Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (10 page)

‘What did you do? What happened?’ Rosie’s heart was going like an engine. She hoped her tape recorder was getting all this, but even if it didn’t, she wasn’t about to forget a single word.

‘I took his money. His wallet and his phone.’

‘Oh,’ Rosie said, raising her eyebrows a little.

‘Yeah. Fucking stupid, I know. But was I supposed to call the cops? I mean, we work for an escort agency owned by big Gordy MacLean. You know him?’

‘I do. Well, I know of him. Not to be messed with.’

‘Exactly. So we couldn’t spill our guts to the police. I decided we’d take anything that would ID the guy and get the hell out of the place. And that’s what we did. Except . . .’

‘What? Except what?’

‘There was a small attaché case. A wee aluminium thing. I decided to take that too. Nikki didn’t want to, but I thought, let’s just take every fucking thing and leave the holdall with a couple of shirts in it. So we took it and
walked out of the hotel bold as brass – even though our legs were like jelly.’

Rosie looked at her then out of the windscreen, thinking of Don’s earlier chat about the girls walking out with the case. This story was screaming legally-in-the-shit all over it. But she had to get it – all of it.

‘So what did you do with the case?’

‘We took it to Nikki’s and opened it. And inside it was lot of money and passports.’

‘Passports?’

‘Yeah. Maybe fake, or something. But all with Pakistani or Asian-looking fuckers on the pictures.’

‘Incredible.’ Another bell went off in Rosie’s head, recalling Sabiha’s claims about the passports.

‘But that’s not all. There were a couple of bags, pouches, with a load of stones in them. We emptied them out, they looked like little driveway chips or something somebody had taken from a beach. Who knows what kind of crap people collect? But now we know what they are.’

‘What are they?’ Rosie asked, but she already knew the answer.

‘Diamonds. Rough diamonds.’

Rosie could feel her eyes widen.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because we got pulled in by the boss – Gordy MacLean – and he’s asking did we see the case. It was him who said he’d been told there were rough diamonds in it. We had
already denied we took the case, and would never admit it, but once he said diamonds, we knew we had to deny it forever.’ She paused. ‘How much do you know about big Gordy?’

‘I just know of him. Dangerous bastard, by all accounts. I take it he didn’t believe you.’

‘No. And that’s why Nikki got done over. I don’t know what the Christ this is all about or who’s behind it, but apparently its some big Pakistani gang from down south, and they’re all related to gangsters down there, who deal with people up here. So maybe the guy was up here on the drop.’

Rosie looked at her. This was confirming what Don had told her. She tried to contain her excitement.

‘Drop to who?’ she said.

‘No idea, that’s just what we’ve been told. I don’t even know if that’s all a load of fanny coming from big Gordy.’

‘So what happened then? I mean that night when Nikki was attacked? How did it happen?

‘We got word to go see a couple of punters, and when we got there, she had to go on her own in the car with the driver, Alex. He’s Gordy’s best mate, and he doesn’t normally do the driving, but that night he did. When Nikki went into the car with him and they sent me away, that’s . . . that’s the last I heard of her until it was on the news that she’d been attacked. . . . It’s sick! So sick. And it’s my fault. The bastard sliced half her fucking arm off.’

‘Who? Alex?’

‘I don’t know. It was Alex who took her, but maybe he was meeting somebody. I don’t think he’s that kind of guy who would chop someone’s arm off. He’s an arsehole, but not like that.’

‘What a mess, Julie. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.’

‘It was me who insisted we take the case.’

‘Well. That’s done now – you can’t undo it. What you need to do is be here for Nikki and you really need to think about talking to the cops.’

‘What? And get both of us killed? No fucking way.’

‘So where’s the case now?’

Julie was silent for a few moments, and Rosie waited, her heart thumping.

‘In the boot of my car.’

‘Fuck me!’ Rosie murmured under her breath.

Every instinct was screaming at Rosie to call McGuire, get the cops involved and get the hell out of here. But nothing screamed more than the absolute kamikaze need to see the attaché case. Totally crazy and wrong on so many levels, because once she’d seen it and not done anything about it, she was part of the crime.

‘Can I see it?’ She couldn’t stop herself.

‘Wait here.’

Julie got out of Rosie’s car and quickly pinged open the boot of hers. Rosie took out her mobile, then put it back in her bag and switched it off in case anyone phoned. Julie
came back around the car and slid into the seat with the attaché case on her lap. She clicked it open. Inside were several passports – all Pakistani. Rosie was dying to pick them up and have a look, but just watched as Julie did it.

‘You shouldn’t be touching any of this, Julie. Your fingerprints are all over the place.’

‘I know. But it’s too late for that.’

Rosie glanced over her shoulder to make sure the car park was still empty as Julie fingered through the passports. There were nine in total, and as Julie opened each one of them, a Pakistani face looked out from the passport picture and Rosie looked at the name under each one. Most were men, but there were two women. They looked authentic, but could just as easily have been fakes, and sold or stolen by gangsters and then intricately doctored. Then, as Julie randomly flicked through them, a name caught her eye. Rabia.

‘Hold on. Can you just go back to that picture again?’

‘This one?’ Julie held it up.

‘Yeah. I want to see it again.’

The name was Rabia Sahid but the picture wasn’t of the bride who’d jumped out of the window in Pollokshields. Julie flicked to the opening page and the date of birth and Rosie went through her notebook till she found the start of her notes on the story. The date of birth was the same. This was no coincidence. She took down the number and as much detail as she could, asking Julie to open all the pages
where it had been stamped. The UK stamp was there and roughly matched the date when Rabia had come here for her wedding. She’d have to check the specifics when she got back. Julie went through the rest of them, and then laid the passports back in the case. Then she lifted out the wads of cash. Then the bag containing the stones. She emptied three out onto her palm.

‘Jesus, Julie. This is crazy. I think they are rough diamonds. But obviously someone very dangerous is looking for these, if they’re prepared to chop Nikki’s arm off. And every second you have them in your possession, your life is in danger. You have to do something, fast.’

‘What the fuck am I going to do? I’m not going to the cops.’

‘You have to.’

‘I can’t. I won’t. No way.’

Rosie didn’t know what to say to her. She needed time. She wanted to talk to McGuire, but could nearly hear him screaming at the thought of her sitting in a car with a cache of smuggled diamonds and stolen or faked passports. But most of all she had to keep Julie onside.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’m not at home as they’ve been looking for me. I’m out in Stirling. At a small hotel on the edge of the town.’

‘Good. I need some time to think. I’ve got to talk to my editor.’

‘You can’t put this in the paper.’

‘No. Of course not. Not yet anyway, and I wouldn’t do that without your consent. But I have to decide how to make a start. See where I can go with it.’ She switched on her phone. ‘Listen. I’m going to call a colleague I work closely with – you can trust him. I need him to get a picture of this stuff before we do anything, before we make any move whatsoever.’

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe I should just fuck off now. Are you going to the cops? You are, aren’t you?’

Julie was agitated now.

‘No, of course not. I promise you. We’ll talk about our next move. I want to make sure you’re safe.’

‘Okay.’

Rosie switched on her phone and punched in Matt’s number.

‘Matt, where are you? Okay, good. Can you jump down to the Broomielaw to the car park of the old tile place. I need a pic taken quickly and discreetly. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

Despite the icy-cold early evening, Rosie walked from her flat at St George’s Cross down to the nearby bar off Elmbank Street to meet Don. So much had gone on in the last few hours, she wanted to use the five-minute walk to clear her head and try to think straight. How the hell was she going to tell McGuire she’d just been sitting in a car with a handful of rough diamonds? He would have to be scraped off the ceiling. She didn’t want to tell Julie that she knew for sure they were diamonds, but she’d known exactly what they were from the moment Julie had put the pouch in her hand. Nine months ago, Rosie had been working on a story involving the smuggling of diamonds from Nigeria as part of a UK-wide feature, and had been given good access by police to see what rough diamonds actually looked like. She even had a few of them put in her hand at the two-day Scotland Yard seminar in London that the editor had sent her on. So she was as sure as she could be of what
she was dealing with. The deadly trade of blood diamonds stretched beyond the dusty mines of Nigeria, and it was a safe bet that whoever was involved in this little cache wouldn’t hesitate to murder to get it back. It was bad enough that Julie took the dead guy’s case, his money and his passports, but now she had his diamonds. This was not good, on any level – especially now that Rosie had actually had them in her hand. Still, at least they had a photograph of them, which Matt was sworn to secrecy about. She knew she’d be in trouble when she had to spill all this out to McGuire in the morning. But, for now, she had to concentrate on whatever Don was about to tell her. If he mentioned anything more about diamonds, she’d have to keep her face poker straight.

*

‘What a hoor of a night,’ Don cursed as he came into the bar, his hair soaked, red-faced from the cold.

‘I know. I just made it in before that heavy shower. You look freezing. Where are your gloves?’ Rosie motioned him to sit down in the wall seating, where she’d found a space in front of the flickering coal fire. ‘It’s cosy in here. I love this place. Old-fashioned. Nothing’s changed for generations.’

Don rubbed his hands together vigorously and held them in front of the fire.

‘Gloves are for poofs.’

Rosie smiled and stood up.

‘Pint?’

‘Aye. Dying for one.’

Rosie returned with a lager for Don and her first glass of red wine of the evening.

He went into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a piece of A4 paper

‘Wait till you see this,’ he said, triumphantly unfolding it and placing it on the table, smoothing it out. He glanced over his shoulder, but the bar was almost empty, apart from two old punters playing dominoes.

Rosie leaned forward and immediately recognised Julie in the grainy CCTV picture. She hoped her face was impassive.

‘Is this from the Albany?’

‘Yep. From the foyer.’

‘It’s packed. Must have been some kind of do on.’ She pretended she was peering through the crowd.

‘Yeah. A sales conference. Loads of reps were gathered in the foyer for the champagne reception. But look closely at the two girls walking through that throng around the podium, going towards the exit. See them?’

He made a ring with his finger around the women. Rosie kept up the pretence, narrowing her eyes.

‘Yeah. I see them now. One of them’s carrying a case. Is that the girls you think were in the room?’

‘Well, we don’t know that. But one of them, the more hefty-looking girl, the one who isn’t carrying the case . . .
That’s the girl who’s lying up in the Royal with her arm mutilated. That much we can be sure of.’

‘Christ! You’re positive?’

‘Sure enough to be hovering around the ward waiting for the consultant to give us the go-ahead to speak to her.’

‘What about the other girl? Is she the friend from the phone you were telling me about?’

‘We think so. But we don’t know for definite. We’re busting our arses trying to find her.’

Rosie looked beyond him. She felt a twinge of guilt that she was keeping up the charade, but what else could she do? She couldn’t tell Don that she’d just been sitting with this very girl in a car down at the Broomielaw. She took a large gulp of her wine and swallowed, feeling it burn all the way down.

‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Rosie asked.

‘Sure.’ Don scanned her face. ‘Stressed out?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’ Rosie sucked in the smoke as Don flicked the lighter. ‘So, are you any closer to finding what this is all about?’

‘A bit. Number one, we’ve been told that some heavy people are going apeshit over the missing case. The word on the grapevine is that there were passports in it. Probably faked.’ He leaned closer. ‘But, listen . . . The tip that there were diamonds is growing; we’re as sure as we can be that he was delivering rough diamonds. Smuggled diamonds.’

‘What?’ Rosie sounded surprised enough to convince
herself that she actually
was
surprised. ‘Rough diamonds? Up here? But who wants rough diamonds up in Glasgow? It’s hardly the gem capital of the world! Are you sure about that?’

‘Well, we can’t be sure. It’s coming from our mates down south at Scotland Yard that this guy was used by some crowd who are smuggling diamonds in from Africa. A Pakistani crew, apparently. It’s part of an international smuggling ring. The cops are on the case down south, but they know they’re not making great headway – they’ve made some seizures along the line and stuff, over the years, but nobody’s really cracked it.’

‘I did that seminar on diamond smuggling down at the Met a while ago and I remember the background. But what I can’t understand is why Glasgow? Normally they go to dealers down in London and then to Antwerp, where the diamonds would be cut and polished. There’s all sorts of required licences that can apparently trace every diamond back to its origin. It’s quite complicated. So how come they got under the radar? And what would the rough diamonds be doing here?’