by Smith, Anna
McGuire shook his head, peering at the picture. ‘Alex Goldsmith. Sir Alex Goldsmith now. Former head of MI6,’ Rosie said triumphantly.
‘Fuck me! You’re kidding. I don’t believe that.’
Rosie leaned forward, picking the photograph up.
‘Look closely. It’s about twenty years ago, but there’s no mistaking. Plus, Mahoney has written about it. Look.’
She took the note out and showed him the piece in the narrative that referred to the picture. She read it out. Here’s what Mahoney says:
We were in Berlin . . . It was 1977 . . . Goldsmith and Co. had come over for a few days to do a bit of missionary work . . . On a need-to-know basis. Dinner was preceded by the purest Russian vodka, then afterwards in the bar, it looked like it was all getting a little crazy. I was with Katya, so after a couple drinks we bailed out, taking the opportunity to be alone, and headed for my apartment.
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Of course, they’ll deny all this on a stack of bibles,’ Rosie cautioned. ‘Even with the pictures, especially of Goldsmith. They’ll say it was all in the line of duty . . . life of a spy and all that . . . They’re expected to get involved with girls . . . or at least they do in the movies. But it’s still a good tale.’
‘Who’s the other guy next to him?’ McGuire pointed to the photograph. ‘And who are these two privileged-looking wankers? Definitely Brits.’
‘No idea. It’s a long time ago. We’ll probably never be able to find out.’
McGuire sat back. He puffed his cheeks and exhaled in little drumbeats, gazing at the ceiling.
‘So what do we write tomorrow? I want to get a flavour of this moving – nobody will have a sniff of what we have.’
‘We’ve got so much material here, Mick. We should drop a big hint of what we’ve got in the paper tomorrow and see what happens. Why don’t we leave the Goldsmith angle out for the moment and just write something revealing that Tom Mahoney was a spy for Stasi – and a double agent. We can throw in plenty of colour without naming names. Keep our powder dry.’
‘That’ll put the wind right up the MoD.’ McGuire shot Rosie a mischievous grin.
‘Of course. But they won’t know what we’ve got. They might even think we’ve taken a flyer. They won’t know we have all this.’
‘Right. I like the sound of that. What about this J B Solutions mob?’
‘We need to delve further into them. Mahoney’s talking about people on the inside being on the take. That can only mean the MoD. He doesn’t mention names or give us anything we can prove, but he hints that someone must have been getting paid. Because if Damar Guns had no licence yet continued to supply guns to Africa, then it means someone inside was faking up papers to let them go through. Maybe someone inside Customs, too. It could have been a whole chain of corruption, for all we know. We need to get more on the people behind J B Solutions. I want to get into Thomas Dunn – he’s the guy who runs the company.’
McGuire chewed this over for a few seconds.
‘Okay. First, let’s get a piece written up on Mahoney the spy and fire it over to me. Nothing about the arms dealers yet. Just that Mahoney was a spy for Stasi – explaining all about them, of course – and hinting that we’ve got more detail, from way back years ago. Say we’ve got the low-down on major figures within the intelligence service. That’ll fuck them up.’ He stood up and walked towards the door.
‘Okay. First, I’m going to nip up to see Hawkins at his flat. He was a bit nervy last night. I just want to make sure he’s all right. He’s a good guy.’
*
Rosie drove up past the university and hit an unexpected backlog of traffic as she reached the quiet avenue where Gerard Hawkins lived. The blue light of a police car flashed on and off, and a smattering of people were gathered on the pavement. Dread throbbed across her gut. She quickly pulled her car over and jumped out, walking hurriedly towards the flat.
‘Oh my God!’ she said under her breath, picking her way to the front of the crowd.
‘What’s going on?’ Rosie asked a couple of elderly ladies.
‘There’s been an accident.’ One of the women pointed to the ground-floor flat. ‘In there.’
‘What? What’s happened?’
‘I think his name is Hawkins. We’ve lived in the same block for years, but didn’t really know him. He was very quiet . . . Used to be a lecturer over the road at the uni . . . I—’
‘What kind of accident,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘Is he . . .?’
‘Yes.’ The woman nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead. Police and ambulance . . . They’re all in there . . . I heard it was suicide.’
‘No.’ Rosie shook her head, backing away. ‘No way.’
The women looked confused as she turned away from them and went up the steps to the front door.
‘Sorry, madam. Are you a relative?’ The uniformed policeman stepped forward, blocking her path.
‘No. I’m a friend.’
‘Could you hold on a minute, please?’
He spoke into the walkie-talkie on the lapel of his anorak.
‘The DI will be here in a moment.’
Rosie felt her chest tighten with emotion. She glanced around at the throng of faces on the pavement. She’d have been lynched if they knew who she was . . . A tabloid journalist, the lowest of the low, they’d say, using a poor old man to make a headline. Guilt hung over her like a cloud.
A round-faced woman with curly short hair and wearing a raincoat arrived a minute later and approached Rosie.
‘DI Miller.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You are?’
‘A friend of Gerard Hawkins. I didn’t know him that well, but we had coffee yesterday . . . and also a few days ago.’
‘And how was he?’ The DI looked Rosie up and down.
‘Er . . . Fine . . . He was okay. He was obviously very upset by the murder of his friend Tom Mahoney.’
‘And how do you know him?’
Rosie hesitated for two beats, looking back at the DI.
‘I’m a journalist. I was working on the murder and we were talking about his friend.’
The DI pursed her lips and glimpsed at the uniformed officer. Rosie squared her shoulders. Just what she needed – a cop who despised journalists, blamed them for everything and did all they could to make sure they got nowhere near the truth. Rosie had stumbled along more than enough of them during her chequered life, but she wasn’t about to let this one get in her way.
‘What kind of state was he in when you left him?’ Her tone was accusatory.
‘Put it this way,’ Rosie said deadpan, ‘he didn’t seem to me like a man ready to commit suicide. He was very . . .’ She chose her words. ‘. . . Very determined.’
‘Determined about what?’
‘Determined to stay strong for his friend.’ Rosie’s tone was measured. ‘He was upset, but he knew Mahoney wouldn’t want him to give up, and that he’d want him to get on with his life. They’d been friends since they were students. He wasn’t suicidal. Definitely not.’
‘Well. Unless you’re a qualified shrink, that’s not really for you to decide. Who do you work for?’
‘The Post,’ Rosie answered drily.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rosie Gilmour.’
The DI took a notebook out and wrote it down. In some quarters of Strathclyde’s finest the name Rosie Gilmour was loathed – especially among the cops she’d turned over down the years.
‘At the moment there isn’t a lot to say. There’ll be a post-mortem. But it looks like a straightforward suicide.’
‘What do you mean? How? Was there a note? Overdose? . . . What method of suicide.’
‘As I said, it’s early doors.’
‘A note?’
‘Inquiries are ongoing.’ She put her notebook back into her raincoat pocket. ‘There was no note. That’s all I can say. We’re trying to trace his next of kin.’
‘I’m not sure he had any. I . .
. I honestly don’t know.’
Over the DI’s shoulder Rosie saw two paramedics come out of the hallway, carefully bearing a stretcher. On it was a black body bag. She moved to the side as they came on to the threshold then watched, swallowing back her tears, as they carried Gerard Hawkins’s body down the steps and into the ambulance.
‘They’ll take him to the mortuary for tests. It’s very sad when someone ends up like that,’ the DI said matter-of-factly. ‘They get so lonely, these old guys, their whole lives about teaching and education, then when it’s over there’s so little left if they’ve got no family. I’ve seen it before, over the years.’ She took her notebook out again. ‘I’ll need a contact number for you, as one of the last people to talk to Mr Hawkins.’
Rosie gave her mobile number and she wrote it down.
‘Can you tell me what you were discussing?’
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘I can’t.’ She turned to walk away.
‘Until this investigation has concluded that the death is not suspicious, police inquiries will be ongoing.’
Rosie kept on walking to her car and didn’t look back. She slumped into the driver seat and closed the door, leaning back on the headrest and staring out of the windscreen. They’d got to him. Whoever it was had decided that Hawkins had to be eliminated, the way they had wiped out Tom Mahoney. The claims he’d made in his dossier were now ringing painfully, scarily, true. Rosie spread her hands on the steering wheel and noticed they were trembling. She rolled down the window and gulped a mouthful of air. A shudder ran through her and she quickly started the engine. What if someone saw her come out of Hawkins’ flat last night? What if whoever did this was already in his flat when he went out to the shops last night and was lying in wait? She had to call McGuire to tell him, and to make sure the material from the package was locked in his safe. She picked up her mobile as she drove out of the street and was about to dial McGuire’s number when it rang. It was Don.
‘Hey, Rosie, I’ve got some interesting news for you.’
‘Gerard Hawkins has been found dead in his flat? I know. I just left the place. Christ, Don! What the hell is going on?’
‘Haven’t a clue, and that’s the truth.’
‘I’ve just been given the evil eye by some woman DI who was outside Hawkins’ flat.’ Rosie described the detective. ‘She said they’ll want to speak further to me if his death is suspicious.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘DI Miller.’
‘Yeah. Nippy sweetie. And I suppose you told her to GTF in your own inimitable way.’
‘Kind of. I’m not good at police interviews, as you know. They bring out the worst in me. And, anyway, there’s nothing to tell. It looks like suicide, but I’m sure it’s not.’
‘What do you mean it’s not? You and your conspiracy theories.’
‘Look, Don. I just know. I can’t tell you. And please respect this. But I’ve been working on something. Hawkins was helping me and now he’s dead. It stinks to high heaven.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie.’
‘I can’t tell you about it. Read the paper tomorrow. But something’s rotten here.’
‘You going to upset the cops again? I can tell.’
‘Just read the paper. But I’m sure Hawkins has been bumped off – same as Mahoney.’
‘Anyway,’ Don said, ‘that aside. I was just about to phone you and give you a heads up on Hawkins’ death when I got another call about the King’s Cross murder CCTV footage.’
Rosie perked up.
‘Yeah?’
‘That bird who they say was in the café? Well, she’s spotted on CCTV leaving the place immediately afterwards – just as the waitress claimed. Right behind the big Eastern European guys. They’re on the CCTV as well. Big lumps of men they are.’
‘And?’
‘They tracked the CCTV back along King’s Cross round to St Pancras Station, and it shows the bird coming off the Eurostar. So whoever she is and whatever she was doing, she came from France on the train.’
Rosie took a second to process the information. Her head was all over the place.
‘Fine. But it doesn’t take us any further on who she is.’
‘Unless, of course, you know what I know.’ He was toying with her.
‘Come on, Don. Give me a break, man.’
‘Listen to this . . . Some eagle-eyed bastard in Scotland Yard has clocked the likeness to the woman who was photographed in that covert op eighteen months ago in Spain that I told you about.’
‘What? The one with Rab Jackson?’
‘Yep. That’s what they think. Looks like the same woman, as I told you. She was never identified officially at the time – only from a snitch that said she was this Ruby bird from Glasgow.’
‘You’re kidding. Could it be Ruby Reilly? The one you told me about? Could she be involved in the murder with these Eastern Europeans?’
‘Who knows? It’s just unexplained at the moment as to why she was in the café. And why she left so quickly after the guys. She must have something to hide. She didn’t play any role in the shooting and didn’t talk to the men who did it. All it does is muddy the waters for the Met, but they’re not ruling anything out. She could even be involved.’
‘Shit, Don. This story is growing arms and legs.’
‘Aye. And our boys are beginning to get interested at the Serious Crime Squad, because if it is Ruby Reilly then it’s a Scottish connection, and we need to find her. So whatever you’re digging up, I hope you’ll share it with your favourite detective.’
‘Sure,’ Rosie said, knowing that that depended on what it was.
Don hung up.
Chapter Fourteen
Rosie tore down the A77 towards Ayrshire, overtaking everything despite the driving rain and creeping late afternoon darkness. Her conversation with Gerard Hawkins played out again and again in her mind, and she could still see his face, a mixture of grief and admiration as he told her the inside story of Mahoney’s secret life.
McGuire was completely black and white about it when Rosie phoned to tell him Hawkins was dead. Now the gloves were off. They had to pull out all the stops and get this story in the paper. Whoever had come to kill Hawkins was in search of whatever they suspected he had, and wasn’t taking any chances. Rosie also told him about the development from the CCTV cameras and the mystery Scots woman.
Before she left for Ayrshire she’d headed back to the office to rewrite tomorrow’s front page, as her initial story had changed because of Hawkins’ death.
Now, she kept glancing at her mobile phone on the passenger seat, willing it to ring with the voice of the mystery woman who’d claimed she was in the café in King’s Cross. If she was genuine, she was crucial. How the hell could she not be involved in the murder if she was able to give her the name of J B Solutions, the arms dealers? How was it all linked? Why did she do a runner? Rosie’s brain ached from going around in circles. She wasn’t even sure herself if there was any point in driving to Ayrshire, to the home of the retired Strathclyde detective chief inspector, the cop Humphy Boyd used to pass information to. All she had was gut instinct, based only on Don’s phone call and what he’d told her before about the murder of Jackie Reilly.
She took the slip road into the tiny rural village of Kilmaurs, hoping the DCI’s home wasn’t in one of the outlying areas, mostly farms and deserted roads with little chance of meeting anyone to ask directions. She’d dug his address out of the voters’ roll, as it wasn’t listed in the phone book. Her first stop, at the newsagent’s to fuel up on chocolate and peanuts had been successful – the paperboy delivered to his house, the shopowner told her, and he lived nearby. Rosie got back into her car and drove past the old church as directed and up his long driveway. Most of the lights in the house were off, except for one in what looked like the kitchen at the side. Rosie rang the bell, hoping instinct would kick in to galvanize her frazzled brain. Sometimes, if she was stuck for words, a little panic helped pump the blood to
the brain. A light came on in the hall and she braced herself as she heard the door being unlocked. When it opened, a tall, silver-haired man stood before her.
‘Roddy Thompson?’ Rosie gave him an eager look, as though she’d been trying to track him down for years.
‘Who are you?’ He raised his eyebrows and looked down at her.
‘My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the Post.’ Rosie took a breath, ready for her pitch, when he interrupted.
‘Rosie Gilmour?’ He nodded slowly, a wry smile spreading across his youthful face. ‘I know that name.’ He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, looking relaxed. ‘The Rosie Gilmour who likes giving the cops a good kicking?’
Shit, Rosie thought. She braced herself for an onslaught, but there was a softness about his expression. She tried a half-smile, putting her hands up.
‘Only the bad ones, Mr Thompson. I’m on the side of the good guys.’ She stood her ground, looking him in the eye. ‘Always.’
‘So what brings you here?’ He looked her up and down. ‘I was one of the good guys.’
‘Jackie Reilly.’ Rosie pushed her hair back and wiped a drop of rain from her cheek. ‘I’m working on an investigation and your name came up.’
He stood for a long moment, gazing over her shoulder at the rain and the blackness. Then he stepped back.
‘Come in out of the rain.’ He turned and walked through a small utility room. ‘My wife’s out at one of her charity meetings,’ he said over his shoulder as he pushed open a door into the kitchen.
Rosie went in behind him, her mind firing on all cylinders, not quite believing her luck.
‘Where did you get my name?’ He crossed the kitchen and clicked on the kettle.
‘It just came up, Mr Thompson.’
‘Roddy,’ he said.
‘Your name came up after a bit of digging, Roddy.’
He motioned her to sit down on one of two armchairs at the side of an old fireplace.