A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour)

by Smith, Anna

  ‘Gerard Hawkins?’ Rosie put on her most expressive keen but sympathetic face.

  She could see blue eyes, greying hair and a fresh face – nothing like she’d imagined. His eyes were a bloodshot and a little puffy.

  ‘Wh— what? Who are you, please?’

  ‘I’m Rosie Gilmour, Mr Hawkins. I’m from the Post.’

  She heard him take a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘But Mr Hawkins . . . I know you were a very close friend of Tom Mahoney all your life. I’m really sorry to intrude, but I’m investigating his murder.’

  ‘The police are investigating Tom’s murder. Leave it to them.’

  ‘Are they? Are they really investigating? Are you sure?’ Rosie took a bit of a flyer, hoping for a reaction.

  Silence.

  ‘Look. What on earth do you expect me to say?’ He looked drained. ‘Tom was my closest friend. I lov— We were friends for forty years. He was a brilliant individual . . . and now he’s been murdered. I’m . . . heartbr— I’m devastated. I knew him all my life . . .’

  His voice trailed off. Rosie’s stomach tightened. He looked vulnerable, broken. She might get lucky.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkins. Really sorry.’ Rosie locked her eyes on his for a couple of seconds. ‘It’s just that . . . well, the police are not saying very much at all. Of course they’ll be investigating the murder, but they’re putting nothing out to the newspapers and, if I’m honest, that makes us suspicious.’

  Silence.

  ‘Suspicious of what?’

  ‘That somehow they are thinking it might go away.’ Another flyer.

  Hawkins eyes blinked twice, thick, dark eyelashes emphasizing the blue.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I don’t think they’re making this as big an issue as it should be.’ She paused, cleared her throat. ‘Tom Mahoney was a hugely respected figure within the education system here. He was a known expert in Eastern European Studies, revered all over the UK and abroad. Yet to me, and to my editor, it doesn’t look like the police are giving his murder any kind of priority. To tell the truth, I’ve seen them making more of an attempt to highlight a drug dealer or a routine killing. But this was very different . . . as you know. This . . . this was an execution.’

  He gazed at Rosie, his expression somewhere between frustration and grief.

  ‘That’s exactly what it was . . . an execution.’ His voice was barely audible.

  ‘Can I come in and talk to you, Mr Hawkins?’

  He looked through her and didn’t speak.

  Rosie swallowed. She had one shot left.

  ‘Look, Mr Hawkins. I know about Katya.’

  He couldn’t have been any more startled if she’d poked him with a cattle prod. He frowned, searching her face. Then he pulled back the chain and opened the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Game on. Rosie hoped the shock didn’t register on her face. She’d envisaged three kinds of knockbacks on this doorstep – no answer, the door slammed in her face, or, at best, a single sentence that would perhaps make an inroad for the future. But here she was following Gerard Hawkins into the stained-glass vestibule, where he stood for a couple of seconds, his eyes flicking a glance up and down her before he closed the door behind them. Then he walked along the wooden hallway without uttering a word. Rosie stepped softly behind him, searching for an appropriate opening line. She scanned the array of framed photographs hanging crookedly on the walls – snapshots of his life – and she clocked a black-and-white photograph of two very handsome young men who had to be him and Mahoney a lifetime ago. They looked like matinee idols from some old movie, Hawkins with a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips and a panama hat pushed back on his head. The other young man, the double of Mahoney’s son, who she’d encountered on the family doorstep last night, had his arm around the shoulder of his friend. The caption, in pencil behind the glass, read ‘East Berlin, 1966’.

  ‘Is this you and Tom?’ Rosie asked, as respectfully as she could.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned his body to face her, his eyes resting fleetingly on the photograph.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, his lips twitching as he tried to find a smile.

  He looked so distraught it crossed Rosie’s mind that they might have been lovers.

  Hawkins spoke without turning around.

  ‘I loved Tom. But we weren’t lovers,’ he said abruptly, as though he’d read her thoughts.

  ‘Oh . . . I wasn’t . . .’ She knew she sounded flustered. ‘I mean, you look like a couple of carefree student mates.’

  He stopped at the entrance to the living room and turned to her. This time he did smile, as though he was remembering something.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We were so close at that time that a lot of people used to think we were together.’ He gazed in the direction of the window. ‘If only . . .’ Again, his voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh.’ Rosie berated herself for not being able to think of something else to say.

  Hawkins motioned her to the sofa, while he stood behind a crimson leather armchair next to the unlit open fire.

  ‘I’ve just made some tea. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘Yes, please, I would, thanks,’ Rosie replied, grateful and a little surprised he was being this cooperative. ‘Black, please, no sugar.’

  He disappeared out of the room, and she could hear the clatter of crockery as she gave the place the once-over. It looked like it had been put together by interior designers, all tasteful decor, bright but not over the top, stylish prints and curtains, but it still had a traditional feel to it. It was neat, too neat for a man, but it felt lived in. He returned with two mugs of tea.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got no biscuits,’ he said apologetically, handing her a red mug. ‘I haven’t been able to go anywhere really since I . . . since I came back up from London.’

  Rosie gave him a sympathetic nod.

  ‘I’ve been on a diet for ten years anyway, so you’re doing me a favour . . . Ger—’ She paused. ‘Can I call you Gerard?’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded.

  There was a little awkward moment as Rosie wondered if he was going to speak first, and when he didn’t she decided to start with a tactful question.

  ‘Gerard, have the police given you any kind of motive for or idea about why Tom was targeted in this way?’

  He said nothing, sipped his tea then looked at her.

  ‘They don’t have to. And, anyway, I don’t think the investigating officers have any idea what is going on.’

  Rosie gave him a confused look.

  He put his mug down on the table and took a deep breath then let it out slowly, examining the backs of his hands and picking at his fingernails, his eyes blinking several times as though he were afraid of what he was about to say but was at the same time bursting to say it.

  ‘Tom was assassinated, which we all know, Rosie. But . . . he was executed for a reason.’

  He went silent, either for effect, or because he was choosing his words carefully. Rosie waited, but he said nothing.

  ‘You mean, like the Eastern Europeans had been tracking him or something?’

  ‘Who knows for sure? How else would these men know we were in that café at that time? But there is more to it than that.’ He sat forward, clasping his hands, and looked Rosie in the eye. ‘Look. The only reason I let you in here is because you mentioned you knew about Katya.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What exactly do you know? Who have you spoken to?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Rosie swallowed, knowing she’d over-egged the pudding with her claim on the doorstep. ‘I spoke to a former student. Er . . . I don’t want to say who it is, Gerard, as I don’t want to betray her trust. But she did talk to me, and it was she who told me about Katya.’

  ‘Mari.’ He looked through her.

  Rosie didn’t answer and tried not to blink.

  He half smiled. ‘Ah Mari. Poor, b
eautiful, vivacious Mari. She fell for Tom the way everyone did – including me, if I’m honest. But then he met Katya and that was that, I’m afraid. Nothing was ever the same again.’

  Rosie didn’t really know where this was going, but she hoped he hadn’t let her into his house so he could talk to her about Mahoney’s philandering.

  ‘But who is Katya exactly?’ Rosie asked.

  Silence. Then Hawkins spoke.

  ‘Therein lies the story, Rosie.’

  Rosie waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. She felt a little stab of impatience.

  ‘Was Tom Mahoney a spy?’

  The question hung in the stillness of the room and Hawkins stared at the floor for so long Rosie glanced down in case there was something there. Then he raised his eyes slowly and looked at her.

  ‘Yes. He was.’

  ‘Really?’ Rosie hoped she didn’t sound as excited as she was. Silence again. He looked as though he was waiting for her to say more. She ventured, ‘I’ve been given information through a contact in London, suggesting that he was a spy. And that’s the truth, Gerard. So . . . so why do you think he was murdered?’

  Hawkins sighed, shaking his head, and didn’t speak for few seconds.

  ‘Because he was about to blow the whistle. He was about to go to the media over what happened to Katya. About everything. He was going to blow it all sky high.’ He picked up his mug and sipped from it. ‘The government couldn’t risk that.’

  A little wave of excitement flipped across Rosie’s stomach. She could see this on the front page.

  ‘Are you saying he was assassinated on the orders of the government?’

  Even saying it out loud sounded ridiculous.

  ‘Well, we’ll never prove that of course.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Or will we? Will you ever prove that?’

  ‘Not unless someone can give me a lot more than a claim that the government murdered him.’

  Hawkins stood up and crossed the room. He stared out of the window for a second, his back to Rosie. Then he turned around.

  ‘Minutes before Tom was gunned down in that café he handed me a package across the table. He knew they were on to him – told me himself . . . Those was his exact words: “They’re on to me, Gerard” . . . and he knew he would be next.’ He shook his head. ‘He entrusted the package to me. And I promised I wouldn’t let him down.’

  ‘Who was on to him, Gerard? Who was going to get rid of him?’

  ‘MI6, of course. They couldn’t risk leaving him as the only loose end. He had too much information.’

  ‘MI6? You’re saying they had him killed by these Eastern European guys?’

  ‘Yes . . . Or it was made to look that way. I don’t know.’

  Rosie struggled for something to say next. She was choking to ask where the package was, but this was going so well – if a little off the wall – she had to be patient.

  ‘Are you going to tell me all about this, Gerard?’

  ‘What will you do with it if I do? Will you and your newspaper publish the story or will they be got at by the powers that be? There are dark forces at work here.’

  Christ, Rosie thought. She could hear McGuire asking her was this guy wearing a straitjacket when he told her all this.

  ‘That’s not how my newspaper works,’ Rosie said, looking him in the eye. ‘My editor is very courageous when it comes to stories involving the establishment. We don’t bow to people – not government, not cops, not gangsters.’ She sat up straight and put her mug on the table. ‘If we can get a story that is nailed down and passed by our lawyers, then we will publish. But I need a lot more than just your word and what you’ve just said. I’ll need the information that Tom gave you. I’ll need that level of proof.’ She took a breath. ‘Look, Gerard, I’m not going to mess you around, but I can tell you now that without anything material you have that can help prove this, then Tom’s murder will go down as a random shooting by some Eastern European gangsters. End of story. So if we’re going to take this forward – and I really want to – then I need your help.’

  They sat in silence for what seemed like an age, the ticking clock on the mantelpiece keeping time with Rosie’s beating heart. Gerard played with a ring on his finger, twisting and turning it, the light from the window catching the garnet set in gold. Rosie was trying not to take a deep breath, watching and waiting.

  Eventually, Gerard spoke.

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell you a story . . .’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Something is ringing all my bells, Gilmour,’ McGuire said as she walked into his office. ‘Is there some kind of lone vigilante out there catching up with all the bad bastards? First that old arsehole Rab Jackson in Spain, and now Malky Cameron? Two useless scumbags off the face of the earth in a week. We need to get a real handle on this. The punters love this kind of shit. Declan’s down in Ayr for the press conference. I mean, they’re both stiffs now, so we can say what the fuck we like about them.’

  ‘I know. The cops are throwing a party. I’m seeing a contact later. He’s been moved to the Serious Crime Squad, so that means he gets his finger in all the pies. He might have a bit more intelligence on who bumped them off.’

  Rosie sat down on the sofa. ‘But first, I’ve got even better news for you.’

  McGuire came out from behind his desk and stood resting his backside against it, looking down at her. He raised his eyebrows for her to begin.

  ‘I went up to Hawkins’ house last night,’ Rosie said. ‘And much to my amazement, I got in.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I did.’ She flashed a triumphant smile. ‘And it’s incredible stuff.’

  ‘Come on then.’ He sat opposite her, swung his feet onto the coffee table and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘I’ve got twenty minutes till the conference. Make my day.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rosie said. ‘I won’t go into everything, Mick, because we can talk later and decide how we play this, but his story will blow you away.’ She paused for effect. ‘Mahoney was a spy for Stasi – you know, the East German secret service?’

  ‘Fuck! Seriously?’

  ‘Yep. But that’s not all. He was also spying on them – for the Brits.’

  ‘You are fucking joking.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Hawkins knows all this? He has proof?’

  ‘Well, that will be the difficult part. Nobody ever has real proof of these things. Stasi isn’t there any more since the Berlin Wall came down, and MI6 are hardly going to admit it.’

  McGuire took a deep breath, and Rosie waited while he digested the information. Then he put his hand up.

  ‘First of all, Rosie, what’s Hawkins like? Is he a doddery old fucker who would make this up?’

  ‘Not at all. He doesn’t seem like a fantasist.’ She shrugged. ‘But of course you never know. He and Mahoney have been friends since they were students together. Hawkins is gay.’

  ‘Friends? What kind of friends? The kind that play Hide the Sausage when the lights go out?’

  ‘No.’ Rosie chortled. ‘He loved Mahoney, but I think he established pretty early on that Mahoney liked women. Lots of them, as it’s turning out.’

  ‘So what did he tell you?’

  Rosie walked McGuire through the full story that she had gleaned from Hawkins during the hour-long chat in his house.

  Over a second mug of tea, Hawkins had painted a vivid picture. Back in the sixties, he explained, life at the university campus was a melting pot of idealism and excitement. Young people everywhere seemed to want to be part of some revolution or another. If it wasn’t the students rioting in France, it was in London, in Italy, in the US over Vietnam. Tom Mahoney was at the forefront of everything. He’d become the darling of the student union and had particular kudos because his studies took him to Eastern Europe. Many of the lecturers were left wing anyway and relished the upsurge in every area of life. It was a time when people could sense change and power, and the youth were rebelling about everything, from the
music they’d been raised on to everything that spelt authority and establishment. Mahoney’s studies had taken him to East Berlin for a while, where he spent almost a year, and his thesis was an in-depth study of life there and the Communist ethos in practice. He was drawn to it. After he graduated and began lecturing, he maintained his Soviet connections, at one time going on sabbatical and working at the University of East Berlin. So, Hawkins had said, it was almost a natural process that the Soviets would bring him on board. He was recruited by the Stasi. He had a KGB handler whose name was Katya, and that’s where it all went wrong. He fell for her. Rosie had patiently listened to Hawkins’s story, resisting the urge to ask him to cut to the chase and tell him how this was all connected to Mahoney’s murder.

  McGuire interrupted.

  ‘Right. I’m loving this, Rosie. But I don’t have time for the full-length version of Doctor Zhivago, so what’s the bottom line?’

  ‘I was just painting the picture for you,’ Rosie said, faking a huff.

  ‘Save it for the colour piece. How did MI6 get involved?’

  ‘That, I don’t know for sure. Hawkins isn’t sure either, but he suspects Mahoney was a double agent for years. Says he only came out with everything in the last few months to him. Before, he would never tell him anything about his secret life. Mahoney did admit he’d had an affair over there and that there was a woman he’d fallen in love with, but because of his family he had to keep it quiet. Then, of course, the Cold War ends, and there’s no need for him to continue spying because Stasi and East Germany are broken up in the new Europe.’