Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (5 page)

‘’Course,’ Nikki said.

Julie nodded and they headed for the door. They didn’t speak till they were out of the building and on the street.

‘You were bloody dynamite in there, Nikki.’ Julie nudged her. ‘What a performance. You should get an Oscar – tears and everything! You didn’t even flinch when he mentioned the diamonds.’

‘The tears were real. I was shitting myself. Do you think he believed me?’

‘I don’t know. But he must be getting his arse felt by whoever belongs to the case.’

‘But do you think he believed me?’ Nikki insisted.

‘Don’t know. Let’s hope so.’

As Julie waved down a cab, Nikki tugged her arm.

‘This isn’t over yet, Julie, is it?’

‘No,’ Julie shook her head as she climbed into the taxi. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to your flat and work out what we’re going to do.’

*

An hour later, the two of them sat on the sofa in Nikki’s flat, drinking coffee.

‘Not a bad job is it? You can’t tell it’s been moved,’ Julie said as they looked at the fake, wooden fire surround. ‘And anyway, even if it got to the stage that somebody came searching, who’s going to go behind the fireplace? That’s one of your better ideas, Nikki. Is that where you keep all your money?’

‘Yeah, right. I wish I had money to hide.’ She sighed. ‘But I actually had to hide all the endowments and savings accounts behind there before that useless bastard finally left. Otherwise I’d have lost the lot.’

Nikki’s mind flashed back to the worst days before her gambling addict husband Paul finally left her, wrecking everything on his way out, pulling cupboards apart as he searched, desperate for anything he could turn into cash to punt at the bookies. A wave of depression washed over her, remembering how they had lost everything as Paul schemed and spent and stole from her, emptying their
joint bank account for the bookies, and the threats from the moneylenders who were chasing him. He left her with nothing but the few sticks of furniture she had. But all of that had paled into insignificance when weeks later she lost the baby she was carrying six months into her pregnancy. It had taken her two years to get back to anything that would resemble the woman she was before, but she knew she could never have that old her entirely back.
She
was gone forever. Nikki still couldn’t hold down a proper job, and bouts of depression still swept her down into the same dark alley. It was Julie who had helped pull her out of it, refusing to let her sink. It was Julie who had called in unannounced to find that she’d taken an overdose of pills when she didn’t want to live another day. Julie stayed with her every day, pushed her to get better, or as good as she was going to get. She would have to make do with what was left of herself. She felt her eyes fill up.

‘Sorry, Nikki,’ Julie said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to bring back any shit. I was only trying to lighten things up a bit. ‘

‘It’s okay. But I did keep stuff back there. It was the only place he hadn’t turned upside down.’

‘Bampot!’ Julie said. ‘You heard anything from him recently?’

‘No. Not for a month. That’s the longest he’s been out of my hair. He’s such a bastard. He left a message on my phone, after I ignored his calls. It said all he wanted to tell me was that he’s moved in with some bird and was very
happy. Good bloody luck to him. He must have found out she’s got a bank account. Thieving, robbing bastard that he is.’

‘You’re well rid of him.’

‘I know.’

They fell into silence, drinking their coffee and staring at the fire.

‘So, what do you think has happened? That dead guy, whoever he was, must have had some serious business here. Do you think Gordy knows more than he’s letting on?’

‘Not sure how much he knows. He’s not going to tell us, anyway.’

‘Do you think he’ll do anything to us?’

Julie shrugged.

‘Hard to say, but we can’t lose sleep thinking about that. He’s a bad bastard, but I don’t think he would actually go out of his way to do anything – unless he could benefit from it. I’ve known him a couple of years now and he’s always been okay as long as nobody crosses him. There’s absolutely nothing to suggest that we’ve done anything – and that’s how it will stay. Especially now that he’s confirmed that it’s diamonds.’

‘Anyway, Julie,’ Nikki said. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for this kind of escort stuff.’

‘Christ’s sake, Nikki!’ Julie raised her eyebrows sympathetically. ‘Do you think anyone is cut out for it? Nobody
does it as a vocation. People do it because they have to, or because if you can separate yourself from what you’re actually doing, it’s quite an easy way of making money. I gave up all that feeling of being grubby and used a long time ago, and talked myself into it being a job just like any other. We provide a service and get paid. Simple as that.’

‘I know, but I still feel awful with that guy dying on me. I’ve hardly slept for two nights. I keep seeing him turning blue.’

‘It’s normal to feel like that. You just have to go with it for the moment. But I think it would be a bad idea for you to suddenly tell Gordy you don’t want to go back. It would look suspicious.’

‘Would it not just look like I’m freaked out because of what happened?’

‘It might. But we can’t risk it, Nikki. We can’t have him thinking that we are anything other than whiter than white here. So we just carry on as normal.’

Nikki sighed. ‘We shouldn’t have taken the case. That makes it even more dangerous. Somebody heavy is obviously looking for it. And Christ knows where that could end.’

‘Just try to put all the anxiety stuff out of your mind and give it a couple of days. I’ve told Georgie I’m off for a day anyway and I won’t be available till tomorrow night. She asked about you, and I said you’d be the same, maybe even an extra day. So just take some time to think about it.’

‘Okay. I will.’

Julie looked at her watch. ‘I’m going home to have an early night. I’d suggest you do the same. You want to come over or do you want to be on your own?’

‘I’ll stay here, thanks. I’m really tired.’

Julie stood up and picked up her bag, then Nikki walked her to the door. They had a long hug, but didn’t speak, and Julie opened the door and left. At the sound of the main door to the building banging shut, Nikki felt a wave of loneliness wash over her.

Rosie was glad to get out of the icy rain and into the warmth of O’Brien’s, with its soft lights and polished elegance. She loved this place, its old stained glass windows and the anonymity of its green leather booths. Especially at this time of the afternoon, when all the lunchtime stragglers had finally sloped off and the waiters and staff quietly moved around the restaurant at the far end of the bar, preparing it for the evening. However depressing it was outside, with the rain coming down in sheets across the city, in here you could blot it out, sitting at the bar reading a copy of one of the posher broadsheets. You would never get a copy of a red-top tabloid like the
Post
in O’Brien’s – a point which Rosie continued to make to the silver-haired Donegal barman, who usually gave her a sympathetic but ever so slightly condescending smile. The management don’t think the customers would like it, he’d say. Then you should tell the management that plenty of
the well-heeled punters who moved around in this place wouldn’t know their way around a broadsheet newspaper, other than the fact that you got two fires out of it for kindling, she’d say. But it never changed, and she had to laugh at their double standards. It was well known that in O’Brien’s, as well as the lawyers and top-drawer customers, there were always a few thugs who were just out of jail, or were lucky they hadn’t been found out yet. She sipped from a glass of over-priced Spanish red wine, relishing the smoothness and reflected on her conversation an hour ago with Omar.

*

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to her that Omar already knew the name of the dead Pakistani in the Albany, and his background. Rosie was glad that he’d confirmed what Don had told her – that Ahmed Malik was a racketeer involved in fake passports. Omar said the passports were used for the usual fraudulent activities – running up bills, obtaining credit and opening accounts all over the place. Banks and credit companies were throwing money at people these days, and if you could provide details over the phone, the money was in your account overnight. It was that easy. Fake passports could give a new identity for bank accounts to be opened and dirty money laundered. Omar didn’t know Malik was into diamond smuggling, but he said it was easy.

‘I’ve done it myself,’ he said, looking a little smug.

Rosie knew Omar liked to shock her with his revelations.
She was intrigued by how well informed this elusive figure was, with no visible means of support, yet who drove a big car and lived in one of the city’s more prosperous streets in the West End. He had also hinted over the years, that he had another life in the north of England, with another wife and two children. It was allowed, he’d declared, as long as you could support them. Rosie didn’t judge.

‘You actually smuggled diamonds?’ Rosie looked at him in disbelief.

‘Yes. I’m serious. I went to Africa – to Angola – and came back through Dubai and the Arab Emirates with a pocket full of stones. Rough diamonds. I was doing a run for a mate. Got well paid for it. It’s much easier if you look like me than somebody like you, for example. You know what I mean. A white face. You don’t get too many white faces along the way out there.’

‘How difficult is it?’

‘Rosie. It’s like Sauchiehall Street over there. Everyone’s doing it. We look at diamonds in jewellery shops and we know very little about them. If we know anything, it’s probably that it’s a very controlled, legalised trade, so that all the diamonds are authentic and every diamond in a ring can be traced back to the original stone. That’s what we’re led to believe, but a lot of that is crap. Diamond smuggling is big business. One of my contacts here asked me to do it for one of his contacts down in London. The money was great, so I thought, why not? I was amazed that once
you get into Africa, crooked diamond merchants are all over the place.’

‘I’d love to hear more of this story, but where does Malik fit in, as far as you know?’

‘He’s the guy – probably not the only one – who supplies the passports and delivers the rough stones. As far as I know he works all over the UK, but he’s connected to one of the biggest, baddest guys in the country. A Pakistani from Karachi who works out of Manchester. His name is Sahid Khan. He stayed here a few years ago, but moved away. Really mental guy. Ahmed Malik works for him . . . or did. If he’s been found dead in the hotel, then he must have crossed the big man. What are the cops telling you?’

‘Nothing much,’ Rosie replied. ‘Officially, nothing except the fact that a Pakistani man was found with a belt around his neck. But one of my detective contacts told me the name, and also Khan’s name. So, you’re well informed.’

‘I’m always well informed.’ Omar drained his coffee cup. ‘Somebody must have done Malik in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Listen, I’ve got to meet someone now for a wee bit of business, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I’ll wait till I hear anything, but when I get it, you’ll get it first.’ He stood up and kissed Rosie on the cheek. ‘You’re my favourite woman. In fact, if you’d become a Muslim, I’d make you one of my wives.’ He grinned, and turned on his heels.

*

Rosie waved as Don came into the bar.

‘Hi, handsome,’ Rosie planted a kiss on his cheek as he climbed onto a stool beside her. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

The barman pushed a pint of Stella Artois across to him, before subtly moving down the bar a bit to give them privacy. He knew Don was a cop and they were unlikely to be meeting socially.

‘Here’s to you, Gilmour.’ Don took a long drink, then another sip before placing the glass back on the bar. ‘I needed that.’

‘Busy day with the Pakistani guy?’

‘Yeah, mental. But I’ll come to that in a minute.’ He loosened his tie and ran a hand over his stubbly jaw. ‘You know the girl who jumped out of the window?’

‘Rabia Shah,’ Rosie said.

‘Yeah. Well, I did tell you that we were suspicious about marks on her wrists, and some other things we saw, but there was nothing really to open a proper case on it. So we had to release the body as they wanted to bury her within a couple of days – it’s their custom.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘A lot of flak coming from some rabble rousers in the Asian community, saying we were putting them under pressure with our questions. The family said we more or less accused them of harming the girl – which is total shit – even if I think they did.’

‘Did you take part in the questioning?’ Rosie knew Don was not known for his diplomacy.

‘Aye. Me and the DCI. But we got nowhere. We did question them closely about the lock on the outside of the door. In fact, yeah, I did suggest to them that maybe they had locked her in. I have a gut feeling about it. Something isn’t right.’

‘Yeah. I know the feeling. I was there myself today, but I have nothing concrete to go on, so there is no way we can write any kind of story suggesting any wrongdoing. If we did, we’d be accused of racism.’

‘Well, that’s what’s happened to the cops. The family filed a complaint of racism and now we have to get pulled in for an internal investigation. Pile of shite, but it has to be done.’

‘For what it’s worth, the family never mentioned anything about racist cops to me. If they had done, I’d have let you know.’

‘Cheers, pal. That’s something. I don’t know what their game is though, making wild allegations. I still think they harmed the girl.’

‘Me too.’ Rosie didn’t want to tell him that she had approached the sister. She changed the subject.

‘So what about the Pakistani stiff, Ahmed Malik? What’s the lowdown?’

Don sighed, offering Rosie a cigarette, which she declined. He lit one and inhaled deeply, swallowing the smoke.

‘Forensics were in the hotel room half the day. They just
got back to us. The belt around his neck has other fingerprints on it – not just his.’