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

witness
.
    ‘Christ almighty!’ Ruby muttered. ‘Fucking little bitch of a waitress.’
    She quickly scanned the
Sun
’s front-page story: ‘Police have not ruled out that a mystery Scot who fled the scene of a horrific execution could be involved.’
    Ruby stubbed out her cigarette. ‘In the name of Christ! Do they just make this stuff up?’
    She folded the newspapers under her arm and left the café to wait outside for her taxi.

Chapter Four
     
    ‘Jesus! Look what the wind blew in.’ Jean, the big, busty receptionist at the
Post
glanced up and grinned as Rosie came through the revolving doors. ‘We heard you were dead.’ She put down the phone mid-dial.
    ‘Yeah? I hope you sent flowers.’
    ‘We had a whip-round in the canteen. But in the end we thought you’d appreciate it more if we just got pished with the money. So we did.’
    ‘Class,’ Rosie chuckled. ‘That gives me a warm glow.’
    ‘So how’s it going, sweetcheeks?’ She came out from behind her desk and embraced Rosie. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
    ‘Great, Jean. I was in hiding. Those bad UVF men put a contract on me, so McGuire sent me away. I was somewhere in Europe, holed up in the hills.’ Rosie tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger as she headed for the staircase to the editorial floor. ‘That’s all you need to know.’ At the foot of the stairs, she turned. ‘Have I missed any gossip?’
    ‘Nope. Not a sausage, darlin’. Good to have you home.’ Jean blew a kiss as Rosie took the stairs to the third floor.
    The editorial floor stretched the length of the building and was full of reporters, even though it was lunchtime. Some sat with their feet up, reading newspapers, while others had phones at their ears, taking notes or working at their screens, half-eaten sandwiches and bottles of mineral water at their desks. Nobody went out for lunch any more. Lunch used to be a God-given right for journalists, and often a rite of passage for new starters, who would be taken out by a seasoned hack and brought back mid-afternoon three sheets to the wind, just to see if they could survive. A few years ago the place would have been like the Marie Celeste at this time of the day, as the reporters and feature writers would have been in city restaurants entertaining contacts, as their expenses would reflect, or they’d be in the nearest bar along with a few sub-editors, having a few drinks before the serious work of putting out a newspaper began in the afternoon. It was like one long party, and it wasn’t a rarity that a fight broke out on the editorial floor by teatime between two older journalists who’d been drinking on an empty head. Now it was all mineral water and staff chained to desks amid the quiet hum of computers and the television news perpetually playing in the background on three televisions mounted around the news desk. Rosie saw the young reporter Declan look up and quickly get out of her chair.
    ‘Hey, you! What’s the score, son? Did you think I was dead as well?’ Rosie quipped.
    Declan’s face reddened.
    ‘Someone was at my desk working when I came in this morning, Rosie, so I just used yours. I didn’t know you were coming back up today. You all right?’
    ‘Sure, Dec.’ She smiled. ‘I’m good. What’s happening?’ She sat down, took her notebook out of her bag and placed it on the desk. ‘I see you were up at the Mahoney house and got no joy. I wouldn’t have thought the
Post
would be top of their reading list for breakfast reading in that house.’
    ‘Not exactly.’ Declan sat back, flicked through his notebook. ‘I saw from your story that the guy who was with Mahoney – Hawkins, Gerard Hawkins – was on his way back from London. I hit his house last night as well, but no answer. So it’s a bit of a dead end at the moment.’
    Rosie nodded. ‘It’s early doors yet. We’ve got to keep plugging away.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve also been up to my arse for days now with Rab