by Anna Smith
Rosie knew he was right but there was still a heaviness in her heart because Father Dunnachie was one of the last remnants of her early life, someone she could talk to. One of the few people who really understood why she was the way she was.
‘Okay. I’ll go and get started.’
*
Rosie woke up to the sound of rain on her bedroom window. She lay staring at the ceiling, still tired despite her early night. Yesterday had been a long day, putting her piece together by early afternoon, then spending the rest of the day going through it with Hanlon and the boss of the legal firm. They’d made all the usual noises about the consequences of using the story in all its graphic detail, and were particularly concerned about the taped confession. But in the end it was the editor’s call, and McGuire decided to publish. When she’d left the office last night, she could see the front page on the screen with the massive headline: I CONFESS. Then a smaller headline below: ‘SHALLOW GRAVE’ KILLER UNMASKED. Rosie’s story led with the first paragraph.
A man has confessed to the murder of the young students stabbed to death and buried in a shallow grave near Lennoxtown. And in his astonishing admission of guilt, he also admits to killing the woman and her small baby, which he claims is his, whose bodies were found in the same grave. Today, the Post can reveal the grisly details of Timmy O’Dwyer’s dark secret after he got a Ukrainian girl pregnant, and we can tell the story behind the burnt body of Robert ‘Bo’ Bowman, the down-and-out whose body was also in the grave.
It would be one of the most historic front pages the Post had ever seen, and the paper would be flying off the shelves today. But there’d be some almighty fallout from the police by the time it hit the streets. Rosie braced herself and kicked back the duvet. She showered and had breakfast watching the rain coming down in sheets across Charing Cross and the slow snake of traffic. She picked out black jeans and a white shirt, then her navy raincoat, and headed out of the house for the funeral. She picked Adrian up as arranged outside her flat where he stood in the rain wearing his canvas bomber jacket. She stopped by the police protection car and as they lowered the window, she told them where she was going. Then, just after nine, she headed out with them behind her, towards the East End of Glasgow, past the rows of tenements and shops beginning to wake up to a new day.
There was already a crowd filing into St Gregory’s church, and pupils from the local primary and secondary schools were lining up to take their seats. Rosie went inside and sat in the back pew with Adrian. Just coming into the place, the smell of incense and candles, brought a lump to her throat. The last time she’d been here was to ask the old priest about her mother’s grave. Father Dunnachie had helped her find it, and he even went with her to see it. Now his oak coffin sat on a pedestal at the front of the church, where it had been taken last night during a service. A few priests came in from the front door, and she saw the Archbishop of Glasgow arriving and walking down the aisle towards the sacristy where they would dress for the requiem mass. A few minutes later, the strains of the organ brought everyone to their feet, as the choir led in the parade of priests. The singing began.
I, the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry.
All who dwell in dark and sin, my hand will save . . .
And then the chorus.
Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart . . .
Rosie managed to swallow the lump in her throat until Adrian put his hand on hers, then tears spilled over. She felt embarrassed, burying her face in a tissue. What was going on here? Was she weeping for the priest, or for herself, for the miserable memories of her early life, because at times like this it all came flooding back. The congregation sat down and she managed to compose herself, grateful that Adrian was holding her hand.
When the service was over, Rosie watched outside as they slid the priest’s coffin into the back of the hearse. She caught the eye of Father Flaherty and he gave her a sympathetic smile.
‘The cemetery is a couple of miles away, Adrian,’ she said. ‘We’ll go there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I want to.’
He didn’t question her and they headed for her car.
They joined the line of people filing into the cemetery, along the narrow paths between graves old and new. Rosie stood on the hillside, gazing at the trees and the city ahead. She scanned the crowd, and saw Don and a few other police officers she recognised. Sometimes they would go to a funeral of a murder victim, in the unlikely event that the killer turned up. A burst of heavy rain broke through the grey clouds, and people stood under umbrellas as the priests made their way to the grave ahead of the coffin. She watched as Father Dunnachie was lowered into the ground and the young curate began a decade of the rosary. Suddenly, Adrian grabbed hold of Rosie’s arm.
‘Rosie,’ he whispered, ‘don’t look now, but I can see Boag in the crowd.’
Rosie felt as though she’d been punched in the gut.
‘Oh, Christ! Where?’
‘Over there on the brow of the hill. Where you left the car. Can you see him?’
Rosie was glad of her dark glasses, despite the rain, and she scanned the crowd. Then she saw him. He was standing, wearing a black overcoat, his hair lank and wet. It was him.
‘I have to call the cops.’
‘He is watching you, Rosie. Don’t do anything. Let’s quietly slip away in the crowd. We’ll walk towards him as though we haven’t seen him.’
‘Then what?’ she said as they walked away. ‘We need to get the cops.’
‘We will. I just want to see where he goes.’
They slipped through the crowd, Adrian keeping his eye on Boag. Rosie took out her mobile and called Don.
‘Don. It’s me. Listen. Boag’s here.’
‘Fuck! Where?’
‘On the brow of the hill. I’m walking there now.’
‘I can’t see you.’
Rosie scanned the skyline.
‘The top of the hill, above where the cars are parked.’
Silence.
‘Fuck! I see him.’ He hung up.
Rosie and Adrian sidled through the crowd, closer and closer to Boag, then, when they were only a few yards away, he turned and looked Rosie in the eye. He sprinted down the hill.
‘Hurry,’ Adrian said. ‘I’m going after him. Best if you wait.’
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve called the police. They saw him and they’ll go after him. Leave it to them.’
‘I’m going, Rosie. I can see him getting into a car. Can you give me your keys, please?’
Rosie looked at him.
‘I’m coming too. You drive.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Adrian drove out of the cemetery and followed the small dark blue car they’d seen Boag get into.
‘We’re sure it’s him, aren’t we?’ Rosie felt stupid for even asking, but her head had been so all over the place the last few days that she was beginning to question herself.
‘It’s him. He was looking at you. It’s what I noticed first. I’m watching the crowd and everyone is concentrating on the coffin and the priests, but this man was staring in your direction. Then, suddenly, I know who he is. I can’t believe he comes to the funeral.’
There were three cars in front, heading for the south side of the city, and Boag’s was in the middle.
‘Do you think he knows we’re following? I mean, do you think he wants us to follow him?’ Even saying it gave Rosie the creeps.
Adrian shot her a sideways glance.
‘Yes. I think he wants us to follow him. Listen to me, Rosie. I think I should drop you here, and let me go after him. I can get him. I want to get him. No police, just me and him. I can finish this today.’
Rosie’s gut was in knots. She was terrified of what she was doing, and all her instincts told her to stop the car and get out now. But
she couldn’t help herself.
‘No. I’m coming. I can’t let him win.’
Her mobile rang, and she saw Don’s name on the screen.
‘Rosie. We’re about four cars behind you. Is he ahead of you?’
‘Yes. There’s three cars in front of us, and he’s the second one. A small, dark blue car. Looks like a Ford Fiesta or something. We can see him.’
‘Good. I’m going to get some help. We’ll get him cut off at the top of the road. What the fuck is he playing at? Trying to get you to follow him?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘My friend.’
‘The Bosnian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen, Rosie. I want you to get out of the car now and leave this to us. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I hear you, Don. But I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
Suddenly there was a ferocious bang behind their car, and Don’s phone went dead.
‘Christ! What was that?’ Rosie turned around to look out of the back window. From the angle, it looked as though a lorry had come out of a side street and smashed into two cars from the side. She could see one of them overturn and land on its roof.
‘Is a crash.’ Adrian kept one eye on his rear-view mirror.
‘Shit. I think it’s the cop car. Or the one in front. I can’t see. My friend’s phone cut off.’ She tried to phone Don back, but it rang out.
‘We keep going. I can see him. He is turning off the main road.’
Boag’s car turned the corner, and Adrian slowed a few seconds before he also took the turn. They were leaving the main part of the Southside, and Rosie knew this road would take them out towards the countryside. They drove past some old buildings and a derelict boatyard, then up the rise of the hill where the steep embankment led down into a small stream.
‘Where’s he going?’ Rosie said. ‘There’s nothing much up here, except a few storage places and lock-ups. There’s the old sewerage works up there near the park.’
Adrian said nothing and kept driving behind him. Rosie began to feel more uneasy now that they were getting further from the city, with no protection from the police. She tried Don’s phone again, but it went to voicemail. He would have called back if he could. He must have been in the crash. She prayed he wasn’t seriously injured, and maybe his phone was just knocked out of service. They should turn back.
‘Adrian.’ She touched his arm. ‘We should leave it.’
‘Rosie.’ He slowed down a fraction, looked her in the eye. ‘Please. Let me stop and you can get out. I am staying with him. It finishes today.’
Rosie had seen that look in Adrian’s eye before. She couldn’t leave him to go on his own. She rang Don’s number again. Nothing. Then she dialled 999. A woman’s voice announced, ‘Fire police ambulance?’
‘Hello. My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m a journalist with the Post. Thomas Boag, the serial killer, is in the Southside of Glasgow. I am behind him in my car. The police were behind me but there’s been an accident.’
‘Where exactly are you, madam?’
Rosie looked around as Adrian drove up the winding road past some tall trees, away from the housing. Her mind was a blur. She couldn’t see Boag’s car in front any more. It was eerily quiet.
‘I came off Pollokshaws Road and now we’re going up the high road between trees . . . You know, where there’s a small stream running along the bottom of a steep bank. It’s . . . I think it’s close to the old sewerage works . . . I—’
‘Rosie,’ Adrian interrupted. ‘You should call Mulhearn. Maybe the police won’t come.’
She glanced at him, and saw a look as close to fear as she’d ever seen in his eyes. She scrolled down her phone.
She put the operator on hold and dialled Jonjo’s number.
‘Jonjo. It’s me, Rosie. I need your help. I—’
‘Where are you?’ Jonjo broke in.
‘I . . . I’m not sure. I’m chasing Boag, with my friend Adrian. We drove off Pollokshaws Road and we’re heading along that high road up towards the old sewerage works, I think. I can see tall trees, an embankment and a small stream. I think it’s a trap. We followed Boag from the old priest’s funeral. We’re at the top of the hill, close to the lock-ups. But I can’t see his car any more.’
‘I’m on my way. Don’t worry, Rosie. Keep your mobile free.’
He hung up.
Suddenly, there was a heavy thud and the back window shattered. Rosie dropped her mobile as the car thrust forward, her knees bashing against the bottom of the dashboard. She glanced at Adrian in time to see the second his head hit the windscreen in what seemed like slow motion. What the hell had happened? She grabbed Adrian’s arm. He was conscious, but bleeding from the head. Then there was a shadow at her side window, and she felt the door handle being yanked. She looked up and her blood ran cold. It was Boag. She bent down to pick up her mobile, the 999 call woman’s voice still on the line, saying ‘Hello? Are you there?’
Boag stood there, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his face sweating. He had a machete in his hand. He snatched her mobile and threw it over his shoulder, down the embankment. Rosie shrank back as he opened the door wide and reached in. Then he grabbed her arm and hauled her out of the car, beating the back of her legs with the machete as she struggled. But even though she could feel it cutting her flesh, there was no pain – just icy cold fear. As she fell to the ground, she could see that Adrian still looked woozy, but he made to open his door. In a flash, Boag leaned in the car, hacking wildly with the machete. Adrian moved away in time for it to miss his head, but the full force of it scythed into his leg. Rosie pulled herself up to her knees and gasped as she saw Adrian’s thigh opened up in a gaping gash, blood spurting everywhere. Adrian groaned, but couldn’t move. Then Boag turned to her and raised the machete above his head. She froze, unable to move, waiting to die. Nobody was coming. Not Mulhearn. Not the police. This was it. Then Boag grabbed her by the hair and spun her around. He placed his hand on her neck and squeezed so hard she almost passed out. As he dragged her backwards, she could see the shock on Adrian’s face, etched in pain as he tried to move but couldn’t. He tried to stem the blood pumping out of his leg.
‘Mulhearn will come, Adrian. He will. Hold on. Please . . . Please. Let me go.’ Rosie could hear her own muffled voice.
But Boag was silent as he dragged her away. She could see a doorway into a lock-up that was part of five similar storage places joined together. Boag kicked open the door and pulled her into the darkness. Then she heard the door closing. Where the hell was she? Then she felt a heavy blow to her head and blacked out.
*
When Rosie came to, she was lying on a wooden pallet on her back. Her legs were stiff and bruised, but she could feel stinging, torn flesh. Christ! If Boag had wanted to, he could have chopped through to the bone, but he’d been beating her with the machete to stop her struggling as he’d dragged her away. When she tried to move, she found her hands were tied above her head. She tugged at them, but her wrists hurt. She moved her legs a little but there was rope around her ankles tying her to the pallet. It was pitch black. She lay trying to catch her breath, the panic rising in her chest, trying to work out where she was. As her eyes began to adjust to the dark, she could see she was in some kind of pit. There was a strange, sweet, sickly smell. Then the reality of the familiar stench hit her – dead bodies, rotting corpses. As she peered into the darkness, she could feel water around her feet, but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. What if it got deeper and deeper and she drowned here, like this? She heard herself whimper. ‘Oh, God, help me,’ she whispered. Then there was the sound of sniggering.
‘God can’t help you now, Rosie Gilmour. It’s too late for God.’
Rosie turned, but she couldn’t see him. It was too dark to make out anything other than a shadow.
‘Please don’t do this,’ she pleaded. ‘They will find you. I called the police. Th
ey know where I am. They’ll be here soon.’
Silence.
‘Oh, the police? They’ll never find me. I’ve been all over this city. In shops, cafes, pubs. I’ve been under their noses and they still couldn’t find me. They’re not clever enough. And neither are you.’
‘Why are you doing this? How many people have you killed? What kind of monster does the things you do?’
Nothing. Then suddenly she was hit on the legs with some kind of metal rod.
‘Please! Stop! My legs! Help me!’
Silence. Just the sound of him breathing. Then he spoke.
‘I’m not going to help you, Rosie. This is the end for you. All that work, all those stories you did, exposing people. You think you and your stupid newspaper run the world. But you’re nothing down here. I’m in charge.’
‘Fuck you, Boag! My investigation got you in jail. You butchered two innocent young men, you twisted bastard! And you murdered your neighbour. You’re sick.’
Again the sniggering.
‘Aye. But look at you now.’ He suddenly thrust something in front of her. In the darkness she could see it was a piece of limb, a leg. She shrank back.
‘You know who this is?’
She shook her head. ‘Get away!’
‘It’s her.’ Boag grinned. ‘The head I sent you? These are the other parts of her. I just took them out of the freezer yesterday, so you could see. She thought she was clever too – watching me, sneaking around that flat below me, trying to find out what I was doing. But that wasn’t clever. Interfering bitch.’
‘You’re a bloody psycho.’
‘Aye. But what does that make you? You came after me! I knew you would. Because you might be clever, but you are also stupid.’
*
In the passenger seat of his blacked-out Range Rover, Jonjo carefully loaded six bullets into his revolver. But the bullets were only for use if things got really out of hand. He wasn’t planning on shooting Thomas Boag. No. That twisted cunt wasn’t going to get an easy path out of this world. He reached down into the sock above his desert boots, pulled out the leather pouch, and took out his open razor, unfolded it, touched the blade, then folded it back and returned it to the pouch. He could see Danny, his driver, glance out of the corner of his eye as they sped over the Kingston Bridge, and off the slip road onto Kilmarnock Road. Jonjo pushed the pouch back into his sock and secured it.