Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (23 page)

‘We’ve also got some more detailed pictures of the passports.’ She put her hands up as McGuire gave her a reproachful look. ‘I know what you’re going to say. But it had to be done. How are we going to find out if the passports are genuine if we don’t get the passport numbers and dates of birth? I had to get a close look. I’ve got a contact who can trace who they belong to. I noticed that all of them have had a stamp in Sierra Leone in recent months. And one of the passports is in the name of Rabia Sahid – the same date of birth as our suicide bride from Pollokshields, though I don’t know if Sahid was her maiden name. But I’ll find out. That’s the main one we want to trace.’

Mick’s eyes widened.

‘I like the sound of that. We could use that as a separate story, a stand-alone splash, if we can prove it is her passport. It would put these people in the shit if they really are behind her death.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Yes, let’s do that. In fact, is there any way we can drop that hint to the cops without showing all our cards? The family could get their collars felt at the very least.’

‘It might not be her passport, though. I mean, it’s got her
date of birth and first name on it, but it’s a different photograph. Probably been doctored.’

‘Well, we should tell the cops anyway and get them to ask the family to see her passport.’

‘Okay. I’ll speak to my contact.’

‘I want it as a story, Gilmour. Even if it’s only a form of words that says passports may be getting stolen and used for smuggling, something like that. You can get the cops to say they’re investigating. That gives us a chance to use it in the paper, and you never know who it might flush out.’

Rosie nodded in agreement. McGuire stood up and walked behind his desk.

‘Right. We’re running your Pakistan rescue tomorrow, all guns fucking blazing. Just the story, no opinion, no comment. But if we can throw in something about dodgy passports, it’s a good fresh line in a couple of days. You never know who’s gone missing, or who’s missing a passport.’

‘Okay. I’ll make some calls to my pal now with the passport connections and see what he can come up with.’

*

Rosie had given her private eye contact, Mickey Kavanagh, details of the passport with Rabia’s date of birth and name. She was surprised when her mobile rang at her desk and it was him.

‘Hey, Rosie, I’ve got a result.’

‘Already?’

‘Yep. If you’ve got a few passports it might take a day or so, but let’s deal with this one first, since it’s the most important.’

‘So what’ve you got?’

‘The passport was issued on the date you gave me to one Rabia Sahid in Lahore. I haven’t seen the picture, but I might be able to get a hold of it, though that’ll take at least a day. But I’ve got an address, so you can check that out.’

‘Brilliant. The girl’s home address in Pakistan should be on the wedding certificate at the registry office in Glasgow. We can check it there.’

Mickey reeled off the address and Rosie carefully wrote it down, reading it back to him to make sure she’d got it right.

‘How many more passports have you got? And are they all Pakistani?’

‘There are seven in total. All Pakistani.’

‘Okay. Give me the details and I’ll check them out with my mate. But the problem you’ll have there is that you’ve nothing to check against. I mean, you can authenticate the girl, Rabia, if the address is the same one she put on the wedding certificate. But the others – they’ll be just random addresses across Pakistan. Unless you can find who they are, you’ll never really know.’

‘I know that, Mickey. We’re not going to be able to track every one of them down, but if we can prove Rabia’s is a
fake, then that’s a pretty big deal. It gives us an in. We can ask the family where her passport is. In fact, my editor wants us to get the cops to do that.’ Rosie paused. ‘But I’d like to find out a bit more on the background about how this happens. There are obviously criminals behind it, but I need to be able to explain it simply.’

‘Well, put in simple terms, fake passports and stolen passports faked up with another picture or doctored, are quite commonplace. Gangsters are all over it, especially these days. My mate was saying that it happens a lot with Pakistani or Indian passports. People get out of the country by whatever means they can, either trafficked by gangmasters or in other ways. They turn up at UK border control and they’ve no passport. They just say they’re seeking asylum, and without a passport they can’t work, but they are given benefits. Then they disappear into the black economy. They’ve probably given up their passport before they left, maybe as payment for their passage here. That kind of thing.’

‘All of the passports I’ve seen have recent Sierra Leone stamps on them. Did I mention that earlier?’

‘No you didn’t, darlin’. Not like you to miss out such a salient point.’

‘Sorry, Mickey. I’m completely knackered. My head is all over the place. I just got back from Peshawar two days ago, and believe me it was mental over there. I’ll tell you all about it when we have that dinner. But since I came back,
I’ve been flat out writing the rescue story I was telling you about, and now it’s developing arms and legs.’

‘No worries, sweetheart. I was only joking. But I’ll go back to my mate re: the Sierra Leone stamp, though I think we can safely assume that the passports have been used for smuggling diamonds out of the country.’

‘Excellent. I’m really grateful to have your expertise on this. We’ll have to get whatever story I write past the lawyers. But the main thing is, if I can get anything on Rabia’s passport – the rest is a bit of conjecture, but I’ll get some official expert to comment. The editor is very keen on the passport line. He thinks it might flush something out.’

‘It might well do. Good luck with it. I’ll be around next week, so let’s have a plate of pasta.’ He paused. ‘And get yourself an early night, Rosie. You can’t keep going at a hundred miles an hour all your life.’

‘I know. I’m going to have an early night very soon.’

‘See you, darlin’.’ He hung up.

Rosie went to O’Brien’s fifteen minutes before she was due to meet Don. She did it on purpose, because she wanted to sit at the bar, sip a glass of wine, and relish how the day had panned out. The dog tiredness that had threatened to overwhelm her by four in the afternoon had been replaced with that sense of elation which only came from knowing you had nailed a story. Nothing else came close to it for her. Call it an empty life. Call it obsessed, but when everything fell into place, and people were about to be unmasked for the ruthless bastards they were, this was all the life she needed. It made up for the countless blind alleys you went up every day in pursuit of the truth. And it sure as hell pushed away the melancholy musing of her mixed-up personal life. That would probably never fall into place. But when Declan had given her the thumbs up as he appeared at the top of the stairs onto the editorial floor two hours ago, she could have done a triumphant back flip.

He’d just returned from the registry office in Martha Street, where they didn’t part with any details of births, marriages or deaths, unless you went there in person. Declan had gone up and bought an extract from the marriage register showing the wedding certificate of Farooq Shah and his wife Rabia. And there it was, in black and white: Rabia Sahid’s address in Lahore, and the same date of birth Rosie had seen in the passport from the stolen suitcase. She still didn’t know how Rabia’s passport had ended up in the hands of criminals. But it had, and it had clearly been used for smuggling. At first it was euphoria that swept her away, but it was quickly followed by rage. She thought of the bedroom, the locks on the outside of the door, and the elders of the family in the living room, the whole house cloaked in menacing silence. Everything in the house had been suffocating for the poor girl who wasn’t able to fight back. Whether she jumped or was pushed, Rosie would probably never know. But she had been wronged in so many ways. Maybe she too had been part of a business deal, in the way Laila was when her father punted her across to Pakistan to marry a man at least three times her age. Now, Rosie was in a position to go and knock on the door of the Shah house again. She swallowed a mouthful of wine and felt herself smiling as Don walked through the swing doors.

‘Pint?’ Rosie kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m only having one drink, Don, I’m totally done in. But I needed to see you. I’m going to make your night.’

‘Don’t say that, Rosie. You’ll get me all breathless with anticipation. I think I’ve got a warm glow in my pants.’

Rosie chuckled.

‘Not that kind of excitement. Even better.’ She knew he was as driven by his work as her.

The barman put the pint on the counter and Don took a long drink. He took out a packet of cigarettes and handed one to Rosie.

‘Smoking and everything,’ he joked. ‘You’re either wrecked with stress or onto something.’

‘I’m onto something. But I need to know that you won’t do anything about this until I knock on the door of these people.’

‘What people?’

‘The Shah family. Rabia’s father-in-law, the widower, all that crowd. Something is rotten in that whole set-up.’

‘We’ve felt that since day one, but we haven’t got a whisker on them.’

‘Well, that’s about to change.’ She took a deep breath, feeling excited just repeating her story. ‘I haven’t said anything to you because I’ve had to keep things really tight, but I’ve been working on a story attached to this. Don’t ask me, because I can’t tell you a thing about that right now – I will when the time is right. But I think Rabia’s death is connected to this other story I’m pursuing.’

‘What other story?’

‘Can’t tell you right now, just trust me.’

‘So what’s going on? You’re talking in riddles. I’m getting excited here because you’re excited.’ He blew smoke out and smiled through his craggy face. ‘Come on. Spit it out, pal.’

‘It’s to do with passports, or part of it is. I’ve discovered that Rabia’s passport has been used for smuggling. It’s been doctored and faked up with another picture. But it’s definitely
her
passport.’

He looked bemused.

‘How in the name of fuck can you know something like that, Rosie?’

‘I just do, okay? Put it this way: I’ve seen it. I know someone who is in possession of stolen passports, and I’ve seen them all. Much to my surprise, one had her name – her maiden name actually – and date of birth. But a different picture.’

‘Really? Aye but there’s bound to be more than one Pakistani girl with the same name and date of birth. I hope you’ve got more than that.’

‘I’ve had it checked out with my connections in the passport office, and the address where the passport was issued to is the same address Rabia put on her wedding certificate.’ She watched his face light up. ‘And before you ask, yes I’ve checked the wedding certificate too. I have a copy of it.’ She reached into her bag and brought out the certificate, handing it to him. ‘Here. It’s a present, don’t say I’m not good to you.’

He glanced at it.

‘Fuck me, Rosie! Are you sure? Where’s the passport?’

‘It’s with some people I’ve met, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it’s been photographed.’

‘Christ. But if all we’ve got to go on is a wedding certificate—’

Rosie interrupted.

‘Don. All you do is go to the house and ask to see Rabia’s passport. They can’t show you it, because it’s not there. Just watch their expressions and how they try to get out of it. Listen, if she was married a couple of months ago, then her passport should be around the house somewhere, because she would need it for the registry office to register the marriage. So ask them where it is. Ask them to show you it. They’ll shit their pants.’

‘So what have they done with it? What are they getting used for? You said smuggling?’

‘They can get used for anything once they get into criminal hands. A passport legitimises just about anybody, as you know.’

Don let out a long sigh, scratching his chin.

‘The boss is going to want to know what’s going on.’

‘Well he’ll have to start by asking them where the passport is. What I’m saying to you is that you have to put some heat on them. Let them know their arses are being felt, and see what happens.’

‘But they could say the passport is missing, or stolen.’

‘Well, just bluff it then. Come on, pal. You’re the cops, don’t tell me you’ve not bluffed your way through an investigation with a suspect, telling him you know everything so he’ll confess.’

‘How very dare you!’ Don grinned, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘But here’s the catch.’ Rosie finished her wine. ‘You can’t knock their door until I knock on it first. And I mean that. In fact, I’ll have them shitting themselves, so that by the time you hit the door, they’ll be just about ready to confess.’

Don smiled.

‘You’re making me an offer I can’t refuse, Gilmour.’

‘I know. That’s why you love me. And if you play your cards right and keep me out of it, then something bigger might be going down in a few days.’

‘To do with the Pakistani girl?’

‘Don’t ask. Just trust me . . . I’m a journalist.’ She gently eased down her rollneck jumper to expose the scar on her neck, still red and angry.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Don looked shocked. ‘Somebody try to cut your throat?’

‘Well. They threatened it. The cut is just the first bit of what’s to come.’

‘Christ’s sake, Rosie! Who did that? Just tell me.’ He was angry. ‘I’ll kill the bastard myself.’

‘Listen, Don. I’m going to tell you something else here, about me getting attacked. But right now, I’m not making an official complaint, so have you got that?’

‘’Course. Who did it? Just tell me, I’ll deal with it.’

‘Okay. It was done as a warning because I’ve been digging around on the Rabia story. I spoke to a girl I saw in the house that day I went in. This young woman kind of gave me the eyes, and I thought it was worth pursuing. I met her in Queen’s Park along with a cousin who’s only fourteen. It turns out, the kid was getting whisked to Pakistan to marry some old bastard.’