A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) (9 page)

‘You’d be safe here. We could be together every day. Every night . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘Christ, Rosie!’

There was a long silence, then TJ spoke
.

‘Is there something going on with Adrian and you? I know you’re close, I know he means a lot to you with everything you’ve been through. If I’m honest, it’s crossed my mind before.’

‘What? Jesus, TJ! Nothing’s ever happened between me and Adrian. I promise.’ Rosie wanted to hit back. ‘And anyway, what about the time I called you and Kat was in your apartment over there? You managed not to tell me that.’

‘I told you. It wasn’t important.’

‘What wasn’t?’ Anger, jealousy and paranoia simmered. She knew she was going too far, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Have you been involved with her?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie. How many times . . .’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I told you I won’t discuss anything like that with you. It’s irrelevant.’

‘But you ask me about Adrian?’

‘Because you’re in the middle of a crisis, with your life at risk, and you’re fucking off to see him and not me. That tells me a lot.’

‘It tells you nothing – other than the fact that I don’t want to be in New York.’

‘With me.’

‘TJ . . . I can’t do this right now.’

There was a long pause, and she could hear him breathing
.

‘You know what, Rosie. I can’t do it either. I . . . I can’t do it at all . . . Maybe we should both take the next couple of months to think about things. To be honest, I told you a long time ago you weren’t ready. And you know what? You’re still not ready. I don’t think you’ll ever be ready, Rosie . . . As long as there’s the job, the people you meet on it . . . All that shit. That’s what drives you, and right now I can see it’s driving you away from me. Because when the chips are down it’s not me you’re coming to. It’s some guy you met on the job.’

‘TJ. Listen.’

‘No, Rosie. I need to go.’

She could hear the rage and hurt in his voice, and she pictured his grey eyes, the little laughter creases around them, and could see the sadness in his expression. She missed him already. Christ almighty! What was she doing?

‘TJ.’

‘Go to Bosnia, Rosie. Just go. Let’s not say anything right now, or we both might say something we regret.’

And with that, he had hung up.

*

Rosie finished her coffee and stood up. If she didn’t give herself a shake she’d be engulfed with melancholy and guilt all day. She was still trying to make some sense out of the situation in Bosnia with Adrian. She’d get her head around it all eventually, she told herself as she padded along the hall and into the shower.

More than half of the houses in the street were derelict, with steel front doors and bricked-up windows. ‘Fuck the polis’ was spray-painted on the grimy rough-cast walls and alongside it a childlike drawing of a man’s private parts. Only three or four flats in each block showed any signs of being occupied in the long grey row of drab houses. If hope had ever existed here, it had shrivelled and died among those left behind when the rest had moved on in search of a stab at a decent life. Four children bounced on an abandoned sofa in the front garden of a block of empty flats. They stopped when the car pulled up and eyed it suspiciously.

‘Welcome to Blackhill.’ Rosie turned to the taxi driver. ‘The land opportunity forgot.’

He glanced at her then stared miserably back out of the window. ‘You going to be a while up there? If I sit around here too long some of these wee bastards will start noising me up.’

Rosie pulled her handbag onto her shoulder and sighed as she opened the door. It would have been good to have company to go into a building like this, in an area like this, but the driver was right. It wouldn’t be long before the kids started to surround the car, poking at the windows, kicking the tyres. If he went inside with her, the wheels would be off his car in ten minutes and there would be a posse waiting to rob them when they came out.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Just drive around the block if you feel a bit conspicuous.’

She could see he was twitching. It was only his second shift with the taxi firm contracted to the newspaper, and he’d been telling her on the way up from the office how he’d taken early retirement from his job as an area manager with a double-glazing firm, hoping to make a few quid driving taxis to pay for his annual golf-club membership. He assumed that working for a newspaper, he might be accompanying photographers and models on a photo shoot somewhere scenic. Maybe Loch Lomond. Nobody told him he’d find himself in a shithole like this, he complained to Rosie, nervously adjusting all his mirrors so he could see in every direction. Poor bloke. He had definitely drawn the short straw on this hire.

Rosie gave the kids a cursory ‘How’s it going, guys’ as she walked past them up the steps and into the building. It smelled of piss and dampness. A couple of crushed super-lager cans littered the hallway, along with several discarded syringes and a used condom. Whoever Humphrey Boyd was, he certainly hadn’t made it as a career criminal.

Don had come back to her quicker than she’d expected, phoning first thing this morning to tell her the name of the snitch who’d tipped off the cops all those years ago about Rab Jackson and Malky Cameron being in Jackie Reilly’s house minutes before it went up in smoke. Don’s cop colleague didn’t want to meet, or say anything other than that he’d been a young detective at the time but he’d heard that the snitch was called Humphrey Boyd, known as Humphy. Humphrey wasn’t exactly a name you expected to find in this part of Glasgow’s wild north side. Rosie had found a phone number for him, but she hadn’t called it, deciding it was better to arrive unannounced. She liked surprising people.

She knocked on the door. Three raps, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough for whoever was inside to be hiding everything that was stolen in case it was the cops. Nothing. She waited. Then knocked again. This time there was a loud, jungle, screeching sound, like a wild animal.

‘What the fu—’ Rosie muttered to herself.

She listened again, expecting to hear the noise of a television with the volume up too loud. Nothing. Then suddenly the door chain rattled and a key was turned in the lock.

‘Who is it?’

‘Er . . . You don’t know me. Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Boyd? Hum— . . . Humphrey Boyd?’ Rosie didn’t want to use the nickname yet.

‘Aye. That’s me. Who are you?’

‘My name’s Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the
Post
. Can I talk to you a minute?’

To her surprise, the door opened. She did a double take when she saw him. The voice came from somewhere at least two feet below her. The hunchback stood there, looking up, his head crooked to the side. Humphy. Jesus Christ almighty! In Glasgow, a hunched back was not a hump, but a humph. Either Humphy’s parents were stark raving mad, horribly cruel, or just had a warped sense of humour to call their hunchback baby Humphrey. You couldn’t make this up. She stood staring, speechless.

‘Whit is it? You no seen anybody wi a humph before?’ He gave her a gap-toothed grin.

‘No . . . Er . . . Yes. Sorry. Hum . . . Humphrey . . .’ She was flustered.

‘Just call me Humphy, darlin’. Everyone else does. We don’t do politically correct in Blackhill.’

‘Oh, right. Er . . .’ Rosie tried to regain her composure. ‘Actually, I was expecting somebody much older. Don’t know why really.’ She lied to cover her awkwardness. ‘Can I come in and talk to you?’

‘Whit aboot?’

‘About Jackie Reilly. Remember her? Years ago she was burned to death in her house? Maryhill?’

Something like rage and hurt flashed across his eyes and his mouth turned down at the edges. He took a deep breath and made a rasping sound at the back of his throat.

‘’Course I remember. How could any of us forget? Poor Jackie. She was all right, man. And them weans.’ He stepped back into the hall, opening the door wide. ‘In ye come.’

Rosie followed him along the mosaic-patterned vinyl floor of the hallway. She stopped in her tracks when she heard the loud screeching again.

‘It’s all right. It’s only Cheetah.’

‘Cheetah?’

‘Aye.’

As he opened the door to the living room, Rosie at his heels, she suddenly felt a little light-headed. Did she just see a chimpanzee jump off the top of the television? Shit! She did. She really did. Because it was now bouncing off the armchair and heading straight for her.

‘Holy fuck!’ She felt unsteady on her feet. ‘It’s a monkey! You . . . You’ve got a monkey in the living room? Jesus, Humphy! What the f—?’ She supported herself against the wall.

Humphy grinned as the monkey leapt into his arms.

‘She’ll no touch you. Don’t be scared. She’s a wee pet.’

Rosie opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. She thought she’d seen it all, everywhere, all over the world. But she really was standing here in a derelict building in Blackhill with a chimpanzee in a print frock staring at her as it pulled Humphy’s ears and ruffled his hair. She pinched her arm, just to make sure she wasn’t in one of her vivid nightmares.

‘But . . . Who . . . I mean . . . Why? You can’t just keep a monkey in the house, Humphy.’

‘She’s no mine. She’s my mate’s,’ he said, as though that made it all right. ‘I’m looking after her while he’s away to Benidorm for a wee holiday. Tam’s in the Merchant Navy. He brought the chimp home from somewhere. The Congo, I think.’ He hugged the monkey, who hugged him back. ‘She’s great company. I might keep her longer, once my mate goes back to sea. She’s called Cheetah. Like the one in
Tarzan
. Remember?’

Rosie nodded, still taken aback.

‘Sit down,’ Humphy said. ‘Want to hold her? She doesn’t bite.’

‘No.’ Rosie put her hand up quickly as she sat on the sofa. ‘She looks fine where he is.’ She glanced around, struggling for something to say, as the monkey drew back her lips in a grin, revealing the stained brown teeth of a forty-a-day smoker. ‘Er . . . She’s a nice monkey . . . I’m . . . I’m just a bit surprised. It’s not something you see every day.’

‘Aye. Well. I don’t get many visitors.’ He turned to the monkey. ‘Do we, Cheetah?’ He stroked the chimp’s head.

Rosie caught a hint of sadness somewhere behind his eyes.

‘Okay. Anyway, Humphrey . . . I mean Humphy . . .’ She couldn’t believe she was calling a hunchback Humphy. ‘Er . . . about Jackie Reilly.’ She pulled her notebook and pen from her bag. ‘I’m looking back at the story, and somebody told me that Rab Jackson and Malky Cameron were involved and were questioned by cops at the time.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘A cop contact. Said they got a tip-off from somebody who informed them those two had been at the house before the fire.’

Humphy gave her a shifty look. He stroked the chimp’s arm. ‘Aye. I heard that, too.’

Silence.

‘What cop were you talking to? Did he say who told him?’

‘It was just someone who remembered at the time. I don’t think he was the cop who was told. He said it was someone more senior. Didn’t really know, though.’

Silence. Humphy stared at the grimy net curtain on the window. Rosie watched him, but kept one eye on the monkey.

‘Jackie was all right. She was my neighbour for years up there in Maryhill. We were all close up in the tenements in them days. I mean, I know she was on the game an’ that, and I felt for her weans a bit, but she was all right. She was only doing it to survive, same as every other fucker did back then. Same as now. You do what you have to do. I don’t blame her.’

‘Do you think they were involved in the fire? Jackson and Cameron?’

‘Too fucking right they were.’

Silence.

‘Humphy. Did you tell the cops? Did you have a contact with the CID you talked to from time to time?’

‘That what you’ve been told?’

‘Well. Yes. But obviously I’m not going to tell anyone that. I’m just talking to you privately here. Totally just you and me . . . Er . . . and Cheetah . . . But it’s important. It’s for a story I’m working on, not just the murder of Jackson and Cameron last week. It’s wider than that.’

Humphy’s mouth twisted in anger.

‘Served the bastards right what happened to them. And good luck to whoever did it and had the sense of justice to do the same to them as they did to Jackie. I was well pleased with that.’ He turned to the chimp. ‘Weren’t we, Cheetah?’ The chimp rattled its teeth and somersaulted onto the floor.

Rosie braced herself as it climbed on to the sofa beside her. She put out her hand, praying it wouldn’t bite her fingers off.

‘She’s all right. Just let her play with your hair or something. Don’t be nervous.’

‘Okay,’ Rosie said warily. ‘So . . . I’m looking for some more information. I’d like to track down the cop you spoke to.’

The monkey twirled her hair with its fingers.

Humphy sat for a moment then sniffed.

‘Ach! He’ll be well retired by now. He went on to be a DCI. He was a big mate of mine. I knew that, no matter what, I could always rely on the big man to sort me if I needed anything. Discreetly, like. Nobody ever knew anything about us. But he gave me a few quid down the years for information. It came in handy. There’s not a lot of work for hunchbacks, you know – not since that fucking movie.’ He chortled.

Rosie couldn’t help smiling at Humphy’s black humour. There was a little determined glint in his eyes. What a shit start in life, with bullies making his life miserable in a place like this, where a disability, physical or mental, made you a target. If you had the misfortune of being a hunchback with a name like Humphy, you had to develop some kind of thick skin and a barbed sense of humour.

‘Would you tell me his name?’

‘What you going to do about it if I do?’

‘I’d like to talk to him. That’s all. Discreetly. Like the way we’re talking. Off the record.’

Humphy went silent for a few seconds, staring at the floor. Then he looked at Rosie.

‘All right. I think maybe I can trust you. Don’t know why really. You’ve got a kind of honest face. My big polis pal’s name was Thompson. Roddy Thompson. Top man. Haven’t heard of him in ten years, though. Good bloke . . . for a polis. Don’t even know if he’s still alive. Lived down Ayrshire somewhere.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But this didn’t come from me, okay?’

‘Of course. That’s great, Humphy. Did you ever hear about Jackie’s kids? The two girls?’ Rosie asked.

‘I heard the older one died. She lived for a few months or weeks or something. She’d been raped. They bastards did it. Then she died. Don’t know about the wee yin. Wee Ruby. She was a character. She’d have punched any one of the wee boys in the close flat out if they stood on her toes. Tough wee bastard. She was the image of her ma to look at. Pure gorgeous, by the way. But that night when they took her away, the wee thing was greetin’ her eyes out. My heart went right out to her.’

‘Did you ever hear any more of what happened to her?’

‘Nah. Nothing. Maybe she got adopted or something. I hope so. She was a good wee kid.’ He got up and went across to the window, gazing disconsolately down at the street. ‘Same as a lot of the kids here. They start out the same as the weans from the posh places. Just wee lumps of things, all innocent. Then it’s life that fucks them up. It’s living in a place like this with guys like Cameron and Jackson all hanging around waiting to pick them up and give them all the stuff that makes them think they’ll be like the posh people. They’ll have money and motors. But it’s all shite. I love wee kids but, it’s what they turn into, and it’s not their fault.’ He went across and lifted the monkey off Rosie’s lap. ‘To tell you the truth, that’s why I’m better off just with Cheetah here. She’s the best wean I’ve ever had.’

He went back and stared out of the window, lost in some depressing reverie. It didn’t get much weirder than this, but he did have a point.

Rosie waited for a minute and, when he didn’t speak, she stood up.

‘Yeah. I know what you mean. You’ve been a big help, Humphy. And don’t worry. Nobody will ever know. I’ll be in touch.’ Rosie left her card on the table as she headed out of the living room.

He didn’t even turn around.