Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  Chapter Three

  ‘We should get some protection for you, Gilmour. It makes sense. It’s two days now and this bastard is still on the loose.’

  The implications of the stark fact that Thomas Boag was out there didn’t need to be spelled out to Rosie. She’d been looking over her shoulder ever since she left the Ship pub, minutes after Don had taken the call that Boag had escaped. Even in her flat, three floors up in St George’s Cross, she’d found herself casting glances into the shadows as she’d stood on the balcony last night watching the lights twinkling across the city. It was madness, she knew – stupid to be spooked by the cold stare Boag had given her as he was being led down to the cell. She told herself that, realistically, he was now a prisoner on the run, and his priority would be to stay out of jail – not to seek revenge on her for helping put him there. He wouldn’t come after her. It was just paranoia. But her gut still twitched every time she walked down the street or left the office. She did feel a bit exposed, but there was no way she wanted a bloody minder.

  ‘Mick. You know I can’t live like that. We’ve done this before, moved me out of my flat or sent me away, but I hate all that crap. They’ll probably catch him in the next few days anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. The plods will still be tearing their hair out wondering how the Christ this happened in front of their bloody noses. What a bunch of dicks! What were they thinking of? Did they think he would just go quietly to jail and serve out his sentence? Security? They couldn’t fucking spell it.’

  Rosie couldn’t disagree with that. The Post had been giving the cops pelters for the last two days that a serial killer had managed to be armed with a switchblade all the time he was sitting in court. All of the newspapers were the same, and the Chief Constable of Strathclyde Police had already appeared, ashen-faced, at a press conference yesterday declaring that they were carrying out a full inquiry into what happened. Lessons will be learned he’d said. But the Post’s TOO LATE headline trashed his comments and accused the police of being inept and not fit for purpose. It had spiralled into a political row over cutbacks and outsourcing of the court security, now run by a private company. From what the papers had already gleaned, Boag had got out as he was leaving the cells to be taken to the waiting van. He’d suddenly struck out, slashing one of the workers accompanying the prisoners, and then, as all hell broke loose with other cons running around, it was the police who intervened. The big sergeant who’d been Rosie’s pal for years tried to tackle him. But by the time Boag was finished, he lay with his throat slashed on the steps outside the back door. He was only two weeks from retirement.

  McGuire was on his feet.

  ‘I hope the plods are not disappearing up their arses working out who to blame instead of finding this fucker before someone else gets murdered.’

  ‘The city feels like it’s on lockdown, Mick. The streets are swarming with police, especially at night. They’ve even brought in reinforcements from Lothian and Borders. I’m told the Met have also offered their services. They’ll get him. I mean, where can he go?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to find out. How are we doing with that forensic profiler you were trying to get – the shrink?’

  ‘I talked to him this morning and he seems well clued up. He’s been doing this for ten years, digging psychos out for the cops. Hopefully it will be a good interview when I see him.’

  ‘Well, while you’re at it, ask him if he thinks Boag will come after you.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘I mean it, Gilmour.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll ask him.’

  McGuire folded his arms and looked at her. ‘Is that big Bosnian ghost you use still in the country?’

  Rosie shifted in her seat a little uncomfortably. The last time she’d seen Adrian was when she’d fallen asleep in his arms. When she awoke, he was gone without a word, and she hadn’t heard from him since. That was months ago. She hoped it didn’t show on her face that Adrian had become more than a friend and an occasional minder, both in Glasgow and abroad. He had saved her life not once but twice. She’d never intended anything to happen between them, but their relationship had exploded into passion on a warm night in Sarajevo when Adrian had been looking after her. They’d become lovers, in a series of unplanned trysts that were never going to go beyond what they were. But she hadn’t contacted him since the morning he left her bed. It was probably best if she left well alone – though she was ashamed to admit that it was Adrian she immediately thought of when Boag escaped.

  She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him in a while. I suppose he’s back home in Sarajevo. Why don’t we just leave this to the cops? They’re all over it. Boag will be back in jail within the week. He has to be. They can’t afford to fail on this one.’

  ‘Well. We’ll see. What are your cop contacts saying? Any inside info?’

  ‘Only that they are covered in shame, but we already know that. I’m hoping to get an early heads-up on developments from my detective contact.’

  ‘Okay. Between you and Declan, get the copy pulled together for tomorrow’s paper. I’ve got a conference in five minutes.’

  The meeting was over. But Rosie turned to McGuire as she was leaving.

  ‘Mick, I want to take a run out to an address later. Nothing to do with Boag, just something I’m looking at. A travelling family. Settled travellers. Gangsters. When I was coming out of court the other day, this bloke was taking a guy – a refugee, Kosovan – away in a car. He’d been up in court for trapping a seagull to eat.’

  ‘A seagull? He was in court charged with trapping a seagull?’

  ‘Yeah. I met his lawyer and he was telling me. The court put the case back.’

  ‘What the hell was it doing in court in the first place? What were cops doing even investigating the case?’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder we’ve got a fucking serial killer on the loose. I might want a bit on that to illustrate how these bastards prioritise their days. Jesus wept! A seagull!’

  ‘We’ll see. But I want to tread softly on it first – see if I can find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Okay. Let me know if it flies.’ He grinned. ‘See what I did there? If it flies?’

  ‘Yeah. You should have your own show.’

  Rosie shook her head and walked towards the door.

  *

  Tadi was in the pit, below the car he was fixing, when Jake called down to him.

  ‘You’ve to come up, Tadi. Finn wants you.’

  Tadi looked up from the darkness where he could see old Jake staring down at him. He had his usual worried expression on his face, and Tadi wondered if he already knew what was going on. His stomach niggled as he wiped his hands and climbed up the ladder. The workshop was deserted.

  ‘Where’s Finn?’ He turned to Jake.

  Jake shrugged. ‘You’ve to go over to the house. To the kitchen, he says.’

  Tadi ran a hand across his chin, shrugged back at Jake but said nothing. He left and walked across the yard where the others were working on the garden and painting the fence. They nodded and continued with their work. Sometimes, Tadi tried not to look at their faces, because their fear depressed him. Especially over the last few days since they’d buried Bo. They’d all looked at him as though he was their leader for some reason, and that put him under even more pressure. He was the same as them. They were all prisoners, and he couldn’t afford to take everyone’s worries on his shoulders. He was desperate to find a way out of here, a way back to Ava and his son, and he didn’t have room for anyone else – even though that thought sent pangs of guilt through him. He walked on, up towards the back door and automatically wiped his feet on the mat as he knocked gently on the door.

  ‘Come in.’ It was the voice of O’Dwyer’s wife.

  Tadi slowly opened the door, his body tense, prepared for some onslaught, terrified of what may be behind it. Then as he stood in the doorway, his jaw dropped.


  ‘Ava!’ His head swam. ‘Ava!’ was all he could say as he saw his wife sitting at the kitchen table with his son on her lap.

  ‘Papa!’ Jetmir’s face lit up and he struggled off his mother’s lap and ran towards him with outstretched arms. ‘Papa!’

  Tadi fell to his knees and scooped him up, hugging him so tightly he was afraid he would break him. He could smell the shampoo and the washing powder on his clothes, the fresh smell of a child who was loved and cherished. He kissed him and buried his face in the boy’s shoulders, trying to compose himself before he looked up.

  ‘Ava.’ His lip trembled.

  ‘Tadi.’ Ava stood up and went towards him. Then she put her arms around him and they stood like that, holding each other tight, Ava snuggled into his chest. He caressed the back of her head, her soft curls, and the nape of her neck, so smooth and tender. He couldn’t speak.

  O’Dwyer’s wife smiled, and somewhere behind that hard face she wore every day was someone who recognised what this was: the longing, the love.

  ‘I’ve made you some lunch, son. Sit down, the pair of you. The boss said you’ve to relax for a while.’ She put a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches on the table. ‘I’ll leave you now for a bit.’

  She backed out and Tadi caught her eye again.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Dwyer.’ He sniffed. ‘Thank you so much.’

  They sat for a long moment, looking at each other, their hands entwined on the table, unable to speak. Tadi’s throat felt tight as he scanned Ava’s face, noticing the dark shadows below her eyes and how pale her skin was. He ran a hand over her hair and leaned across to kiss her on the lips.

  ‘I miss you so much. It hurts me every day, Ava, like a physical pain in my chest.’ He touched her cheekbones, remembering how he’d fallen in love with her face the moment he saw her.

  ‘I know, Tadi. I miss you. We both miss you every day. But we have to be strong.’

  ‘Yes. I know. But it’s so hard not to see you. It’s my fault, for trying to escape. They are so cruel to everyone.’

  Jetmir climbed up on the chair and reached across for a sandwich.

  ‘Mama!’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Tadi,’ Ava said. ‘We must eat. You must be hungry. How thin you are! Do they not give you food?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tadi lied. ‘It’s okay. I think I’m just thin because I miss my girl.’ He turned to Jetmir and ruffled his hair. ‘And this little monkey.’ He pushed the plate towards Ava and poured two mugs of tea and juice for the boy. ‘Come on. Eat everything they gave us. I don’t know how much time we have.’

  ‘All they said this morning was they are bringing me to see you. That’s all.’ She touched his hand.

  Tadi ate hungrily, but tried to restrain himself from gorging, pretending he was well fed.

  ‘How are you? Where are they keeping you? Are they bad to you?’

  ‘No.’ Ava shook her head. ‘It’s all right. I clean the house for people, that’s all. I have a small room to sleep in with Jetmir. And there is food.’ She poked his ribs. ‘Not like you, I think. You are not telling me the truth. I think you’re going hungry. I know how you like to eat. Something is wrong. Tell me.’

  Tadi shook his head and smiled between mouthfuls of food.

  ‘No, no. Nothing is wrong. It’s okay. I promise. I work hard. Maybe now the punishment is over and they’ll bring you back. Maybe even give us a caravan to stay in together. Who knows? Even for a couple of days.’

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘I just want to go home, Tadi,’ Ava sighed. ‘This country makes me sad now. I want to go back to Pristina. See our families. I heard in the news how things are getting better – some families are going home.’

  Tadi swallowed hard and took her hand.

  ‘I know. I want to go home too. And soon. I think soon we will be okay and maybe they will have had enough of us here. We must believe that.’

  Ava smiled, but Tadi could see the fading hopes and dreams behind her eyes. He’d promised her that they would find a new life free of war and conflict, somewhere he could work and make money for his family. But he had taken them to a place where he was bullied and beaten. Where he was a slave like all the others in the yard, with no escape. He smiled back at her, and held her hand tight.

  Chapter Four

  ‘I lost my virginity out here, you know,’ Matt declared as he drove out of Lennoxtown and towards the foot of the Campsie Fells.

  ‘I’m glad you shared that, Matt. I feel I know you better now.’ Rosie shook her head, gazing out of the windscreen. ‘I can see how easy it would be to get caught up in the romantic beauty of the countryside. How old were you, by the way – twenty-three?’ She chuckled.

  ‘Aye, very good, Gilmour. I was sixteen, actually. Out here camping with a few mates and we met these birds. Swedish they were. Her name was Greta.’

  ‘Greta?’ Rosie lapsed into a Scandinavian accent. ‘Hello, my name is Greta. The bigger the betta for Greta.’

  ‘You can laugh, but it was magic. She was eighteen, blonde, gorgeous. I mean, it doesn’t get any more wet dream than that – for a wee boy from the tenements who only saw blonde birds in scud books.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, Matt,’ Rosie laughed. ‘I get the picture. But enough of your pubescent reminiscing. Where exactly are we? I don’t mind wide open spaces, but are we going in the right direction? The O’Dwyer farm is meant to be down here somewhere.’

  ‘We’re on the right road. I checked the address before we left. There are two farms about two miles outside Lennoxtown. I reckon we’ve come that far.’

  ‘Well, go easy. I don’t want to be in O’Dwyer’s driveway before I realise it.’ She flipped back a page of her notebook. ‘Can you believe he named the farm Tara, like the plantation in Gone with the Wind? He obviously thinks he’s some big-shot landowner, but I’m told he’s just a two-bit gangster.’

  ‘Look,’ Matt said. ‘In the distance. I see a farm on the left, right across the field there. See it? The big bungalow?’

  As they drove down the country road, Rosie could see another farm on the horizon to her right, but the one closer to them had tractors and a couple of steamrollers in the yard.

  ‘That might be it. O’Dwyer does the tar on roads and driveways. Family business, I’m told. He’s got a couple of sons working with him. He’s made a lot of money, but it’s not all from digging up driveways, according to my cop contact. He shifts stolen goods and is involved in all sorts of skulduggery.’

  ‘How come he’s not been caught?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe he’s not big enough in all the different scams? But the cops know him as a hard bastard – a notorious bare-knuckle fighter in his day, apparently, and that earned him the respect of all the travellers.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll be driving right past his house.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rosie said. ‘But slowly. Look. There’s the sign “Tara” up on the pillar at the entrance. Just take your time going past, Matt. I want to see what I can clock.’

  Matt slowed down yards from the entrance and Rosie lowered her window. Across the yard there looked like some kind of workshop at the far end, with a couple of cars parked. An old man was hunkered down with a contraption at one of the wheels. A couple of men worked in the stretch of garden going all the way out to the back of the house, and one of them was emptying the contents of a lawnmower. Then, from the workshop, a figure emerged in a blue boiler suit, wiping sweat from his forehead. Rosie recognised him immediately.

  ‘That’s him, Matt. Slow right down. That’s our seagull man.’

  Matt slowed to a snail’s pace.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yep. I know that face. It was the look in his eyes that has stayed with me for the past couple of days. He looked frightened and helpless as they drove away from court. I caught his eye for a few seconds.’

  ‘So what do you want to do? There’s nobody around. Do you want to chance stopping for a minute? I could
snatch a pic from here and we’d have it in the bag.’

  ‘Okay. Do it. But be quick.’

  As the car stopped, Rosie bent down to look in her bag, so as not to attract any attention. Matt pushed on a long lens to his camera and focused.

  ‘Well done, son,’ he murmured to himself as he clicked away. ‘He’s looking over. That’s it, mate. Right down the lens. Done.’

  Rosie looked up and she could see the man looking across at the car, but he wasn’t making any moves to come towards them.

  ‘Let’s go. Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee in Lennoxtown and we can get a look at the pictures. Maybe you can tell me more tales from your lusty youth.’

  Matt chuckled as they picked up speed and drove past the farm. Rosie flipped down her visor and looked in the mirror, where she could see the man picking up a piece of equipment and disappearing back into the garage. She sat back in the seat, enjoying the cool breeze on her face. She watched as they drove past a field, the road so narrow she could hear the wheat rustling in the breeze. For a moment she was transported back a lifetime ago, when she was shoulder high on the unspoilt field, running barefoot with her mother on a trip out to these very Campsie Hills. She could almost hear herself giggling as her mother chased her until they both stumbled and fell down, then lay gazing up to the sky, making shapes and pictures out of drifting clouds. A perfect day.

  ‘You’re lost, Gilmour. What are you thinking?’ Matt asked.