  Rosie wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but she smelled a story. Was she really going to get a sensational sit-down with Jonjo Mulhearn talking about his grief for his boy?

  ‘Of course. I understand that. But if you or your wife ever want to talk, I’d be glad to do that.’ She waited. Nothing. ‘Jack seemed such a promising young man. University and everything all ahead of him. That bastard Boag has a lot to answer for.’

  She watched as Jonjo took a long breath and held it, seemingly to control himself. He let it out slowly through his nostrils. His knuckles went white as he picked up his mug. For a second she thought he was going to hurl it at the wall in anger, frustration, grief, because whatever he was feeling right now was still raw and it was written all over his face.

  ‘Well. Maybe another time, my wife will talk. But that’s not why I asked you here.’

  Rosie said nothing, just looked at him, waiting.

  ‘It’s about Boag.’ He examined the table, fiddling with a beer mat. ‘Listen. I’m wondering something. A reporter in your position, I presume you talk to cops and stuff.’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Sometimes. I have some contacts.’

  He looked through her.

  ‘So do I, Rosie. Some more cooperative than others. But I still can’t trust them. When I was growing up anyone could be bought.’

  ‘I do remember the stories. I did one myself a couple of years ago. Brought down the boss – Gavin Fox. Chief Constable.’

  ‘Foxy. That greedy bastard. Bad lot. So were his cronies who got done with them – and that one who topped himself. I knew them all. Chancers.’

  Rosie wondered again where this was going. He hadn’t brought her here to reminisce about corruption in Glasgow’s finest. It was about Boag. He’d already made that clear.

  He looked at her as though sensing her curiosity.

  ‘I know a lot about you, Rosie.’

  She kept her face straight, didn’t respond.

  ‘I know you’re a good reporter – that much I’m sure of. In the nick, you get a lot of time to peruse the newspapers at your leisure – all the ins and outs. I digested all that. I can see that you’re at the frontline a lot in what you do. You’ve had a couple of slappings in the process. That fucker Tam Dunn. Him! I saw he roughed you up a bit. He was a polecat from when he was a teenager. I grew up with that mob. He got what was coming to him. If I hadn’t been in jail, I’d have made sure he got it. And Big Jake.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  This time he did smile. ‘He doesn’t like you. You’re not on his Christmas list.’

  ‘I’ll try not to worry about that.’

  ‘Anyway. What I mean is: Boag. I want to ask you one thing.’ He sat back, stretched his legs. ‘Okay, you don’t know me, or even if you can trust me. You might even be afraid of me.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you, Jonjo,’ Rosie said quickly and meant it.

  ‘Good. I’d never harm you. I admire you, I mean that. I’m a criminal. It’s what I am, but I’m not a bad bastard who cuts people up, or a smack dealer who made his fortune filling kids with heroin, so that they end up stealing from old women for their next fix. I hate all that shit.’

  ‘You used to deal in heroin if we’re to believe what we hear.’

  It was risky to throw this in, and she knew it.

  ‘Not heroin. It was cannabis. It was a very long time ago, Rosie. I didn’t like it, and I wasn’t top dog in the crew then, so as soon as I carved my way to the top, I got out of it. I’m in property now. Bars and restaurants.’

  ‘The cops call it money laundering, Jonjo.’

  She knew it would irritate him, but she wanted to assert herself.

  He shrugged, a little irked. ‘Listen. I’m not here to go to confession. Can you hear me out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve seen your stories in the last few days on Boag. He cut someone’s head off and sent you it. Jesus Christ! Sick bastard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘It was a bit disturbing.’

  ‘I bet it was.’ He sat forward, pushing his mug to the side so he was leaning across the table. ‘So I wanted to ask you if you ever got anywhere near Thomas Boag before the police, would you do something for me.’

  Rosie stared at him. She knew what was coming. She waited.

  He swallowed. ‘I just want one thing, Rosie. I want to have two minutes with him. Alone.’ His lips were tight and she could see the determination in his clenched jaw. ‘That’s all I ask. An evil fucker like that doesn’t deserve jail or the justice of a trial. He’s butchered innocent people. Not just my boy. My Jack . . .’ He shook his head. For a second Rosie thought he was going to tear up. But he swallowed it back, his face set in anger. ‘I’ll tell you something – and you can take this as gospel – Boag was never going to make it to his trial. It was all planned as soon as he hit the Bar-L on remand. He should have been dead by now. I had promises from my boys. Your story the next morning would have been Boag’s death.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say it would have been a bad thing. One bastard off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Exactly. So would you give me the chance if it ever comes to that? I mean, if you find out where he is? Anywhere. Even at five minutes’ notice. I’ll be ready. Just tell me.’

  Rosie took a breath and blew out a long sigh. ‘You’re asking a lot, Jonjo. This is something that may never happen anyway. The way Boag looked at me in court, I’ll be glad when they pick him up.’

  ‘Or I get him first,’ he interrupted. ‘I’d be doing you a favour.’

  Rosie half smiled. ‘Whatever. Truth is, you’d be doing the world a favour.’

  ‘So will you help me, Rosie? That’s all I’m asking.’ He paused. ‘And if you ever need any help for anything – I mean anything at all – I’ll always be in your debt.’

  They sat in silence as Rosie nursed her mug of tea. She should help him, because in her gut it was the right thing to do, but it was wrong on so many levels. Right now, if she could tell Jonjo Mulhearn where Boag was, she would. And the retribution he sought would be swift. She’d even celebrate once he got him. But she was not a gangster who lived in that world. She was a journalist. How would society function if people like her didn’t work within the law? She sat for a moment, watching him. Behind the tough, angry exterior she could see how broken he was. She took out her mobile.

  ‘Can you give me your phone nu
mber, Jonjo?’ He took his mobile out and they swapped numbers. Rosie looked at her watch.

  ‘I need to move. I’m still working on this story.’

  She stood up, and he followed.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ He stretched out his hand.

  Rosie looked at his face, felt the strength of his hand in hers.

  ‘It was really good to meet you, Jonjo. I hope we can talk again.’

  He raised his chin in acknowledgement, and she could feel his eyes on her as she walked away from the snug and out the main bar towards the swing doors.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rosie followed Molly O’Dwyer’s car all the way from the farm until she took the motorway junction for Glasgow city centre. She’d managed to stay far enough away on the farm road, parking up on one of the side roads so that her car would be out of sight when Molly drove out of the yard. Rosie was trying to keep a low profile, which wasn’t easy when a car with two detectives went with her everywhere. She didn’t like the idea of having to phone them every morning to tell them where she was going, but these days part of her was glad that the police weren’t far away. She wasn’t expecting Boag to jump out of some dark corner and attack her. He was much more sinister than that, but just knowing that he might be watching sent shivers through her.

  The biggest shock was when her mobile had rung on the way back to the office yesterday, after she’d sat with Father Dunnachie. It was the first time she’d heard his voice, but he didn’t have to say who he was. She knew. She heard heavy breathing, then he spoke.

  ‘The old priest wasn’t on the agenda, Rosie. That was just a wee personal thing. From me to you. To let you know how easy this is. You see, I’m smarter than them all. That’s why I’m where I am now, and you’re all over the place. Scary, isn’t it? See you, Rosie.’

  When she reached the top of the stairs on to the editorial floor, she had to sit at her desk taking deep breaths to recover. Then she went into McGuire and told him. Within minutes, a posse of detectives were down at her office, one taking her phone apart and attaching it to some contraption. But there was no trace. Boag was too smart for that. When she told Adrian, in the evening, he’d offered to come down and sleep in the spare room. Rosie declined. She had just said goodbye to TJ, and it felt wrong to have Adrian in her house. Not that she was planning to do anything with him, but she wasn’t sure she could trust herself.

  *

  Now she followed Molly O’Dwyer’s car into the car park next to St Enoch Square, waited for her to get out and then walked after her. Adrian had insisted on coming with her, even though she felt safer in the busy city centre. She knew the police were only a few yards behind her, somewhere. As she walked up Buchanan Street, the precinct full of shoppers, buskers and lunchtime sandwich runs, she wondered what it was like to have an ordinary life, go home and leave your work behind, and actually fall asleep when you went to bed at night.

  She watched as Molly went into the House of Fraser department store. Rosie kept herself in the background while Molly shopped in the designer areas for tops and a jacket, then went into the lingerie department where she bought some rather risqué underwear that didn’t quite match the impression Rosie had of her. Perhaps she was having an affair. She couldn’t blame her with the brute of a husband she was tied to. Then Molly went up the steps to the cafeteria, ordered tea and a sandwich and found a seat at the back. She examined her purchases, then took out her mobile phone and began texting furiously. Rosie waited until she was almost finished with her sandwich and then went to the counter and bought a cup of tea. Adrian waited at the other side of the cafeteria with a coffee. There were few customers, but Rosie crossed the room and sat at the table next to Molly. She didn’t look up immediately, but when she did, she looked startled.

  ‘Molly. Can I talk to you for a moment?’

  Molly glanced around the room. ‘Are you following me?’

  Rosie stared at her for a moment. ‘Well. Yes, I am, actually. Look. Please listen to me. I could see you were upset the other day, and I think you know something . . . about what happened. I think you know a whole lot more.’

  Molly interrupted. ‘So why are you following me? Do you think I’m going to tell you?’

  ‘I think you want to. But you’re scared.’

  ‘Bloody right I’m scared. Don’t you know anything about my husband? He could tear you limb from limb with his bare hands. Everyone who knows him is aware of that.’

  ‘He killed that poor man Bo, Molly.’

  She didn’t answer, and her face showed only a glimmer of reaction.

  ‘And maybe he killed the woman and her child. What kind of man does that? You keep slaves at your farm, Molly. How can you reconcile yourself with that? How can you sleep at night?’ Rosie hoped to provoke a reaction.

  ‘You think I have a choice? Are you naive or just stupid?’

  Rosie let it go.

  ‘Did your husband kill that woman and child?’

  Rosie could see her lip trembling a little.

  ‘He didn’t do that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It wasn’t him.’

  For a moment there was nothing, just the heavy tension in the air and the feeling that she was about to crack. Molly shook her head.

  ‘How could I have given birth to someone who could do that?’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going away from here, Rosie Gilmour. I’m leaving. I’m not going to the police to tell them what I know, I’m leaving and I’ll never come back here ever again.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Away. Abroad. I’ve lived my life here and I’ve tried my best, but I . . . I can’t do it any more.’

  ‘Talk to me, Molly.’

  ‘You can’t help me. Why would I do that?’

  ‘I can help put your man in jail for what he did, for the murder of Bo, for the robbery, for enslaving those poor men . . . What about the young couple found in the grave? Did he kill them too? And the woman and the baby? I can help take him away from you, if you do the right thing—’

  ‘It wasn’t him who did that,’ she interrupted. ‘He didn’t kill the woman and baby.’ Then her face crumpled. ‘It was our Timmy.’

  Rosie couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  ‘Timmy? Your son? He killed them?’

  She nodded, covered her face with her hands. ‘May God forgive the bastard for what he did. I don’t know where he came from. In God’s name we’ll never know where he came from.’

  ‘Why would he kill them? How do you know this?’

  They sat in heavy silence, then Molly shook her head in despair. ‘God help us! I don’t know for sure. I overheard them talking, and Timmy confessed. It was last week when they found the bodies and police were asking questions. Timmy was behaving strangely. Then he told Rory and Finn in the living room. The door was closed, but I heard everything. It was like a sword going through my heart. That girl. She worked here with us. A Ukrainian girl – lovely wee thing. Then she suddenly left. I heard Timmy telling his father that she’d been blackmailing him because he got her pregnant. So the bastard killed her and her baby.’ She shook her head. ‘All he had to do was tell me about it and we would have taken both of them in. Mother of God, I would have done anything for it not to happen. If only he’d told me . . .’

  ‘My God!’ Rosie said.

  ‘That’s not all.’ Molly shook her head in despair as she looked down at the table. ‘He killed that young couple too. The students.’

  ‘What? Timmy killed them?’

  Molly nodded. ‘I heard him say it. He killed them and buried them in the same grave. That was the moment I decided I can’t live with the lies any more. So I’ve made my plan. I know where I’m going and I’m not coming back. No police, nothing. I can’t help that wee girl now, or Bo, or those poor young students, but I helped Tadi get away. At least I did that. I’m going tomorrow. When Rory and Finn are away for the day. When they come back I
’ll not be there.’

  ‘Are you going abroad?

  ‘Yes. Spain. I . . . I have a friend there. A man I’ve known who’s been my friend for years, every time I go there we meet. He’s been more of a friend to me than that bastard Rory ever was.’

  ‘You’re having an affair?’

  ‘Call it what you like. He makes me happy. No . . . He can’t make me happy because I can never be happy, especially not now. But I can’t be a part of Rory’s lies any more. I’m sick to my stomach.’

  ‘Molly. Come with me and talk to the police. You can put him away.’

  ‘No. No police. Not interested. I’ve told you what I know. You can do what you like with it.’

  ‘So where is Timmy? Did Rory send him away when he confessed? Can you at least tell me that?’

  ‘Yes. He’s down south with some traveller friends. Somebody owed Rory a big favour. We’ll never see him again. Rory could have had him killed, but he couldn’t do that to his own flesh and blood. Unlike Timmy, who killed his own baby . . . my grandchild.’ She sniffed. ‘I lost my own daughter when she was eight months old, and my heart has never healed. And he goes out there, makes a woman pregnant and kills her. Burying her like a dog in the field. I’ll never be free. But at least I won’t have to be sitting in that house every day, knowing that she was buried just there, knowing that my grandchild is buried and I didn’t even get to see her. I can’t even discuss this with Rory because his only worry was about Timmy getting found out. That’s the kind of selfish bastard he is. So he just got rid of Timmy. But I can’t live with it any longer.’

  ‘Molly,’ Rosie said. ‘Where exactly is Timmy? What friends is he with?’

  She sat for a long moment, then spoke. ‘He’s with Paddy McMahon’s crew in Blackpool. Paddy’s da was the king of the gypsies. His son is not half the man he was, but he is a bad bastard. He can fight like a demon and will defend his family and crew with every inch of his life. You think you can turn up there and ask for an interview? Rosie, listen to me. Take a step back from this. You want to tell the police the address, I’ll give you it. Let them go and bring Timmy in. I’ll gladly see him locked up for what he did, but if you turn up there, that mob will rip your arms off. Even the women fight like men, I’m telling you.’