A Cold Killing (Rosie Gilmour) by Anna Smith

expert in Eastern European Studies, revered all over the UK and abroad. Yet to me, and to my editor, it doesn’t look like the police are giving his murder any kind of priority. To tell the truth, I’ve seen them making more of an attempt to highlight a drug dealer or a routine killing. But this was very different . . . as you know. This . . . this was an execution.’
    He gazed at Rosie, his expression somewhere between frustration and grief.
    ‘That’s exactly what it was . . . an execution.’ His voice was barely audible.
    ‘Can I come in and talk to you, Mr Hawkins?’
    He looked through her and didn’t speak.
    Rosie swallowed. She had one shot left.
    ‘Look, Mr Hawkins. I know about Katya.’
    He couldn’t have been any more startled if she’d poked him with a cattle prod. He frowned, searching her face. Then he pulled back the chain and opened the door.
    ‘Come in.’
    Game on. Rosie hoped the shock didn’t register on her face. She’d envisaged three kinds of knockbacks on this doorstep – no answer, the door slammed in her face, or, at best, a single sentence that would perhaps make an inroad for the future. But here she was following Gerard Hawkins into the stained-glass vestibule, where he stood for a couple of seconds, his eyes flicking a glance up and down her before he closed the door behind them. Then he walked along the wooden hallway without uttering a word. Rosie stepped softly behind him, searching for an appropriate opening line. She scanned the array of framed photographs hanging crookedly on the walls – snapshots of his life – and she clocked a black-and-white photograph of two very handsome young men who had to be him and Mahoney a lifetime ago. They looked like matinee idols from some old movie, Hawkins with a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips and a panama hat pushed back on his head. The other young man, the double of Mahoney’s son, who she’d encountered on the family doorstep last night, had his arm around the shoulder of his friend. The caption, in pencil behind the glass, read ‘East Berlin, 1966’.
    ‘Is this you and Tom?’ Rosie asked, as respectfully as she could.
    He stopped in his tracks and turned his body to face her, his eyes resting fleetingly on the photograph.
    ‘Yes,’ he nodded, his lips twitching as he tried to find a smile.
    He looked so distraught it crossed Rosie’s mind that they might have been lovers.
    Hawkins spoke without turning around.
    ‘I loved Tom. But we weren’t lovers,’ he said abruptly, as though he’d read her thoughts.
    ‘Oh . . . I wasn’t . . .’ She knew she sounded flustered. ‘I mean, you look like a couple of carefree student mates.’
    He stopped at the entrance to the living room and turned to her. This time he did smile, as though he was remembering something.
    ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We were so close at that time that a lot of people used to think we were together.’ He gazed in the direction of the window. ‘If only . . .’ Again, his voice trailed off.
    ‘Oh.’ Rosie berated herself for not being able to think of something else to say.
    Hawkins motioned her to the sofa, while he stood behind a crimson leather armchair next to the unlit open fire.
    ‘I’ve just made some tea. Would you like a cup?’
    ‘Yes, please, I would, thanks,’ Rosie replied, grateful and a little surprised he was being this cooperative. ‘Black, please, no sugar.’
    He disappeared out of the room, and she could hear the clatter of crockery as she gave the place the once-over. It looked like it had been put together by interior designers, all tasteful decor, bright but not over the top, stylish prints and curtains, but it still had a traditional feel to it. It was neat, too neat for a man, but it felt lived in. He returned with two mugs of tea.
    ‘I’m afraid I’ve got no biscuits,’ he said apologetically, handing her a red mug. ‘I haven’t been able to go anywhere really since I . . . since I came back up from