Free A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) by Anna Smith Page A

sandy-haired guy’s face as he went into his pocket and passed a packet over to his friend. Those bastard Eastern Europeans hoodlums must have shot him for a reason. The newspapers had been full of speculation. But she had that piece of paper, with the name of some company or other on it. She fished it out of her handbag. J B Solutions. She keyed it into her laptop and hit the search key.
    Half an hour later Ruby picked up the two newspapers she’d taken from the café in Judy’s care home. It had crossed her mind yesterday to make a call to the papers, just throw them a line about the company. But she’d worried they might end up tracking her down. What the fuck did she care anyway? Why bother? She could help the papers, but what would she get in return? She didn’t need the money. But maybe she could do something for the first time that wasn’t about her. All her grown-up life had been about survival. And once she’d tracked Judy down, she built everything around her sister, squirrelling away enough money to make her life better, dreaming that one day Judy would come back to her. Then, ultimately, her life was about retribution. But that was finished now.
    She picked up the
Sun
and flicked through the story, then the
Post
. She found the news-desk phone number at the bottom of the back page and dialled it. She asked for Rosie Gilmour, the name of the journalist under the headline, but when she was put through it was a young man’s voice. She told him she needed to talk to Rosie regarding the murder of the university lecturer, and she could hear the voice perk up. Rosie would be in later, he said, but he could take the information. When he seemed reluctant to give out Rosie’s mobile number, she told him to forget it and he quickly reeled the number off. Ruby hung up then punched the numbers into her phone, in the impulsive, instinctive way she’d been doing things all her life.
    ‘Hello. Is that Rosie Gilmour?’
    ‘Who’s this? Your number didn’t come up.’
    ‘Never mind who it is. Am I talking to Rosie Gilmour?’
    ‘Yes, you are. What can I do for you?’
    Ruby paused and took a breath. She wanted to ask what the fuck were they playing at, suggesting the woman who left the café was in any way involved with the men who did the shooting. Where was the fucking evidence? She tightened her stomach to restrain herself.
    ‘Hello? You still there?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Ruby cleared her throat. ‘Well, what you can do for me is stop saying in the paper that the mystery woman who left the café after that shooting at King’s Cross may be linked to the murder of that old university guy. Because it’s total shite.’
    Silence.
    ‘Right. And how do you know this?’
    Silence.
    ‘Because it was me.’
    Silence.
    ‘You’re the woman who was in the café? Seriously?’
    ‘Why? Have you had a lot of women phoning you up and telling you they were in the café?’ She knew she sounded sarcastic.
    ‘Actually, no. But are you really that woman?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Can we meet?’
    Silence.
    ‘I’ve got information you might want. About the men who did it.’
    ‘Listen. Can we meet? I don’t like doing things over the phone.’
    ‘J B Solutions,’ Ruby said. ‘If you’re smart, look into them.’
    ‘J B Solutions? I’d really like to talk to you. No names, no pack drill.’
    ‘J B Solutions. Find them. Then maybe we can talk.’
    ‘I’ll make sure my newspaper doesn’t in any way relate you to the shootings in future articles. You have my word on that. But I’d really like to meet. Can I get your number?’
    ‘No. I’ll call you.’ Ruby hung up.

Chapter Eight
     
    It was nearly midday by the time Rosie left the office and made her way up to the West End to doorstep Gerard Hawkins. She’d briefed McGuire about her talk with Mari, and he’d agreed with her that they wouldn’t write it as a story but would play their cards close to their chest. It was a fantastic snapshot into Mahoney’s life, and