Death Trap: Rosie Gilmour 8

by Anna Smith

  Rosie let out a sigh.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I really hope I don’t have to fight with the cops. I’m knackered. Frazzled and knackered.’

  ‘You need to see a doctor, Rosie. You can’t just walk out of here and go home as if nothing happened. You should talk to a professional – a counsellor or something.’

  She was silent for a moment, aware that McGuire and Hanlon were looking at her with well-meaning expressions. She felt a lump come to her chest and she swallowed hard.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  TJ was back in Glasgow, and only vaguely aware that she’d been in some trouble. He was coming to meet her in an hour at the office. Right now, he was the only counselling she wanted. She wondered where Adrian had got to. She hadn’t even phoned him to ask about his leg.

  McGuire went back behind his desk and picked up some papers.

  ‘I’ve got a conference in ten minutes. I’ve had a couple of calls from other papers as the news has filtered out that you’ve been kidnapped by Boag. So we’ll need to think about how we handle this, Rosie.’

  Hanlon looked at her.

  ‘Would you be up for an interview? A press conference?’

  Rosie shook her head. Right now she couldn’t trust herself to speak in front of anyone without breaking down.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so right now. To be honest, I’d rather just sit down and write it for us. We could put it in the paper and let the rest of them lift it. If anyone wants to talk to me tomorrow, I might be in better shape.’

  McGuire smiled. ‘I was hoping you would say that. But you realise it is going to look a bit vague when you write that you were rescued by someone you don’t know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But once you say it, and it goes in the paper, you have to stick to that line. You have to believe it yourself,’ Hanlon said, then he grinned. ‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing like the truth, as we say.’

  ‘I know. I’m convincing myself right now.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ Hanlon said. ‘Come on down to the canteen with me and we can sit for a while.’

  Rosie got up as he did and they both headed towards the door. She turned to McGuire.

  ‘I’ll get a bite to eat, then go to my office and just write it, Mick. I’ll let it run and run. Get it off my chest. Maybe I’ll feel better.’

  McGuire winked at her. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  *

  They had just finished drinking their coffees when Rosie’s mobile rang: it was Marion to say that the cops had arrived to talk to her. As they headed upstairs, Rosie rang Don’s mobile again, but still no answer. Big DI Morton was already in McGuire’s office, accompanied by a female detective. The DI shook her hand and McGuire motioned them all to sit down. She couldn’t quite work out why the DI looked so grim-faced, and hoped he wasn’t about to tell her she was getting arrested.

  ‘How are you, Rosie?’ he said, his eyes fixing hers.

  ‘I’m shattered,’ she replied. ‘But I’m alive.’

  There followed an awkward silence and Rosie looked from the cops to McGuire, who was as grim-faced as them.

  ‘Listen, Rosie,’ the DI said. ‘I’ve got some bad news for you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We lost a detective today. In a car crash. He was following you, when you were in pursuit of Boag. I believe he’s a friend of yours. Detective Sergeant Don Elliot.’

  Rosie’s stomach dropped. Christ almighty, not Don.

  ‘Oh God!’ she murmured, both hands to her mouth. ‘Oh my God! I’ve been trying to phone him. Jesus! I thought maybe his phone was busted. I . . . I . . . It was my fault. I phoned him from the graveside to tell him Boag was there. Oh, Christ! Don was a really good friend. I’ve known him a long time.’

  She shook her head. Inside she was choking to say how close they’d been for years; that he was one of the best, most caring friends she’d ever had; that he was always there when she needed him, kindred spirits sometimes brought together by a shared loneliness which they laughed off over a few drinks and banter. The fact that he was one of her most crucial contacts who helped her with information when all the doors were closed didn’t matter a damn right now. She was never going to see Don again.

  The DI sighed. ‘I gathered that. I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man and a fine detective. He was being moved up to detective inspector in the next few months, but he hadn’t been told yet.’

  Rosie managed a half-smile. She imagined how Don would have loved that. How they’d have celebrated, got drunk together, and enjoyed his big moment.

  ‘He’d have been so proud of that, Inspector. I know he was a good detective. He cared about people. Was he . . .’ She paused, an image flashing up of the crashed cars she’d seen through her visor mirror. ‘Was he killed outright?’ She couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering.

  The DI nodded. ‘He was. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene.’ He paused. ‘So, at least he didn’t suffer. It was a massive head injury when the car overturned.’

  She wondered if there had been a second before he died, when he realised it was happening, and if he raged against it, or if he quietly accepted death. She hoped he had found a moment of peace.

  She looked at the cop and then at McGuire, who gave her an understanding grimace.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie.’

  She swallowed hard. She needed to get this interview over with and get out of here.

  ‘Can we start my statement, please? I have to put my piece together from today for tomorrow’s paper.’

  *

  Rosie walked alone along the corridor off the editorial floor and went into her office, after the interview was over. She was so numbed from the shock of Don’s death that everything that happened to her today didn’t feel important any more. She knew it would, though, and it would come back to haunt her again and again. But right now she needed to be by herself. She closed the office door and shut the vertical blinds. She went behind her desk and pulled up a blank document on the screen, then sat back, staring at it, not sure where to start. How do you put the cold fear of death into words? How do you tell that for a second it crossed your mind that death would be a relief; that perhaps you’d finally see the people you loved and lost, who visit you in your dreams, instead of the constant void left behind by them? Rosie swallowed back her tears, picturing herself up to her neck in the pit of water, choking and trying to breathe. You never, ever give up, she told herself. You do it for them, because they cannot be here. She began to write, her fingers trembling on the keys, cold sweat on her back.

  I have no right to be alive to tell this story. But I am . . .

  When she finished she sat back and read it quickly, recalling every terrifying moment. Then she pinged it to McGuire and swung her feet onto the desk. Her mobile rang. It was TJ.

  ‘Rosie. I’m outside. Sweet Jesus! I’m hearing terrible things. Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, choked. ‘I . . . I just want to go home.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Rosie awoke she was curled into a ball in her bed, arms and legs stiff as though she’d been holding onto them all night. She turned onto her back and looked out at the pale grey morning sky, her first thought of Don and the realisation that she’d never see him again. Sadness washed over her and she closed her eyes for a second. He would want her to tough this out, and he’d have told her as much over a couple of gins at O’Brien’s. She swung her legs out of the bed. The aroma of coffee floated through the open bedroom door, and she could hear cutlery and plates being rattled in the kitchen. The familiar sounds she often woke up with that meant TJ had stayed over. He’d be making breakfast and he would kid her about keeping him awake all night, or they’d talk about where they’d been the night before, how they’d drunk too much. It would be as though nothing had changed. But it had. Last night, when they got home, they’d shared a bottle of red wine while eating a takeaway
, which she picked at. She’d talked animatedly of the whole story, of her rescue, told every cough and splutter of it as he sat mesmerised, shaking his head. She knew he’d wanted to say that this was enough, that now, if ever there was a time to call it a day, this was it. The way their relationship was these days, he didn’t nag her about her job the way he used to. But this was different. Whatever she did next, whatever investigation or story she uncovered or reported, she would surely never come this close to death again, and a horrible death such as the one she’d just been spared. TJ didn’t need to say it. She knew it herself. She should be getting out. But in the same moment she could hear herself saying it inside her head, she knew she couldn’t. There was nowhere else to go. Sure, she could fill her life no problem, travel the world, write a book, sit on a beach. But this was who she was. She had to find a way through, and she would.

  Her mobile rang and it was Adrian.

  ‘Adrian. How are you? I meant to phone last night, but it all got a bit—’

  ‘I’m fine. No problem. But you, Rosie. Are you all right? I was so worried about you, but didn’t want to phone.’

  ‘I’m okay. Your leg?’

  ‘Is fixed. A doctor friend of Jonjo fixed it. And the other man, Danny. He fixed him, but he was in a bad way.’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘I’m at my friend’s house. Will I see you?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know what happened to Boag?’

  Silence.

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Did Jonjo take him?’

  ‘Yes. But better if we don’t know.’

  Rosie said nothing. Best to leave it.

  ‘Adrian, I have to go to work, but I’ll call you later and we can meet.’

  ‘Okay. Is good. Be careful.’

  ‘Boag is gone, I hope. I won’t be so frightened.’

  She hung up. Rosie knew it was bravado. There was a nervous knot in her stomach, like an aftershock. She pushed it away.

  *

  Rosie stood at the kitchen door for a few seconds, watching TJ make French toast, shaking the bread in the pan. He turned around, as though sensing her presence. He pushed the pan off the gas and came towards her.

  ‘Hey, you.’ He put his arms around her and she caught a whiff of his freshly showered body and felt the softness of his face. ‘How are you feeling? If that’s not a stupid question?’

  ‘Glad to be here having breakfast with you, if that’s not a stupid answer.’ She hugged him. ‘I’m all right – I think.’ She pulled away from him and scanned his face, knowing he was studying her, knowing he was looking at the shadows under her eyes. He caressed her hair.

  ‘You’ll be all right, darling.’

  ‘I’ll have a quick shower,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll need to turn up at work quite soon.’

  ‘You could take the morning off,’ he said. Then he glanced at Sky News blaring in the living room. ‘Though judging by the news you’re a major celebrity, so I don’t suppose you’ll get much peace today.’

  Rosie turned to watch it. She winced at Boag’s face on the screen, and an image flashed back to her of his pasty face crouched over her, knife in hand. She blinked it away. She was glad the volume on the television was low. She didn’t want to hear it right now.

  ‘I’ll probably have to give some kind of interview,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to do it in the public glare, because I’m not telling the truth about everything.’

  ‘You don’t have to lie. Just be economical with the truth.’

  She smiled at the thought, but her mind was far away.

  ‘Yep, that’s it.’ She turned and went down the hall and into the bathroom.

  She stood in the shower with her eyes closed as the warm water rained down on her, feeling it sting a little at first on the back of her hacked legs and the wound in her chest. Then it felt good. She was grateful to be alive and doing this simple thing.

  *

  The day had flown past in a whirlwind of more meetings with police, and two interviews – one for television that would be shared with other media, and one with the Press Association. Rosie knew both reporters well, and she knew they would hate being this side of the interview as much as she did, but she had to get it over with.

  She was glad to get out of the office and walk to the end of the road where she’d arranged to meet Adrian, but as soon as she walked outside into the drizzle, the knot came back to her stomach like a punch. Shit. Deal with it, she told herself. These moments had happened before, usually after a trauma. It was like a kind of grim reaper nudging her along, saying that no matter how much bravado you have, your nerves are in shreds, and they will jump up and bite you at a time of their choosing. She’d been twitchy this morning even going into the office. And now, outside in the traffic, she was glad of the walk, glad to feel the rain on her face. But suddenly the drone of the traffic seemed louder. A horn honked and she jumped. She was just tired, she told herself. Then she felt nauseous and had a sudden urge to run back inside, to the safety of the walls. She glanced over her shoulder at the Post building, thought about walking back. What the Christ? A panic attack. Step on it right now, Gilmour. You have to. But as she walked on, she could hardly catch a breath and felt light-headed. She could see the cafe in the distance, and she quickened her step. Just a hundred yards. She wanted to run, but her legs felt like lead. Calm down. She looked over her shoulder. Someone was following her. But there was nobody. Once she reached the cafe, she slumped against the window, eyes closed, her heart pounding. Suddenly the door opened and she felt a hand on her. She jumped. It was Adrian.

  ‘Rosie.’ He looked startled and worried. ‘What? Are you sick?’

  He caught her just before she buckled.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Adrian. I . . . I . . . Oh Christ!’ She slumped into his arms.

  ‘Come on. Inside. Have some tea and sit down. It’s just the shock.’

  Rosie allowed him to lead her inside. She was beginning to feel the attack subside. She’d had them before, and they always made her feel like she was going to die. Of course, nobody died of a panic attack, but when they gripped her like that, it felt as though there was no way out. She sat down, and Adrian went to the counter and ordered tea, then sat opposite, watching her, holding her hand as the waitress brought the tea over. She eyed Rosie as though she knew her from somewhere. The news was blaring on the television mounted on the wall, and Rosie saw the girl going back behind the counter and talking to the woman, then pointing to the television.

  ‘I’m okay, now. Sorry about that, Adrian. It was . . . it was . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It’s happened before, but not outside like that. I mean, it just overwhelms me.’ She took a breath. ‘Then yesterday, the police told me that Don, my detective friend, was killed in that car crash. Remember the car behind us? They were following us, and we saw it.’

  He nodded, shocked.

  ‘That’s bad, Rosie. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We’d been friends for years. He died chasing after me trying to get Boag. I feel a bit responsible . . . a lot responsible.’

  ‘You must not feel bad like that. He is a policeman. He was doing his job. He would have been after Boag if he’d have seen him first. It is not your fault.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Rosie sighed. ‘I think that’s why it all got on top of me and the panic came just there.’

  He nodded. ‘I know these things. You are not alone. When . . . After my wife . . . After the war, I had times like that. Many times. Like I am afraid, but I know I am not afraid. I had no control.’

  She looked at him, surprised that he suffered them, but more surprised that a man who played his cards so close to his chest would admit it.

  ‘Really? You had them too? It’s hard to imagine you feeling like that. You’re always so . . . so in control, strong.’

  ‘Yes. And I am strong. But there were times when I felt like you just now. But you must know it is nothing. It will pass.’

  ‘It’s passing already.
I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’m frazzled with exhaustion, apart from everything that happened.’

  ‘You will feel better soon. Would be good if you could have a holiday.’ He rubbed Rosie’s hand. ‘I’m going back in a couple of days. Come with me, Rosie. Come to Sarajevo. Like . . . like before, we can relax. You like the place . . . I . . . I mean . . . I know not like before, but for you to rest. To put yesterday behind you.’

  He sounded so enthusiastic, as though he’d been thinking about it all night, that Rosie felt choked.

  ‘Oh, Adrian! I . . . I don’t know. When I’m like this, sometimes it’s best just to work through it. Keep busy.’

  ‘But you must have a rest. Not just three or four days. Would be good to be far away. Nobody can touch you in Sarajevo.’

  She reached across and touched his face, felt the urge to kiss him.

  ‘I know. I know. I’ll have to wait a couple of days and see how it is. I still have the other story I’m working on – Tadi and the O’Dwyers. I need to see it through.’

  Adrian nodded, a little crestfallen. ‘I understand. But know that I am here. Always. In Sarajevo or anywhere. My friend. Like from the very beginning. We have seen many things together.’ He shook his head as though he barely believed it himself.

  Rosie smiled.

  ‘I know. So many things. You are always there for me. Especially right now when I nearly passed out. I’m so grateful to you, Adrian.’

  They were silent for a long moment. Then he looked at her and sat back, pushing his hand through his hair.

  ‘I wanted Jonjo to leave Boag to me, but I think he wanted revenge.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘I won’t be surprised if his body is found any day now.’

  They sat, saying nothing, drinking their tea, holding hands. It felt so natural. But part of Rosie felt guilty, because if TJ had walked in, he would think the worst. But he’d be wrong, because whatever had gone on in the past with Adrian, whatever feeling she had now – that if she was honest with herself was not just physical but a deep love and trust – she knew that this was all it could ever be. Like this. She felt safe and protected, and loved.