by Anna Smith
Rough Cut
Anna Smith
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also by Anna Smith
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus
This edition first published in 2016 by
Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Copyright © 2016 Anna Smith
The moral right of Anna Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 314 7
Print ISBN 978 1 84866 432 6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Also by Anna Smith
The Rosie Gilmour series
The Dead Won’t Sleep
To Tell the Truth
Screams in the Dark
Betrayed
A Cold Killing
For the cherished McGoldrick sisters – my beautiful aunties, Cathy, Sadie, Cis and Anna.
And Uncle Hugh.
‘Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky’
Rabindranath Tagore
Glasgow, January 2000
Nikki stood staring down at him in disbelief, paralysed with fear, willing him to utter a noise – any noise that would mean he wasn’t stone cold dead. She scanned his naked, lifeless body slumped on the floor where he’d keeled over. His fleshy mouth hung open as though in mid-sentence, and bubbles of saliva formed at the side of bloated jowls. The belt was still rigid around his neck, and purple welts began to appear there, creeping up towards his ears. One arm was raised above his head, the other draped across his thigh where a streak of fresh semen glistened under the harsh ceiling light. It crossed Nikki’s mind to reach down and loosen the belt. Maybe he’d come round and splutter back to life. She took a step closer, then stopped. No. This was really happening. This bastard was dead. Her whole body jerked at the sudden, shrill ringing of her mobile, and she stumbled as she clambered around the body and across to the double bed where she’d placed her handbag when she came in. She snatched the phone out of the bag, but it flew out of her hands onto the floor, still ringing. Jesus! She dropped to her knees and picked it up, clutching it with both hands. It was Julie.
‘Hey, Nikki. You about finished yet? Or are you doing a bit of overtime?’ Julie’s twenty-fags-a-day voice rasped.
Nikki opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
‘You there, Nikki? Everything alright?’
‘Ju-ulie,’ she managed to squeak. ‘This guy’s dead . . . Oh Christ, Julie!’
Silence. Nikki pressed the phone to her ear and could hear her own blood pounding in her head. Her legs wobbled and she began to sit down on the bed, but stood up again. Better not touch anything.
‘What . . . What do you mean, dead?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Julie! What do you think I mean? I mean dead . . . as in not breathing. Oh Jesus! I-I think I’ve killed him!’
‘What?’
Nikki tried to breathe, her chest tight with panic.
‘I didn’t mean it . . . He . . . He wanted me to do this thing with a belt round his neck . . . and . . . I had to pull it harder. He kept saying, “Tighter, tighter”. Then . . . then . . .’ She burst into tears. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing . . . I must have pulled the belt too hard. I . . .’ Her voice trailed off in muffled sobs.
‘Oh fuck!’ Julie whispered.
Silence. Nikki heard Julie take a deep breath and clear her throat.
‘Right. Calm down.’ Her tone was suddenly firm, in charge. ‘Just stay where you are. I’m on my way. Don’t answer the door, unless it’s me. What room you in?’
Nikki couldn’t remember. Her mind was a blur. She pictured herself coming in through the crowded hotel foyer less than an hour ago, taking the lift and walking along a quiet corridor. Then it came to her.
‘Room three-two-four. Hurry! Please!’
She stepped backwards towards the bathroom, her eyes still fixed on his body, watching for any movement. There was none. Her bare feet on the cold tiled floor made her look down, then up again. When she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, her hand automatically went to her mouth as she gasped. Tears and smudged mascara blurred her reflection. She glanced over her plumpish body, breasts pushing over the black lace bra, its thin straps too tight for her beefy upper arms. The black suspenders held up fishnet stockings, and tripey mounds of fake-tanned flesh at the top of her thighs spilled over like blancmange.
‘Christ! Look at you!’ she whispered, shaking her head slowly. ‘You’re disgusting! What the fuck were you thinking?’
How could she have been stupid enough to allow Julie to talk her into this? She’d convinced her they’d both make a few extra quid – a lot more on some weekends. And nobody would be any the wiser. Why the hell had she agreed? But it was too late now to ask stupid questions, too late for moral high ground reproaches. She broke down in sobs, slumped against the wall, as the sordid little scene five minutes ago ran through her mind like a low-budget porn flick.
It had only been her third time as an escort. In fact, calling herself an escort was an exaggeration, because that implied some kind of social interaction before you ended up on your back in a hotel bedroom with some random guy grunting on top of you. But at least it had been normal enough sex and not too unpleasant. Her second punter a few days ago had given her an extra thirty quid because she listened patiently for half an hour to his sad bastard life story before he asked her to climb on top of him. But this guy tonight was clear from the start about what he wanted. He’d been pleasant enough when he’d opened the hotel bedroom door to her – a fat, A
sian bloke, Pakistani she assumed, with a northern accent. He’d said he was from Bradford and was up on a bit of business, but that was it. He then asked her to strip off, and she stood in front of him in her underwear, feeling a self-conscious flush in her chest. Whatever he’d been expecting, he didn’t seem disappointed. He told her to keep her underwear on, then he took the belt off his trousers and stripped naked, already aroused. For a fleeting moment, Nikki thought he was some psycho who was going to use the belt on her. But he just drew his lips back in a smile, then knelt down with his back to her and put the belt around his neck. He told her to get behind him and rub herself against his back while he masturbated. Pull the belt tight, he told her. Don’t stop till I tell you. When she protested, he got angry. ‘Just pull the fucking belt tighter!’ She did. ‘Tighter’, he kept saying, groaning, his breath coming in gasps. ‘Tighter’, he repeated, gasping ‘yes, yes’. Nikki could see the colour rise on the back of his neck but he still wanted it tighter, calling her a bitch. ‘Just pull the belt’, he gasped. So she did. Then suddenly, he fell over. She let go of the belt, waiting for him to turn around. But he didn’t.
The loud knocking on the bedroom door startled her back to the present, and she dashed out of the bathroom, bumping into the door as she stumbled.
‘It’s me, Nikki. Open up.’
She unlocked the door and Julie burst in.
‘Christ! What’s happened?’
She saw the body on the floor.
‘Aw Jesus!’
Julie dashed over and dropped to her knees beside him, checking his neck for a pulse. She looked up at Nikki.
‘He’s fucked, Nikki.’
Nikki’s hands went up to her face.
‘Oh Julie! What are we going to do? Oh my God!’
Julie jumped to her feet and grabbed Nikki by the shoulders, prising her hands from her face. She looked her square in the eyes.
‘Right! Listen! Enough of that! Just quit it! We need to get out of here – fast.’
‘But . . . he’s lying there dead—’
‘Fuck that! It’s nobody’s fault. Kinky bastard anyway. What is it with these guys? I mean, what happened to an old-fashioned blowjob? No. There’s always some prick wants to do something stupid. Well, fuck him! He’s dead! At least he died happy.’ She looked at Nikki, her ruby-red lips curling a little.
Nikki looked around the room.
‘But what we going to do?’
Julie turned towards the body again, then went over to where his suit jacket was lying on the bed.
‘Let’s see who he is.’
Nikki watched, open-mouthed, as she went through his pockets and brought out a wallet. She opened it and held it in front of her, fat with wads of cash.
‘Christ, he’s loaded.’
She stuffed the wallet into her bag.
‘What you doing, for Christ’s sake? Stealing his wallet? Jesus, Julie.’
‘Yep. I am. And his mobile.’ She took his phone out of his trouser pocket and shoved it in her bag.
There was a holdall on the floor, and she rummaged through it. It was only some clothes. Her eyes flicked around the room, and fell on a small hard shell silver attaché case.
‘What’s that?’ She turned to Nikki.
‘Don’t know,’ Nikki was confused. It was all happening so quickly. ‘It must have been here when I came in. It must be his.’
Julie crossed the room and lifted the case. It was light. She tried to open it, but it was locked. She shook it and it made a rattling noise.
‘It’s not clothes, whatever it is.’
She walked towards Nikki with the case in her hand.
‘Right. Listen, and listen good.’
Nikki nodded, swallowing.
‘In about thirty seconds, we’re going to walk right out of here, as if we were a couple of hotel guests on our way to a night out.’
‘What? J-Just leave him?’
‘Well, we can hardly call the bloody cops.’
‘But we can’t leave him lying there!’
‘He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him. There’s no crime been committed here. It’s his own fucking fault.’
‘B-But . . . You’re taking his phone and his wallet. That’s a crime.’
‘I’m buying us some time, Nikki. If he’s got no documents or ID on him, then when some wee chambermaid comes in tomorrow morning and finds him lying stiff, they’ll take ages to find out who he is. He’ll have used a false name for the room – that gives us time to work out some kind of plan.’
‘But the case?’
‘Just take it. Leave the holdall with the clothes. You never know what’s in the case. Trust me. Okay? That’s all you have to do.’
Nikki didn’t answer.
Julie gently moved her towards the bed.
‘C’mon. Get dressed. Let’s move it. The place is mobbed down there in the foyer. Seems to be some kind of party going on, so nobody will even notice us leaving.’
Nikki pulled on her dress over her head and shoved her feet into her boots.
‘I’m scared, Julie,’ she sniffed.
‘Stop it! You’ll be a lot more scared if somebody walks in here and we’re caught with a dead body on the floor.’
‘But taking the case – what if he’s a drug dealer or something?’
‘Never mind what he is. I don’t give a shit. I’m taking everything that will identify him for now. We can chuck the case in the river once we manage to open it. You never know, it might be full of money.’
She grabbed hold of Nikki by the elbow and pushed her towards the door.
‘C’mon. Let’s go.’
Chapter One
Rosie’s shoes made a scrunching sound as she crossed the frozen grass, her breath steaming in the crisp, cold air. She climbed the wide steps of the three-storey sandstone villa and gazed up at the top floor windows, wondering which one the young Pakistani bride had tumbled from to her death. She shivered a little at the thought of the girl’s final moments, that split second when the window had been flung open and she would have felt the blast of cold on her face for the last time. She wished morbid pictures wouldn’t flood her head, but it was always the same on a death knock – though this was no ordinary death knock. What brought Rosie to the place they called Little Karachi, a five minute drive from Glasgow’s city centre, was whether she fell or was pushed. A Pakistani girl had committed suicide, the police had concluded, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary.
The problem with poking around a place like Little Karachi was that you had to tread carefully. Once home to generations of Scottish industrialists and merchants, Pollokshields, with its rows of two- and three-storey detached houses, was now the dominion of hundreds of Pakistani families – most of whom were business people, inter-married within their own communities. Of course, there was a bit of mystery about the way they led their lives, how they arranged their marriages, the strict rules and regulations – but they’d become part of Scottish culture. Nobody asked questions . . . until recently. A couple of years ago a gang of Pakistani yobs had kidnapped and beaten a local white boy, burning him alive and abandoning him in waste ground, where he died in agony. It had sparked outrage outside the community, and plenty of anger within. Then, another story about a young woman who’d apparently set fire to herself in a house up around Maryhill. There were whisperings of some kind of honour killing. Police couldn’t prove any foul play, and put it down to suicide. But a whiff of mistrust hung over the community now. People, probably racist deep down to begin with, started to question the way the Asians lived. The Asians shrank into themselves, but they were no longer left to their own devices. People asked questions and felt strongly that to do so was their divine right. Rosie’s Pakistani contact had told her there was something dodgy about the latest young bride’s death. Omar, a born and bred Glaswegian, might attend Friday prayers at the mosque, but he was as much a wide boy as any street smart punter from the East End, and had his finger in every Asian
pie. He was her only link into their closed world, and he would never throw her a line like that if there wasn’t something in it.
She could see shadows in the bay window of the big living room, where a few women seemed to be scurrying around. As she peered through the big stained glass door on the porch, someone was coming down the hall. More than one person. The door opened just a little, on a chain. Rosie put on her most understanding face.
‘Hello. Sorry to trouble you at this time. My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m from the Post. It’s about the bride . . . Rabia—’
The door closed again. Rosie glanced over her shoulder to the car, where the photographer, Matt, was sitting looking up at her. She’d told him to stay where he was, as she thought it best to hit the door by herself. She shrugged at Matt. Then more shadows at the door, and this time it opened fully. A tall man in a traditional Pakistani tunic stood looking down at her, his pockmarked cheeks half covered by a bushy beard. She was ready with her pitch again, when to her surprise he took a step back.
‘You can come in,’ he beckoned her. ‘I am Rashid Shah. Rabia was my son’s wife.’ His accent was Glaswegian but laced with Pakistani tones.
Rosie stepped into the large, gloomy hallway, her eyes drawn to walls festooned with tapestries of what looked like ancient Asian rituals or legends. Big porcelain jardinières with plant pots and plastic flowers framed the wide, spiral staircase, where a crimson carpet swept up to a landing, then around another staircase. A couple of children peeked out of a bedroom on the landing, then closed the door again. The pungent aroma of Asian cooking wafted from the kitchen at the end of the hall, and Rosie glanced over to see three woman coming out of an adjoining room, each of them dressed in full traditional clothes, bright oranges and reds. How many lived here? she wondered. Certainly more than one family, which wouldn’t be unusual. Many Pakistani families shared their homes with their offspring even after they married, and the mother of a young husband was often the matriarchal figure who welcomed, and if need be, scolded the new bride into their ways. The father and the men were the breadwinners. There was a status that came with growing old, unlike the mentality around the corner, where white feral youths ran riot and did what they wanted to their fathers and insulted their mothers. You didn’t get that in the Asian households. Their community had family and respect at its core, even if many of their ways seemed alien to outsiders.
