Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  ‘You mean . . . staying in your flat?’

  Rosie sighed. ‘No, TJ. Come on. Don’t be daft.’

  He said nothing for a few moments. Then he drained his glass.

  ‘Okay. But I’ll miss you, and I’ll be worried sick.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Honestly.’ Rosie tried to keep it light, but inside she was terrified. She glanced out of the window. It was dark now and she just wanted to go home. She hoped the police car was outside. How nuts was that?

  ‘You know what I’d love to do?’ She took TJ’s hand. ‘Sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back . . . Go to that crazy bar we went to – you know, when we first got together – and get drunk on tequila. I’d love that. But I can’t, because I have to work.’

  ‘We could go for an hour.’

  ‘No we can’t. An hour will end up being all night. Let’s go home. We’ll have a police escort all the way.’

  TJ waved at the waiter and paid the bill. When they got up to leave he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘You’re a mad bastard, Rosie Gilmour. I wish I didn’t like you so much.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sound of Rosie’s front door closing woke her as though an electric shock had surged through her. She slid her hand across the bed, but TJ wasn’t there. Shit. He’d closed the wooden shutters on her window before they went to bed, so she lay there in the darkness, barely breathing. She listened for any sign of activity in the kitchen in case he was up preparing breakfast, but the house was deadly silent. He probably left early and didn’t want to wake her. But he never did that. Calm down, she told herself. She reached across the bedside table to her phone. It was eight thirty. Shit! ‘Get a grip, Gilmour,’ she whispered. ‘You’re cracking up.’ She slipped out of bed and quietly pulled open the shutters. The pale grey sky gave a small, not very promising light. Then she tiptoed down the hall, half expecting a dead body and blood on the walls. Of course, it was ridiculous. She had three locks on the front door and a police car watching her flat, yet the crazed part of her mind still entertained the notion that Boag had somehow got in here and killed TJ. She was about to phone him from her mobile when she saw a note on the kitchen worktop.

  Had to bail out early, sweetheart. Meeting with the guys about the London gig at eight, and didn’t want to wake you up. You had one of your nightmares again. Try to relax. Talk later. Love you. Xxx.

  She sighed and shook her head, filled a glass of water and thought of the nightmare. Normally she would remember the moment that she had woken up crying, but she hadn’t this time. Then the image flashed through her mind of a nightclub. It was all men, dancing under strobe lights. Some weird guy sitting at the bar watching everyone. She was there too in the distance, and saw him watching her. Christ! She blinked the image away, made herself breakfast, then showered and sat at the open balcony doors, hoping the sun would come through. Her mobile rang and she picked it up. She recognised the number of Declan’s desk.

  ‘Rosie. It’s me. The editor said to phone you.’

  ‘He’s in already?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s got a meeting. But he said to phone you, because there’s been some incident with an old priest out in the East End. He says it might be a guy you know? Apparently you were there yesterday? A Father Dunnachie.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie’s stomach dropped. ‘What’s happened? Yes. I do know him. What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s been attacked in the parish house. Stabbed. Pretty bad. And . . . his attacker tried to cut off his hand. Cops say he’s not going to make it.’

  ‘Aw, Christ, Dec! Don’t tell me – Boag?’ she said, choked.

  Silence for two beats, then Dec said, ‘They’re not saying. Could be anything. But nothing was stolen, so it’s not a robbery.’

  ‘It’s Boag. I know it. I was with the old priest yesterday. It was him who took me to find Tadi. Boag must have been following us. The bastard has done this to get to me. Christ almighty! Father Dunnachie is an innocent man in his seventies, who never did anything but good in his life. How can anyone hurt him?’ She heard her voice crack and stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie.’

  They stayed on the phone, not saying anything. Then Rosie found the strength to speak.

  ‘Which hospital is he in?’

  ‘The Royal.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Must have been the middle of the night. His housekeeper was away at her sister’s overnight, and only came in at seven this morning. She found him in a pool of blood. Amazing that he’s still alive. Poor old guy.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening, Dec. What a fucking monster!’

  ‘I know. The editor wanted you to know. He says to come in as soon as you can.’

  ‘Can you tell Mick that I’m going up to the hospital to see the priest first? If he’s really bad he might not last much longer. I . . . I need to see him.’ She swallowed. ‘I feel so responsible. It’s my fault.’

  ‘No it’s not, Rosie. Don’t think that way. Boag’s a psycho. This is not your fault. You can’t be like that. I’ll tell McGuire you’ll be in later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she managed to say before hanging up.

  She stood clutching her phone, looking down at the early traffic snaking up Charing Cross. An icy shiver ran through her.

  *

  On the way up to the hospital, her mobile rang. It was Don.

  ‘Rosie. I’ve got bad news.’

  ‘I already know, Don. Father Dunnachie. Please don’t tell me he’s dead. I’m on my way to the Royal.’

  ‘He’s still alive. But only just. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘This is my fault, Don. If I hadn’t asked him to take me to Tadi, he’d be alive. He didn’t even know that Tadi was at his friend’s house until he phoned him on my behalf. He had nothing to do with this. His only connection was me. It was me who pulled him into this. I . . . I feel—’

  ‘Rosie. Calm down, pal. Listen. Stop thinking like that. This fucker Boag. If this was him, he’s trying to get to you. But we don’t know for sure if it is him. But it’s looking that way. The fact that he’s following you, and that the old priest’s hand was nearly hacked off, is pointing to it being the work of this twisted fucker.’

  ‘Killing a poor old priest who never did anyone any harm. Jesus, Don! You guys have to get this bastard. How come he’s walking around Glasgow able to go into somebody’s house in the middle of the night to do that?’

  ‘We didn’t put a watch on the priest’s house. It never even occurred to us. Before you ask, we’ve already been to the other priest’s house and taken Tadi’s wife and kid out. We’ve got them somewhere safe, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Good. I’ll come and see them later. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Can you get me into the Royal? You know what they’re like up there.’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll make a call and sort it. Listen, just take it easy, Rosie. Don’t let this fucker get to you. That’s the most important thing right now. We’ll get him. I’ll call you later and we can meet if you’re free.’

  ‘I need to go. I’m almost at the Royal.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll make the call now. Just give it five minutes.’

  *

  There was a female uniformed police officer at the door of the ward, and she watched Rosie as she came out of the lift towards her.

  ‘Are you Rosie Gilmour?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve come to see Father Dunnachie. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been arranged. Follow me, please.’

  Rosie walked behind her through the swing doors, the officer’s shoes squeaking on the polished floors. She glanced into a couple of wards where nurses were attending to patients. The humid atmosphere made her feel nauseous. Memories came flooding back of the last time she was in a hospital, there to see her own father, holding his hand as he slipped away. The fact that she was there to see the old priest
who had married her parents caught Rosie’s throat, and she swallowed hard as they approached a room at the end of the corridor. The ward sister came out and closed the door softly.

  ‘He’s very weak.’

  Rosie nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘I’ll be out here.’

  In the room there were two priests, one about the same age as Father Dunnachie, the other, Father Flaherty. He glared at Rosie as she came in. She looked at Father Dunnachie on the bed. He had suddenly aged since yesterday, his face deathly pale. He clutched rosary beads in his uninjured hand.

  ‘He’s been saying your name. Maybe dreaming or something,’ Father Flaherty said.

  The other one stood silent, praying.

  ‘He’s had the last rites,’ Father Flaherty went on. ‘He doesn’t have much time now. Do you want us to be with you? He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, but we think he can hear us. He was praying with us a while ago.’

  Rosie glanced at both of them. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘We’ll leave you alone. We’ll be outside.’ They left the room.

  Rosie stood for a while staring at the old priest, her chest tight. Nothing could have prepared her for a moment like this. How could she ever have imagined that the priest she’d known all her life would be lying here like this, hack marks on his arms and chest, his wrist bandaged where Boag had tried to sever it? This was the priest who gave her her first Holy Communion, who heard her first confession, who chided her from time to time because she seldom appeared at church. For some reason, he could see her better than a lot of people she had known all her life, and she could never explain that to herself. It reinforced her feeling that there must be something in there, something spiritual, that made them choose to live the life they did, which was often lonely. Perhaps there was a depth to men like him that ordinary people couldn’t grasp. She went across to the bed and leaned across and touched his hand. It felt warm, the skin papery and thin.

  ‘Father. It’s Rosie.’

  For a moment there was nothing. Then a flicker of his eyelids and he opened one eye slightly. There was a hint of the smile that he always had for her.

  ‘Rosie.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘Dear Rosie.’

  She choked back tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Father.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sssh. It’s my time, Rosie. I’ll never be far away. My body is weak. I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Father. I—’

  ‘Sssh, Rosie. Listen to me. You were doing the best for them. You must never feel bad, never blame yourself. This is God’s will.’

  ‘B-but how? How can it be?’

  ‘Don’t be a stranger to Him, Rosie. Listen to Him. Open your heart. Always. You are a good woman – like your mother. And with your father’s anger inside too.’

  ‘Will I get the other priests back in?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to sleep now. The long sleep. I’m ready . . .’ His breathing laboured.

  ‘Father . . . I—’

  He squeezed her hand tight and held it, his knuckles white. She wanted to ask him if he had any idea who did this to him, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

  ‘Don’t let them win, Rosie. Never let them win.’ His chest heaved, and his grip released as his hand dropped on the bed.

  She went over to the door, and opened it. When the priests saw the look on her face they rushed in.

  The older priest with the stole on his neck began praying over Father Dunnachie, his breath shortening. The other priest joined him and they prayed together.

  ‘Take our brother James to your heart, Lord. Keep him safe . . .’

  Rosie watched while they prayed, as Father Dunnachie’s face seemed to relax, his mouth opened a little, his features came to rest. The nurse came in. Rosie went past her, nodding her thanks. She walked briskly down the corridor and out of the hospital. She clocked the police officers in the car parked next to hers. She’d forgotten to phone them, so Don must have told them where she was. She almost ran to her car. When she got inside she locked the door and let her tears come.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rosie was going through her copy on the murder of Father Dunnachie for the final time, glued to the screen, when her desktop phone rang. She picked it up.

  ‘I’d like to talk to Rosie Gilmour, please.’

  The voice was gravelly, hard-bitten, but businesslike in tone.

  ‘You’re talking to her.’

  ‘Rosie. This is Jonjo Mulhearn.’

  She stopped in mid breath, waited two beats.

  ‘Jonjo Mulhearn?’ She glanced across her desk at Declan, whose eyes popped.

  ‘Aye. I’d like to talk to you. Are you free any time?’

  ‘I . . . I thought you were in—’

  ‘I’m out. Few days ago,’ he cut in.

  ‘Oh, right. Sure,’ Rosie said quickly. It didn’t matter what he wanted to talk to her about. If Jonjo Mulhearn wanted to talk, she was ready. She’d tried to interview the family enough times to know that if she went back, she might lose at least two of her teeth. ‘I’ll be glad to talk to you, Jonjo. Any time, any place.’

  ‘Right. Can you meet me in the Crown bar today? At three. You know where it is?’

  He wasn’t going to spend much time on small talk.

  ‘Yes. I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Just you. Nobody else. All right?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll see you then. Thanks.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Jonjo Mulhearn? Was that really him?’ Dec asked.

  ‘So he said. I think so, but I’ll not know until I go. I’ve to meet him at three today.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! You haven’t duffed him up over the years, have you?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. He was up and down to London a lot, and in jail for the past nine years. So whatever he did was before my time. I’m not expecting to get shot.’

  ‘Famous last words,’ Dec said, sinking his teeth into his bacon roll.

  *

  McGuire had insisted that a photographer be somewhere to snatch a picture of Mulhearn – purely for the sake of it, he said. You never know when he might fuck up again, and it was always good to have a fresh pic. It’s not as though you could hang around outside his house, or any of the pubs or restaurants he frequented, as he was always surrounded by minders. Rosie had also phoned Adrian to come along with her – to be in the background, just in case. Matt had been tasked with the photography job, and had phoned Rosie from the roof of one of the buildings opposite the pub in Glassford Street to say that Jonjo was in the bag. He’d snapped him as he got out of a car with some fat bloke and went into the Crown. Matt was going back to the office in case anyone clocked him. The fact that he’d been there made Rosie a little edgy as she and Adrian got out of her car and headed for the Crown. She glanced around to see if there were any minders watching. There weren’t. She stopped, took a deep breath and braced herself.

  As she pushed open the swing doors, it felt a bit like walking into a bar in an old Western. Four or five punters stood at the bar, and immediately stopped talking and glared at her. She noted that there were mirrors low down on the gantry, presumably to see below the tables in case anyone pulled out a gun. The last time she’d seen mirrors like that was on the Shankill Road – and somebody did pull a gun that day.

  The Crown wasn’t a bar that people like her normally went to unaccompanied. Lawyers sometimes used it, but they were always mob handed, and usually in the company of some of the gangsters or hard men who were the main clientele. She could see a little snug at the far end, and a fat bloke emerged and came towards her. He looked a bit like pictures she’d seen of Jonjo at his son’s funeral, but it wasn’t him. Then she suddenly remembered he had a brother, Tony.

  ‘Rosie Gilmour?’ the guy asked quietly, casting a brief glance at Adrian.

  She nodded. ‘Tony?’

  He looked surprised and impressed, jerked his head and walked away. She followed, nodding
to Adrian to wait at the bar.

  At the end of the bar in the snug, Jonjo sat at a small round mahogany table, a mug of tea in his hand. She stood for a moment taking in the scene, the man sitting below a painting of Argyle Street in the old days of trams. He was wearing a pale blue shirt, open at the neck, and jeans. He stood up, taller than he looked in the archive photos. His hair was close cropped and mostly grey, but despite the broken nose, she could see he’d been a handsome man in his day. Word was he’d almost gone to pieces when his son was murdered, and the way he was murdered had ripped the heart from him. But there was no sign of that right now as his pale eyes locked hers.

  ‘Rosie.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’ He looked over her shoulder at Adrian. ‘Who’s the big fella? Your minder?’

  ‘That’s Adrian. A friend,’ said Rosie, hoping Mulhearn wouldn’t make an issue of it. He didn’t.

  Mulhearn looked more like a retired army major, smart and in command, than a Glasgow hard man. But he was a hard man. They must have taught him manners in Shotts.

  Often when she met a gangster, unless it was someone she’d known for a long time, there was a lot of posturing. Usually they made some sexist remark, to which Rosie would come back with an even smarter put-down, to establish her position. But this guy, jailed for killing two thugs who’d threatened his turf, seemed almost benign.

  He motioned for her to sit down.

  ‘Drink?’ He lifted his mug. ‘Being too long inside ruined my drinking habits.’ He almost smiled.

  ‘I’ll have some tea if that’s all right. Contrary to what you might hear, we’re not all drunks in my profession.’

  He motioned to his brother to bring some tea.

  ‘Most of the ones I knew growing up were.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit different these days.’ Rosie was glad of the small talk to break the ice. ‘It was a bit wild when I first started, but nowadays you’d be hard pushed to find a reporter in a pub during the day. It’s all quiet now, and instead of afternoon punch-ups on the editorial floor, the only sound is the gentle hum of computers.’