by Anna Smith
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rosie sat at the bar in O’Brien’s sipping a gin and tonic. She’d made her mind up before she left the office that she’d go there tonight, just for one drink. Call it a homage to Don, but in an odd way, this was where she felt closer to him. So many shared moments, stories, swapping information, had gone on at this bar, that she had to come back and have one last drink and raise a glass to her old friend. She felt like throwing it back quickly, followed by a second. On another day, when a story she’d busted her gut on had made it onto the front page, the first two drinks wouldn’t have touched the sides. But the thought of waking up with a hangover, or worse, waking in the middle of the night alone, during one of her fevered nightmares, forced her to take it easy. She was sitting here in the bar doing the usual things, going through the motions of watching the early evening punters downing champagne, but right now, she felt she was looking at it from a different place. She hoped it would pass, this feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her think that nothing would ever be the same again. It wouldn’t be. But life had to go on. It had to. She didn’t want big changes in her life. Losing Don had brought a deep sadness to it, but she also didn’t want to become this jumpy, nervous wreck that she was right now. It would pass, she told herself, as she took another sip. Life goes on. The rules were this: you might sit for a time on the sidelines feeling overwhelmed and paralysed by it all. But sooner or later you picked yourself up and got on with it, or you were left behind. She’d known that from an early age, and even her experience of yesterday wasn’t going to change that. She wished Father Dunnachie was still alive, then she might have knocked on his door and told him how she was feeling. A lump came to her throat and she tightened her lips.
The silver-haired barman from Donegal watched her from further down the bar as she finished her drink, then came up with another gin and tonic for her. He slid it across the bar.
‘On the house, Rosie. From Don.’ He winked, pouring himself a small whisky. ‘I’m sorry you lost your friend. I saw it on television last night. I used to enjoy the craic between the two of you.’ He raised a glass. ‘Let’s drink to him. He would have liked that.’
Rosie smiled, swallowing the lump in her throat.
‘Here’s looking at you, Don.’ She knocked back a good slug of her drink, as the barman did the same.
*
Molly O’Dwyer sat in the waiting room of Barlinnie Prison, looking around her at the young women, dolled up to the nines to meet their men inside. Some had young children on their laps, visiting the fathers they’d probably grow up emulating because there was little chance of them seeing anything different in the shabby housing schemes, where crime lords ran the show, and ordinary families didn’t stand a chance. Molly asked herself how she had come to this. Where had she gone wrong? she’d asked herself again and again. She’d gone wrong from the moment she married Rory O’Dwyer, she’d concluded. Her whole life had been about doing what she was told without protest. And if she did rear up, she was slapped down without mercy. She’d put up with his bullying and brutality, keeping quiet about his crimes over the years, but what she’d overheard that day in the kitchen had sent her over the edge. He had covered for Timmy when he knew he had murdered his own flesh and blood. She could never forgive him. Now that she was out, she was terrified, but there was a liberating feeling too, that she’d never felt in her entire life. Where she came from, as a teenage girl, you were married off to your first real boyfriend and it was him who determined how you led your life. She had never been free before. And now she was. Since she’d bailed out of the house a few days ago and gone to Spain, Molly agonised over what her son had done, the reporter’s words ringing in her ears. She finally found the confidence to come back, now that Rory, Finn and Timmy were being held by police. But she knew she wouldn’t have long, because their lawyers were shit hot, and had bailed them out so many times before. She didn’t want to see Rory’s face ever again. Or Finbar’s. She was here to see Timmy and that was all. She looked at her watch. Her flight back to Alicante was at eight this evening, so as soon as this was over she’d head straight to the airport and get out for all time.
The big prison warden came in, scanned the room, and told people to follow him through the security checks. She watched the others, used to the routine, as they went through the door into some kind of locker room where they were met by officers. They took their handbags off them, searched them and stored them in a locker. She didn’t want to give hers up as her passport was in it, but she had no choice. She was horrified when the prison officer asked her to open her mouth so he could examine inside in case she was smuggling drugs.
She waited in the room, sat at a table just a few feet away from the other families, and looked up as the prisoners were led in. Then she saw Timmy, his face grey with worry but the eyes still with that dark, mad look they always had. She felt nothing. No twinge of sadness. Only anger and disgust. He began to crumple when he saw her, and he went towards her with his arms outstretched.
‘Don’t!’ she spat. ‘Don’t touch me!’
‘But, Ma! Look at the state of me! They beat the shit out of me. They kidnapped me and they forced me to confess to something I didn’t do. My head was all over the place. I can’t believe they did this.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Ma!’
‘Shut up!’ She leaned closer to him, lowered her voice. ‘You listen to me, Timmy O’Dwyer, and listen good. Don’t give me your shite. I never want to see your face again, in or out of here. I know what you did. You’re despicable. I heard you telling your father and Finn that afternoon what you did. That poor girl . . .’ She began to fill up and bit back tears. ‘You’re evil.’
‘But, Ma!’
‘Don’t you “but Ma” me! How could you? How could you kill your own flesh and blood?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Ma! I got scared. Da would have gone mental.’
‘You bastard! I would have taken the baby in, no problem. I would have loved her. You killed your own daughter. You should roast in hell, you demented fucker.’
‘Ma, I didn’t mean it.’
‘It doesn’t matter. And you killed that poor young student couple. Two people on the threshold of their lives. Two innocent people. Do you seriously think you are going to get away with that?’
‘Da’s got lawyers.’
‘Lawyers? A lawyer will not absolve your rotten stinking soul for what you’ve done. You should roast in hell. You listen to me, if you’ve got a scrap of decency in that sick twisted mind of yours, then you’ll do the only good thing you’ve ever done in your life and make a full confession to the police.’
‘Aw, Ma!’
‘What do you think is going to happen to you? You have no place anywhere because of what you did. You can’t help these poor people you murdered now. It’s too late. But you can at least admit to the police that you did it. God knows it might give a scrap of comfort to the poor families, though I don’t think so.’
They sat in silence.
‘Ma, I’m sorry. I really am. I just lost my head . . . I—’
‘Shut up!’ She looked around at the prison officer, then glared at her son. Her insides were churning but she was driven by her anger and disgust. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’ She stood up. ‘Do as I say. And may you roast in hell, and let the last faces you see be that little baby and her mother.’ She turned and walked away. She was almost buckling as she tried to hold back the tears, making her way through security, until she got all the way out of the prison gates. Then she broke down.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rosie was walking in the front door of the Post’s office when her mobile rang in her jacket pocket. She fished it out and saw there was no name on the screen. She pressed the phone to her ear and could hear breathing.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Is that Rosie Gilmour?’
‘Who’s speaking? No name came up.’
‘Listen. Is
that Rosie? I’ve got a message from Jonjo.’
Rosie stopped at the top of the stairs for a second, then walked towards her desk.
‘Yes. This is Rosie.’
‘Okay. Right. Listen, I’m going to tell you where to go if you want to find Boag.’
Rosie’s heart jumped.
‘Is he alive?’
‘No.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘If you go up to Drumchapel and head into the Bluebell Woods, you’ll find him there.’
Rosie sat down, conscious of Declan watching her. She took out her notebook, phone still pressed to her ear.
‘But that’s a big place.’
‘Go a hundred yards in, and you’ll see a wee shed thing. It used to be a gatehouse but it’s disused now.’ He paused. ‘He’s in there.’
Rosie let it sink in for a moment. What if it was a trap again? No. It couldn’t be. Whoever was calling was doing it on behalf of Jonjo.
‘Listen. Why didn’t Jonjo phone me himself? He has my number.’
‘He said he’ll phone you once you get there.’
‘Is he going to meet me?’
‘No. Just go there if you want to find Boag. That’s all I was told to say. All right?’
‘Okay. I’ll go right away.’
‘Right. Don’t hang about. He’s been there for a few days already.’
He hung up. Rosie sat back and shook her head. She let out a sigh.
‘Jesus, Dec! That was a call telling me where to find Boag’s body.’
‘Shit! Seriously?’
‘Yep.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better tell McGuire.’
As she was walking to her office, she saw Matt at the picture desk and waved him over.
‘Listen,’ she said, walking him into a corner, ‘I’ve just had a call from someone saying Jonjo told him to phone me. He’s told me where I can find Boag’s body.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Matt looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ll get my gear.’
‘Don’t say anything to the picture editor yet. I’m going to see Mick first. Let me tell him. We need to keep this tight.’
Matt nodded. ‘I’ll be here waiting for you.’
*
Marion was at her desk and Rosie nodded her head towards the editor’s open door.
‘Yeah, he’s in.’
She knocked on the door and walked in. McGuire looked up as she approached.
‘Gilmour. How you doing? You look a bit more rested. Did you get a night’s sleep?’
‘Yeah, thanks. I feel a bit better today. But listen, Mick, I’ve just had a call from someone on behalf of Jonjo Mulhearn. He’s told me where I can find Boag’s body.’
‘Oh fuck! Is it genuine?’
‘It has to be. The caller wouldn’t give his name, but phoned my mobile and said Jonjo told him to call.’
‘Why didn’t he phone himself?’
‘I asked that myself. He said Jonjo told him he would call me when I get there.’
‘Holy fuck! I’m loving this. Best news is that the bastard is dead. I really hope it’s genuine. So where is it?’
‘Up in Bluebell Woods, Drumchapel. It’s a big place, but he’s been quite specific.’
The editor stood up and came out from behind his desk.
‘We’re going to have to call the cops.’
‘I know, but I want to get five minutes before they get there so Matt can get a picture. Once they’re in, the whole place will be sealed off.’
McGuire rubbed his chin.
‘Right. We should really phone them now, in case it’s some kind of trap.’
‘How can it be a trap?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want you walking into some death trap. I can’t cope with much more of that.’
‘Aye, cheers, Mick. I’m having a few sleepless nights myself.’ Rosie couldn’t help but smile.
‘You know what I mean.’ Mick grinned.
‘Tell you what. I’ll call the cops in plenty of time. I’ll phone and see if I can speak to that big DI Morton. He seems all right.’ She shook her head. ‘This is when I miss Don. I could have phoned him and he’d have dealt with it and brought the troops up with him. But I don’t have any history with this DI, apart from pissing him off a bit when I handed Tadi over.’ She took out her mobile and dialled the police HQ, letting it ring as she turned to McGuire. ‘With a bit of cooperation from him, he’ll let me and Matt be in the woods no longer than a couple of minutes before they come in. Matt won’t take long to bag a few pics.’
‘It’s dodgy. But what I’d give to get a pic of that twisted bastard strung up. I hope they’ve chopped him up.’
‘I’m not sure I want to see that; it will be good enough for me if he’s off the face of the earth.’
She turned to go.
‘Phone me as soon as you see what’s what.’ He pointed his finger. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yeah. I hear you. I will, no problem. I’ll call your mobile.’
She turned and left the room, joined Matt at the top of the stairs, and they walked briskly to his car.
*
They had already driven up to Drumchapel and were heading for the Bluebell Woods area, when Rosie became aware that she and Matt had barely spoken. He suddenly glanced at her and touched her knee.
‘How you feeling, Rosie? I didn’t get a chance to talk to you yesterday with everything that was going on. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about all that shit you went through, after I saw your story.’
Rosie sighed, gazing out of the windscreen. She hadn’t really wanted to revisit those moments right now, but Matt was one of her closest friends, and they’d been through so much together, so he knew how she would feel.
‘I’m getting through it. Day by day – hour by hour, if I’m honest. I actually slept last night, but I’m not sure the real trauma has sunk in yet. It’s one of these things that will come back to haunt me again and again, and pop up any time. You know what it’s like. I had a bit of a panic attack meltdown yesterday. I was with Adrian, and thank God I was, because he was really supportive.’
‘Yeah. Well he’s been through a lot himself.’
‘He was great. And it’s good to talk about it, I suppose, but I’m trying right now to concentrate on this. I don’t know what I’ll feel like if Boag is actually there.’
‘Well, I’ll be doing cartwheels to get a picture exclusive. Sorry to be so crass, but what a result it would be.’
Rosie’s mobile rang but there was no name on the mobile number that came up.
‘Hello, Rosie? DI Jim Morton. Sorry I missed your call. I was in a meeting. How are you doing?’
‘I’m all right, Jim. Thanks for getting back.’ She’d left a message for him at Pitt Street earlier. ‘Look. I’ve got some really good information here from a contact telling me where to find Boag.’
‘Seriously? Where is he?’
‘Well, the thing is, Jim, I want to ask you if you could possibly maybe turn the other way for a couple of minutes so I can get in there with my photographer to get a picture of him – that’s if Boag is really there.’
Silence. Rosie waited.
‘Rosie. Listen to me. I want to be clear here. I know you had a friendship with Don, and I respect that. I’m an old-fashioned cop in many ways and I think there should be a bit of come and go with reporters like yourself. But as you were told when you handed over that Kosovan lad to us: you are not running the show here – we are. So really, you have to tell me where you’re going, as I presume you are on your way there now?’
‘Yes. I am. But I just want a couple of minutes—’
‘You’re not listening, Rosie. You don’t even know what you’re walking into. It could be a trap.’
‘I’m sure it’s not. Look, it’s only two minutes. I’ll phone this number just before I get to the place so you can be on your way. By the time I get into the spot where I’m told Boag is, you’ll be almost outside.’
‘I’m not dictating. I’m leading you to where you will find the body. Come on. There has to be a bit of give and take. It’s only fair.’
‘Christ! Right. What area is it in? You need to tell me that.’
‘It’s up in Drumchapel.’
‘Fine. If you’re heading there now, how far away are you from the spot?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘I expect a phone call in less than ten minutes. I’m on my way to Drumchapel now. But this is really bang out of order, Rosie. And you need to know that. We need to have a serious talk when this is over. You’re lucky you’ve not been charged – so far.’
Rosie could hear the frustration in his voice, but she knew she’d won him over.
‘Of course. I’ll be happy to do that. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’
‘Make sure you do.’
*
Matt pulled his car onto the dirt track road that led into the Bluebell Woods. It stopped after a hundred yards and the rest would be on foot. It was a well-known haunt for kids and teenagers, and there were remains of beer cans and areas where there had been fires lit. As they got out of the car, the sun disappeared behind the trees, and suddenly it was dark and eerie as they looked at the narrow path stretching into the woods. Rosie got out of the car and pressed the DI’s number.
‘I’m at the Bluebell Woods, Jim. The main entrance. There’s a gatehouse about a hundred yards in. That’s where I’m told Boag is.’
‘Fine. I’ll be there in less than five minutes. Be careful. You’re off your bloody head.’ He hung up.
‘It’s a bit creepy-looking,’ Rosie said as they started to walk in. ‘Do you know this place, Matt?’