Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (12 page)

‘Bastard!’

‘He was a Pakistani.’

‘A Pakistani?’

‘Yep. Didn’t see his face, but I knew from the voice. And he said to me, “Stay away from my family or I’ll cut your head off.” Nice guy.’

‘Shit! We should tell the cops.’

‘No. No. Definitely not, Mick. Not right now. I’ve got a lot to tell you. We need to talk – the bastard last night must be attached to the Shah family. It has to be one of them.’

‘But why? I mean it’s not as if we’ve done anything yet. We haven’t even written a proper story.’

‘I know, I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but I talked to the Pakistani girl – Sabiha. Remember the one I told you about who was giving me the eyes that day, but wouldn’t talk?’

‘Yeah.’ McGuire nodded. ‘How did you get to her?’

‘I went back down to the shop where she worked and waited for her to come out. She went to the park and I followed her.’

McGuire let out a little chuckle, shaking his head.

‘Despite the fact we were supposed to be taking a step back in case we were accused of racism and harassment?’

Rosie shrugged, half smiling.

‘Well, I thought I’d give it one last shot. And hey, I’m glad I did, because she spilled her guts. Plus there was another girl with her. A lovely little Glasgow girl, born and bred here, only fourteen, and she told me she was getting shipped off to Pakistan to get married to some old bastard. The kid was really upset. I honestly couldn’t believe my ears when they just started talking, Mick. What a result!’

‘So, tell me everything.’

He got up and buzzed Marion to bring some tea in, then sat back down, rubbing his eyes.

Rosie relayed chapter and verse what the girls had told her. About the passports and what they believed happened to people. She watched his eyes almost pop when she told him what Sabiha had said about the diamond smuggling.

‘But the thing is,’ Rosie continued, ‘after I saw them
yesterday, I got attacked last night outside my home. Plus . . . they rumbled poor Sabiha and gave her a right hiding.’

‘Jesus! How do you know?’

‘Because when I got into the house and was trying to compose myself, with blood pouring out my neck, the mobile rang and it was her. She was terrified and sobbing. Told me not to get in touch with her again, that they’d beaten her up and won’t let her see her babies. Someone had seen us talking in the park.’ Rosie shook her head. ‘Christ! I can’t believe these bastards.’

‘Shocking.’ McGuire shook his head.

‘Sabiha was pleading with me to help her and her cousin – they’ve already taken the young girl away to Pakistan. They must have just stormed in there after seeing me with them yesterday and more or less kidnapped the poor girl. It’s outrageous, Mick. It really is. They shouldn’t be allowed to do this with kids. It’s just wrong. ‘

The door opened and Marion came in with a tray and set it down on the coffee table. McGuire poured, handed a cup of black tea to Rosie, and then sat back, cup in hand, his feet on the table.

‘I know it’s wrong,’ he sighed. ‘But it’s not for us to judge. It’s how they do business.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I mean. And nine times out of ten it
is
business. These arranged marriages. Much of it is to link families’ wealth together.’

‘We can’t say that, Gilmour. We’ll get fucking hanged.’

‘I know we can’t say it. And of course it’s their culture to arrange marriages, and I can see why they want to keep to themselves and work within their own community – given that there are plenty of racist bastards out there who wouldn’t give them jobs otherwise. It was the same when the Irish came generations ago, they had to look after each other, intermarry and all that crap, so that they could take care of their community. It’s the same for the Asians, and of course I respect that. But you can’t be taking fifteen-year-old girls out of the country against their will – the country they’ve been born and raised in – and shunting them to Pakistan to some village to marry a middle-aged bastard. It’s just wrong.’

McGuire nodded, rubbing his chin.

‘I know. That’s a good point. The kid is probably as Scottish as any teenager in Glasgow. It’s not fair. But we need to tread carefully. I’m not sure what we can do on this. But there must be a public interest defence we could make if we published it and were taken to task by lawyers or courts.’

They sat in silence for a long moment.

‘I don’t think we should be publishing anything right now Mick.’

‘Why?’

‘We should go and find the girl. Bring her back.’

He looked at her, incredulous.

‘Aye. Fine. I’ll do the jokes, Gilmour.’

‘I’m serious. She’s a British citizen – and a minor – and she’s been kidnapped. She told me herself yesterday what was going to happen. She was crying.’ Rosie rumbled around in her bag. ‘I’ve got it on tape, Mick. Everything she said.’

‘You have that on tape?’

‘Yes. And the other stuff Sabiha said about Rabia and the fake passports. It’s all on tape. We have to find a way to use it.’ Rosie paused for a breath. ‘But listen, what a scoop it would be if we could go over there and bring that kid back!’

McGuire was silent for a moment, and Rosie could almost see his brain ticking over.

‘It would cause a riot within the Asian community.’

‘Maybe not. You might find she’s not the only woman who’s been treated like that. But forget that for the moment. We should concentrate on what we can do for her. She’s the one whose life is going to be in ruins. And she’s just a kid.’

‘And how in the name of Christ do you propose to bring her home? Are you just going to waltz into some remote village in Pakistan like the cavalry and tell them, “Sorry, guys, the wedding’s off, the bride has a pressing engagement in the House of Fraser?” You’d get lynched.’ He shook his head, slowly and put his cup down. ‘No chance, Gilmour. I’ve been there before with you. But this would be right off the scale. It’s Pakistan, not the Costa del Sol. That whole area is a hotbed of Islamist fanatics since the Taliban started marching around Afghanistan, stringing
everyone up. You could disappear into the middle of nowhere and nobody would even know where to begin to look for you.’

‘I could take somebody with me.’

‘Oh yeah! Sure. Matt would be perfect . . . Shitting himself in the hills of Pakistan.’ He looked her square in the eye. ‘No chance, Gilmour. Are you reading my lips?’

Rosie looked at him defiantly.

‘I’ve got a friend . . . A Pakistani guy, a contact I’ve used for years. He’s already helping me on this. He knows a lot of stuff and is a real Glasgow wide boy. He’d be our man on the ground, and if anyone can get this girl out, then it’s him. Omar.’

‘Omar? Omar fucking Sharif?’ McGuire chuckled in disbelief.

Rosie couldn’t help but smile.

‘Yes. Omar. He’s good. A bit of a crook, but he knows his stuff. And he knows Pakistan like the back of his chapati.’

Mick shook his head and said nothing. Rosie could see he was at least considering the option.

‘There’s something else, Mick.’

He looked at her, puzzled.

‘What?’

‘Well. Again, it was something that happened yesterday. A lot happened yesterday . . . Er . . . A lot.’

He folded his arms and looked up at the ceiling.

‘What the fuck happened yesterday?’ he said slowly.

‘I met the girl who’s the best pal of the woman who got half her arm cut off.’

‘Now you
are
kidding me.’

‘Nope. She phoned me. Out of the blue. Her name is Julie. I met her yesterday afternoon, that’s why the day became such a blur. She told me everything. Honest to God, Mick, you won’t believe this shit. I can hardly believe it myself . . .’

McGuire shook his head and sighed as he got up and went to his desk. He went into his drawer and took out a foil packet of pills.

‘I’m going to need one of these.’ He held it up. ‘My ulcer’s starting to niggle.’

‘I think you should definitely take one,’ Rosie said, dreading how he would react.

He popped a pill and perched on his desk, looking down at Rosie. ‘Go on. Get on with it.’ His brows knitted.

‘It’s all connected,’ Rosie said. ‘At least I think it is. The diamonds, the attaché case, the girl with the mutilated arm. I haven’t worked it out yet, but I think it’s all part of one big story.’ She waited as he turned the information over in his head. ‘There’s something else. Now I don’t want you to go nuts when I tell you this . . . just hear me out. Julie and the other girl, Nikki. They took the attaché case from the hotel room.’

‘What attaché case? This is the first I’ve heard of this.’

‘Oh . . . right. I forgot to tell you. But there’s this attaché
case that belongs to some dangerous people connected to the dead Pakistani guy. It was in the hotel room at the Albany, and now it’s missing. The bad guys want it back. It contained a lot of money, fake passports . . . and diamonds. Rough diamonds.’

‘Is this a fairy story this Julie bird has spun? How much money is she after?’

‘None. She’s shitting herself, because
she
has the case and knows they’re after her. And it’s not a fairy story. My cop contact told me.’

‘Are you seriously telling me that this Julie bird has the missing case? The case that may be linked to all this, and therefore is linked to at least one, possibly four crimes? One of them being a girl whose arm was taken off?’ McGuire covered his face with his hands. ‘Gilmour, please tell me you didn’t see this case. Please tell me you didn’t.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Aw fuck! You did. You handled the case. Christ almighty!’

Rosie put her hands up.

‘I know, I know. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Mick, she had it in her car. She opened it and I saw inside. What was I supposed to do? Phone the cops?’

‘Well . . . That’s one thing you could have done, given that half of Strathclyde’s finest are hunting for her.’

‘I know, but I didn’t. It’s an amazing story. There are passports and money in the case . . . and diamonds!’

His eyes widened. ‘Did you touch them? Did you touch anything?’

Rosie said nothing.

‘Fuck. You did, didn’t you?’

Rosie nodded.

‘Well, just the diamonds. I had to. I had to see them for myself.’

‘Aw, Jesus wept! We’re in trouble. This bird will be next for shaving, and the cops will get a hold of this bloody attaché case. We’re fucked.’

‘No we’re not. We just have to find a way around it.’

‘What bloody way around it?’

‘I don’t know that yet. That’s why I’m telling you, Mick, let’s think about it.’

McGuire’s phone rang and he looked at his watch.

‘Christ! I’ve got conference in five minutes. Come in after lunch and we’ll talk . . . That’s unless this bird is found dead before then.’

Rosie stood up and headed for the door.

‘What about Pakistan? We should go.’

McGuire rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Then he shook his head and gave her an exasperated look. ‘Get me a costing . . . You, Matt and this Omar Sharif character. Have it on my desk in the morning and I’ll make a decision.’

Rosie tried hard not to smile as she swiftly left before he changed his mind.

Nikki sank back in the pillows, gazing out at the raindrops making tiny rivulets through the grime on the high-arched, steel windows. Glasgow’s famous Royal Infirmary looked a daunting enough building from the outside, with its old Victorian towers dominating the skyline at the edge of the city centre. Inside, though much had been modernised, Nikki still felt like a prisoner of some dark age. Her nightmares in the first few days after the attack had left her screaming and confused. And now, even though they’d stopped the morphine, the heavy painkillers made her spaced out and drowsy. So it had been hard to concentrate when the police had finally been allowed to interview her. They’d been waiting several days, they told her, as they placed the plastic chairs either side of her bed. The big cop had introduced himself as a detective inspector, but she couldn’t remember his name now, or the female detective sergeant. Nikki reflected on their questions and her
answers and hoped she’d got away with it. They’d been very gentle with their probing, unlike the police she’d witnessed many times in Cranhill or Easterhouse when they battered down someone’s door in the middle of the night, and dragged a hoodlum from their bed. With her, they’d been more like counsellors, gently telling her that they know she’s in trouble, and that some very dangerous people are after her. Cheers, pal, she almost said – you don’t need to tell me they’re after me, I’m the one who’ll never be able to do a handstand again. But she’d kept her face straight, and said as little as possible. Her shock when they told her that she was recorded on CCTV coming out of the Albany Hotel was genuine. They’d even shown her the picture, and she could see Julie carrying the case. Her insides rattled like an engine, and only the sedative effect of the drugs made her calm enough to keep her mouth shut. Am I under arrest? she’d asked them. No, they told her: enquiries are ongoing. But they didn’t suspect that she had played any part in the killing of the Asian man in the hotel room. They swallowed her story that the dead man had been her punter, that she’d fled the room when he’d kept urging her to pull the belt tighter during a sex act. She told them he was alive when she left him. The only conclusion she could come to was that he did it himself after she left. What about the attaché case that’s clearly in the picture, they asked? She insisted she didn’t know anything about it. She couldn’t even recall if Julie was carrying anything, but if
she was, then it was probably her own case, because sometimes she took a change of clothes with her when they were working. Julie had concocted the story last evening during visiting, on the off chance they had CCTV. She’d schooled Nikki so well that she was beginning to believe it herself. Now that the detectives had gone, she was exhausted and wanted to sleep. She closed her eyes, but as she was drifting off, she could hear a familiar voice in the corridor outside.