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

right now it was all they had to go on. Declan had dug up only a few old colleagues who’d said nothing other than that Mahoney was a brilliantly committed individual and a gifted teacher who would be sorely missed. Mari’s story had revealed a little of who he was, and if Mahoney had been involved with a woman in East Berlin, it opened up all sorts of possibilities.
    McGuire was already excited about the murder of Malky Cameron in his garage last night. Declan had been dispatched to Ayrshire, where the police had set up an incident room in the village close to Cameron’s home. Rosie could catch up with that later, but right now her priority was Hawkins, and she steeled herself for a tough doorstep.
    Hawkins lived a stone’s throw from Glasgow University, where he’d lectured for more than thirty years before retiring. The electoral register had him at his home address for the past twenty-three years. Rosie guessed he didn’t want to move too far from where his life was, to stay within sight of the spires and cloisters of the ancient university. The register also said he lived alone, and Declan’s background checks hadn’t thrown up a wife.
    She climbed the steps to his front door, imagining some clichéd crusty old pipe-smoking lecturer in a tweed jacket with elbow patches sipping claret in a dimly lit, book-lined living room. She rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing. She glanced over her shoulder – no sign of other hacks – then she rang again. Still nothing. Automatically, she bent down and looked through the letterbox, hoping some old West End snob didn’t call the cops to say she was snooping. But, in this neck of the woods, you’d be more likely to be lynched for being from the tabloids than for breaking and entering. Rosie stood for a few moments then in her peripheral vision she caught sight of a curtain twitching on the bay window of the ground-floor flat. She waited, then heard movement in the hallway. The sound of bolts being clicked and slid back, and a key being turned. The door opened just enough for her to see the face behind the chain.
    ‘Gerard Hawkins?’ Rosie put on her most expressive keen but sympathetic face.
    She could see blue eyes, greying hair and a fresh face – nothing like she’d imagined. His eyes were a bloodshot and a little puffy.
    ‘Wh— what? Who are you, please?’
    ‘I’m Rosie Gilmour, Mr Hawkins. I’m from the
Post
.’
    She heard him take a deep breath.
    ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
    ‘But Mr Hawkins . . . I know you were a very close friend of Tom Mahoney all your life. I’m really sorry to intrude, but I’m investigating his murder.’
    ‘The police are investigating Tom’s murder. Leave it to them.’
    ‘Are they? Are they really investigating? Are you sure?’ Rosie took a bit of a flyer, hoping for a reaction.
    Silence.
    ‘Look. What on earth do you expect me to say?’ He looked drained. ‘Tom was my closest friend. I lov— We were friends for forty years. He was a brilliant individual . . . and now he’s been murdered. I’m . . . heartbr— I’m devastated. I knew him all my life . . .’
    His voice trailed off. Rosie’s stomach tightened. He looked vulnerable, broken. She might get lucky.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkins. Really sorry.’ Rosie locked her eyes on his for a couple of seconds. ‘It’s just that . . . well, the police are not saying very much at all. Of course they’ll be investigating the murder, but they’re putting nothing out to the newspapers and, if I’m honest, that makes us suspicious.’
    Silence.
    ‘Suspicious of what?’
    ‘That somehow they are thinking it might go away.’ Another flyer.
    Hawkins eyes blinked twice, thick, dark eyelashes emphasizing the blue.
    ‘What do you mean by that?’
    ‘I’m not sure. But I don’t think they’re making this as big an issue as it should be.’ She paused, cleared her throat. ‘Tom Mahoney was a hugely respected figure within the education system here. He was a known