Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (9 page)

Julie sat in her car, with no idea what she was going to do, but she knew that time was running out. She had listened to the messages on her mobile, and they were more threatening each time. Big Gordy was onto them, he warned. And worse still, the Asian guys down south were onto them. They were coming to get her the way they had got Nikki. In their culture, you steal something, they chop your fucking hand off as a lesson. She was next. She’d better turn up somewhere, or get on the phone and arrange to give that fucking case back. Julie knew it was only a matter of time till they found her. She’d been into Nikki’s house early in the morning to make sure the case was still there and took it. Then she’d hired a car for the week and took off with everything she had, staying in a small hotel out in the Stirling area, sure they’d never look for her out there. She used the money from the dead Pakistani’s wallet and what was in the case to finance her. There was a lot of money. She’d counted it last night in the hotel room. Four grand and a few twenties and fifties. Enough for a while. Enough if she wanted to seriously disappear and reinvent herself abroad. But she couldn’t do that, not with Nikki up in the Royal with her arm cut off. She thought of her lying there, the shock on her face when she realised what had happened. And how she had had to make herself scarce in case the nurses or the cops arrived. They would be there to interview her now that she was coming round. She knew she had taken a risk the two times she’d visited in the last few days, but
what else could she do? Guilt seared through her. It was all her fault. She had talked Nikki into this bloody escort business. She knew she needed the money after that bastard Paul left her up to her arse in debt and suicidal with depression. It was only to be for a few weeks till she got on her feet again. And now this. Nikki could have died. Christ! What was she going to do now? She could go to the cops and tell them everything she knew – but she would be a dead woman, and so would Nikki, the moment she got out of hospital. Big Gordy would hunt them down, because the bastard had obviously lost face, sending one of his punters to get laid, providing birds who had stiffed him for the money and killed him. That’s how they’d view it. Even if they thought he died from a sex game, they still knew they had stolen the case. They hadn’t stopped to ask questions, as Nikki had found out. Why didn’t he kill her that night? Why not kill Julie too? Maybe they had other plans. A car hooted and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She had to think. She had to get someone to talk to. A copy of the
Post
was on the passenger seat. She knew the office was close to where she was sitting, but what would be the point of talking to the papers? They’d only get the cops. How could you trust these people? Her mobile rang again. She didn’t answer, but listened to the message. It sent a shiver through her

‘We know where you are. We’re going to get you, Julie. You’re dead.’

She picked up the newspaper and looked at the story of
the horrific attack on the girl whose arm had been severed. Shit! She hadn’t thought this through. Any of it. Not from the time they took the suitcase. But things were desperate now. Before she could stop herself, she dialled the number at the back of the newspaper and asked for the name that was on the story – Rosie Gilmour.

Rosie was in McGuire’s office, midway through relating her encounter with Sabiha and her cousin in the park, when her mobile rang in her bag. McGuire tutted, irritated at the interruption, as she fished it out. There was a private number calling.

‘I’d better take this, Mick. It could be anybody.’ She put the phone to her ear.

McGuire leant back, folding his arms.

‘Hello?’

Rosie never said her name when a call came in she didn’t recognise. She preferred to find out who it was first.

Silence.

‘Hello?’ she repeated, rolling her eyes at Mick.

‘Is that Rosie Gilmour?’ the voice said.

‘Yes, it is. Your name didn’t come up. Who’s this, please?’

‘I . . . I’ve got something to tell you. I think you’ll be interested. About that dead guy in the hotel. The Pakistani guy.’

‘I’d like to hear about that.’

Rosie was suddenly firing on all cylinders. She automatically walked out of the editor’s office. She needed to be alone to concentrate on this.

Silence.

‘Are you still there?’ Rosie said, walking towards a quiet corner of the editorial floor.

‘Yes. I’m here . . .’ The woman’s voice was shaky. She could hear her take a short breath and sniff. Rosie wondered if it might be a junkie hooker who wanted to cash in on some information she’d picked up on the grapevine. It happened. ‘Listen. I know about that guy . . . And other things . . . I’m scared.’

‘How do you know about it?’ Rosie said quietly.

It was risky getting straight to the point on the phone with a complete stranger, who was edgy and might just hang up. But it was better to find out now if she was a nutter than go chasing all over the city after her.

‘Listen. Please, believe me. I know. I was there. I saw him.’ She paused. ‘I can’t talk on the phone. Can I meet you?’

‘Sure,’ Rosie said. ‘Now if you want? Where are you?’

‘Near your office. In a car park.’

Rosie could feel her heart quicken as she walked back to McGuire’s office. He looked up from his desk, but she put a finger to her lips and grabbed her bag. As she headed for the door, she caught his don’t-mind-me-I’m-only-the-editor look of bewildered resignation as he shook his head.

‘Which car park? Don’t you want to meet in one of the pubs nearby?’

‘No. The car park. The one behind the old tile place. I don’t want anybody to see me. I’m scared. I told you that! . . . Fuck’s sake!’ The shaky voice went up an octave.

‘Okay. No problem.’ Rosie sensed her panic. ‘I know where you are. I’ll be there in two minutes. What kind of car?’

‘I’m the only car here. The place is derelict.’

‘I’m on my way.’

*

It was early afternoon, but the bleak January sky was already dark grey under the heavy downpour. Rosie pulled up the collar of her coat and tucked in her scarf against the biting wind as she walked to her car. She drove along the Broomielaw towards the turn off, her mind firing off a dozen scenarios, some of which she had to swiftly push away. Since the recent attacks on her in Spain and in Glasgow, she was careful not to meet anyone unless it was in a public place. What if she was being set up? A woman calling for a meeting would seem a safer prospect than some guy asking to meet her on his own. But Rosie was ever-paranoid and eyed everyone with suspicion these days. She breathed deeply to calm herself. The Broomielaw was busy with end-of-the-day traffic heading to the motorway or along the Clydeside, but the little side street was deserted apart from a few parked cars. Rosie drove towards the car park behind the tile suppliers, and she could see a red Ford
Fiesta. She drove in, kept her engine running and lowered her window. The woman’s window slid down too and she could see her. Rosie quickly glanced in the back of the woman’s car and over her shoulder again to see if there was anyone nearby. There wasn’t.

‘Rosie?’

‘Yep. How you doing? You want to come into my car?’

There was no way Rosie was getting into a stranger’s car – even a woman’s – and run the risk of being driven off at speed. Christ! She really
was
paranoid.

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

‘Have you phoned the police?’

‘Of course not. What kind of reporter would that make me, if I phoned the cops at every turn?’ She gave her a trust-me smile. ‘Don’t be daft. Come on into my car and we’ll have a chat. Don’t worry.’

Rosie had to be calm, in control. That’s what people expected. She leaned across and opened the passenger door. The woman hesitated for a long moment. Then she nodded, switched off her engine and got out. Rosie watched her coming around the front of the car. She looked on the rough side, late thirties or maybe forty, with hair dyed jet black that she might have got away with fifteen years ago. But this was a face where carefree youth was only a dim recollection, and a hard life had left her with deep creases around the eyes and the wrinkles of a twenty-a-day habit around the mouth. As she planked her hefty thighs down
on the passenger seat, her black leather skirt rode up a little and she shifted her body and tugged at it, trying and failing to make it longer. Maybe try a bigger size, Rosie thought, glancing at her glittery, too-tight top, which made her look like a refugee on the walk of shame from a Christmas night out. She had ‘hooker’ stamped all over her. Not the kind that Rosie was used to meeting in sticky-floored pubs and cafes, or in the homeless units where they got a bed at night as long as they weren’t smacked out of their head when they turned up. This dame was more the working-from-home type, where prostitution had spread to in recent years and people operated in a freelance or small-time way. Probably no different than it had been for women generations ago, only it was less well known then. Or she could be an escort. The escort agencies had grown up around the movie that sold the ridiculous idea that prostitutes looked like the
Pretty Woman
character, and could end up with a handsome millionaire promising them the earth. The reality was a world away. Of course, there were always one or two around a hotel bar when the rich people were having a meeting or hoping to pick up a random bird for the night. But nine times out of ten, if you were a punter and phoned an escort agency, it was like ordering a takeaway dinner – if you were lucky you got their best dish, but more often than not you got whatever re-heated meat they threw into the bag and you made the best of it. It was a shitty way for women to earn their money, but that’s how
it was. Rosie’s heart sank a little, knowing that whatever sensational claim she was probably about to make, it was coming from the lips of a hooker – and that would be her first problem. But here she was. Rosie stuck out her hand and looked her square in the eye.

‘Rosie Gilmour.’

The woman clasped it, looking back at her with liquid brown eyes that had little bloodshot streaks from booze or lack of sleep.

‘You can’t use my name or anything.’ She seemed to struggle for breath. ‘I’m scared even to say my name.’ She shook her head. ‘Christ! What a mess! What a fucking mess!’

Then she suddenly started to cry, her face crumpling, making her look even older. Rosie heart was sinking further.

‘Hey, come on. It’s okay.’ Rosie squeezed her arm gently. ‘Look . . . I’m not about to go blasting your name all over the papers, or going to the cops. It was you who called me, so you have to trust me. Alright?’ Rosie spoke softly as the woman dabbed her eyes with a rolled-up tissue. She was glad when she seemed to compose herself.

‘Julie,’ she said, offering Rosie a cold, damp hand.

Rosie hoped her face didn’t show any flash from the little explosion that had just gone off in her head. Julie was the name that Don had told her the girl with the severed hand had been calling out. The girl the cops had been
continually calling on Nikki’s mobile. Surely, this was too good to be true?

‘Good to meet you, Julie.’ Rosie gave her a firm handshake. ‘I hope you know that you can trust me.’

Julie sighed and shook her head, gazing out of the windscreen. She wiped her face with the palm of her hand.

‘Right now I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I don’t know who I can trust. I’m scared to death.’

‘I know.’ Rosie nodded. ‘Why don’t we just have a chat? You can tell me, in your own time, what’s happened. Tell me about the guy in the hotel you mentioned on the phone . . . and anything else.’

Julie nodded slowly, and examined the back of her hand, picking at the skin around her chewed fingernails.

‘Okay. Well. I saw your name on the two stories – of the dead guy in the hotel, and the woman with her arm cut off.’ She turned her face towards Rosie. ‘They’re both connected. Er . . . Nikki . . . Nikki’s my best pal.’ Her lip began to tremble a little, but she swallowed and managed to hold herself together. ‘Sorry. It’s . . . It’s been awful. I still can’t believe it.’

Rosie listened, barely breathing as Julie told her story. Julie said she’d been friends with Nikki since they were twelve years old, growing up in Easterhouse, living in one of the most deprived housing schemes in Glasgow, along with all the shit that threw at you. Long before the drugs took hold of the scheme, most people were all about honest
graft, even if there were sometimes long periods out of work. Julie’s marriage failed and she went into a downward spiral. She drank too much, did stupid things and ended up almost getting thrown out of her house. When she reached rock bottom, there was nowhere else to go. She turned to an escort agency to earn some money and it had worked fine for the past eighteen months. Her friend Nikki, whose husband was a complete arsehole, then got involved after he’d left her with a mountain of debt from his gambling habit.

‘Nikki never wanted to do it.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why this is all my fault. I told her it would be fine, and look at what’s happened. I’m such a stupid bastard. Everything’s my fault.’

‘What happened with the Pakistani guy?’

Rosie wanted to tease the facts out of her, because she could see she was getting more and more agitated and wanted to get the story out before she blew a gasket.

‘He was Nikki’s punter. So she went to the hotel . . . the Albany. This guy starts asking her to choke him.’ She glanced at Rosie. ‘You know that kinky sex stuff, where the guy gets a better buzz if they nearly pass out while they’re wanking?’

Rosie nodded.

‘I get the picture.’

‘Well, he keels over while she’s doing this. I mean Nikki’s clueless about a lot of stuff – in fact, I wouldn’t know much
about that kinky shit myself. But she’s totally new to this game, and her punters so far have been straightforward. But suddenly, this guy’s dead on the floor.’

‘Christ!’ Rosie said. ‘Then what?’

‘She calls me. I’d finished with my punter, and went straight there. Sure enough, there he was. So that’s when I made all the fucking wrong decisions.’ She shook her head. ‘When I think of it now . . . But of course it’s too fucking late.’