A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) Read Online Free Page A

Everyone else was too petrified to move. But she got off her mark.’
    ‘Really. I wonder why?’
    ‘I’m guessing she didn’t want to talk to the cops. Maybe she was on the run. Or she was part of it too, maybe, with the men.’
    Rosie tried not to smile.
    ‘That’s a bit of a vivid imagination you’ve got there, Karen. Have you told the police all this?’
    ‘Yeah. I did. They said they’ve interviewed nearly everyone in the café and the ones they haven’t got full interviews from yet, they’ve given their addresses. But they didn’t say anything about the girl.’
    ‘So maybe she’s got in touch. They’re not going to tell you that, are they?’
    Karen shrugged.
    ‘She was probably part of it. I told them that.’
    ‘Based on what, though, Karen?’ Rosie asked, surprised.
    ‘Just a feeling.’
    Rosie nodded. She’d heard more than enough. Whoever the girl was in the café, this daft waitress had condemned her as an accessory to murder. God spare us from amateur sleuths. She drank her coffee and left a fiver tip for Karen.
    ‘See you again, Karen.’ She slipped her business card into the top pocket of the waitress’s blouse.
    *
    Rosie made a cursory trip to the address she had for Mahoney’s block of flats but, as she suspected, there was a uniformed Met officer at the entrance, so she couldn’t even knock on the neighbours’ doors. By early afternoon, she was back in her hotel bedroom, putting her story together for tomorrow’s
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while trying to negotiate her way through a room-service club sandwich. Why did they do that to a sandwich? Stack it up like a multistorey so that you had to eat it with a knife and fork? By the time she’d given up on it, the plate looked like someone had trampled all over it.
    She reread her copy, keeping one eye on Sky News in the corner. They still had Mahoney’s murder high up on their news list, but there were no new lines. Her email pinged with copy from Declan, the young reporter back at the
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, assigned as her legman on the Scottish end. He’d already been to the Mahoney house, but the wife was saying nothing, was surrounded by friends and old colleagues of her husband, and too upset to speak. Her sons were on their way back from abroad. From Declan’s copy, it seemed like Mahoney was hugely respected and revered after a lifetime at Glasgow University. Rosie had written a colour piece on the scene inside the murder café based on what she had from the waitress. But she hadn’t decided what to do with Karen’s line about the ‘Scottish’ woman who left the scene before the police arrived. She’d run it past McGuire, let him decide. Her mobile rang.
    ‘Hey, Andy. If you’ve got a scoop you’re not sharing with me, I hope you’ve got fire insurance – because I’ll hunt you down,’ Rosie joked.
    ‘Would I ever, sweetheart.’ Andy’s voice was gravelly from last night’s booze and chain-smoking. ‘How you doing, darlin’? That was a great night. I was a bit shagged this morning, though – or, in fact, not shagged, if you get my drift.’
    Rosie smiled to herself.
    ‘I do. What you up to? I’ve been round to Mahoney’s flat, but a cop’s on the door. Couldn’t get near enough to doorstep any neighbours.’ She decided not to tell him about the supposedly Scottish woman who did a runner from the café, though from the way Karen blabbed to everyone, she wouldn’t be surprised if he already knew.
    ‘Not much to go on. I’ve had a nod that the flat isn’t in Mahoney’s name, so I don’t know if it’s a relative or a friend, or whatever. I’m trying to check it out.’
    He told Rosie the name and she wrote it in her notebook.
    ‘Is there nothing from the police at your end to suggest who would want to bump this guy off? What about his mate – Hawkins? Anything from him?’
    ‘Too upset to talk. He’s on his way back to Glasgow as we speak.’ He paused. ‘To be honest, Rosie, this won’t run and run here unless it opens up a