by Anna Smith
She flicked through the money, fifty-pound notes and twenties.
‘There must be over three grand here. Jesus! I bloody knew he was dodgy.’
Nikki picked up a few passports. There were eight or nine of them, and she squinted at the Pakistani national crest on their fronts. She opened them up. The photos inside were mostly of men, but a couple of them were women; young faces.
‘What the fuck is this all about?’ Julie leafed through one or two of them, then tossed them on the floor. ‘They must be fake or something. Guy was obviously in some kind of racket.’
Julie’s eyes turned to two little black velvet padded pouches, each tied with red ribbon. She picked one up and held it in her hand.
‘What’s this? She opened it and pushed her fingers in, feeling around. She pulled out a couple of roundish, rough stones.
‘Stones?’ Nikki asked.
‘Maybe it was a sting or something and they were suppose to leave the jewels they’d stolen, but what the guy left is a bag of driveway chips. I think somebody’s been humped up the arse.’
‘Let me see one.’ Nikki took one. It was grainy-feeling. She got up and went into the kitchen and took a small knife from the cutlery drawer. Then she came back in and sat down, gently scraping the stone. She stopped as it suddenly glinted like glass in the light. They looked at each other, eyes wide.
‘Fuck! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
Nikki kept scraping until the glass was almost clear on one side.
‘Diamonds! Jesus Christ, Julie! I think that’s a rough diamond. Holy fucking mother of God! We’ve stolen some bastard’s diamonds.’ She slumped back against the sofa and took another gulp of her drink.
Julie emptied the contents onto the carpet. Ten stones about the size of grapes. Then she took the other pouch and emptied them out. ‘Diamonds? Oh Christ!’ She picked two up and stared at them lying in the palm of her hand.
The mobile rang and they both jumped at the same time.
‘Shit!’ Nikki looked at it ringing and shuddering on the carpet, then at Julie.
‘Leave it,’ Julie said. ‘Let it ring.’
They could see the name Khan on the screen. Then it rang off.
‘Do you think they’ve left a message?’ Nikki whispered.
‘Leave it for a minute, then we’ll check.’
The phone vibrated with a message alert and Julie picked it up and scrolled through it.
‘It’s a voice message.’
She put it on to loudspeaker. It was an Asian accent mixed with a rough northern England lilt.
‘Ahmed. Where the fuck are you? You’re not answering your phone. I need to talk to you about the meet tomorrow.’
Nikki’s hand went to her mouth.
‘Jesus, Jules! This is serious!’
‘I know.’
For the first time all evening, Julie looked nervous. They both jumped again as the mobile rang, and watched in silence until it stopped.
Chapter Three
From her seat at the cafe’s window, Rosie watched the newsagent’s across the street. She’d been outside the Shah house, sat in the dark, since before seven this morning, watching the comings and goings, hoping for a glimpse of the girl. Mostly it was men leaving early, probably going to work. At one stage the widower came out, got into his silver BMW and roared out of the street. Eventually, two women came out with kids in school uniforms and coats, wrapped up against the bitter wind, and they walked in the direction of the primary school at the end of the road. Then nothing. After another half hour, she saw the girl leave and head up the street towards the shops. Rosie followed at a very discreet distance. When she saw her going into the newsagent and not coming out after a few minutes, she assumed she must be working there. Perhaps it was part of the family business. Rosie and Declan had run a check on them, establishing that the Shah family owned a textile-importing business, a cash and carry and three Indian takeaways, as well as a string of corner shops. It was always difficult within the Asian community to figure out who actually owned what as business premises were often rented and the businesses run by extended families. Rosie knew she couldn’t risk going into the newsagent in case she bumped into someone from the house yesterday. She wanted to get Sabiha alone. So she waited, ordered another cup of tea, and worked out her next move.
*
In McGuire’s office yesterday afternoon, he was, as usual, strident as she’d told him of her visit to the Shah house.
‘I just don’t trust them,’ he declared.
‘You can’t make sweeping statements like that, Mick. Not out loud anyway. It sounds racist.’
‘I’m not racist. Not in the least. And I don’t care whether it’s Catholic, Protestant, Hindu, or born again fucking Christian. I don’t like the way these people treat their women. They’ve obviously locked that poor girl in her room. Maybe she was forced into a marriage she didn’t want, or brought over here against her will. I don’t care what religion that is. It’s just wrong. Stuff anyone who calls me racist.’ He stood up. ‘And don’t forget, Gilmour. It was this paper that exposed the real racist bastards who were terrorising voters when that Pakistani MP was running for election. We put them in jail for what they did, and I’m proud of that. But I’ll be asking questions whenever I want, about whoever I want. That’s how I do business.’
Rosie smiled to herself, recalling his outrage when a Ku Klux Klan-style fiery cross was stuck in the Pakistani MP’s garden days after he was elected to the House of Commons. The Post had gone all out on the investigation and tracked down the sick bunch of right-wing thugs to a flat in Glasgow. They’d found out that a couple of them were wealthy white businessmen.
‘So, how we going to tackle this?’ He sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘I’m not putting some sob story in the paper about them all sitting round there weeping over the girl, if there is any hint that their actions, or inaction, played a part in her death. And that fucking lock on the outside of the door tells me enough. What are the cops saying?’
‘Not a lot. I think there’s a feeling they aren’t getting the real story from the family. But they have no evidence whatsoever of a crime. Okay, the girl had recent slash marks on her wrist, and also marks that looked like she’d been restrained. But the family say that was self-inflicted, that she self-harmed. The cops have no way of proving any different.’
‘But you saw the younger girl in the house with marks on her wrist?’
‘Yeah. And that’s where I want to start. If I could get Sabiha on her own, maybe I could get through to her. I felt like she looked yesterday as though she wanted to speak. But she’ll be terrified. I might be wrong, but it’s worth a try.’
McGuire’s phone rang on his desk and he looked at his watch.
‘I’ve got a conference call in five minutes. Get yourself out to that house in the morning early doors and see what you can see. But you have to be careful, or they’ll start throwing accusations of racism at us.’
*
Rosie watched as one of the men from the house, whom she’d seen leave the shop a few minutes after the girl, returned. Then shortly afterwards, the door opened and the girl came out. Rosie leapt to her feet, left three pound coins on the counter and went out of the cafe. She got into her car and drove past the girl, then pulled in to the kerb a few yards up the road. Sabiha seemed to be going back to the house, so she would only have one quick shot at this. She watched from her rear-view mirror as the girl got closer to the car. Then, as she was almost there, Rosie got out and stood leaning on the passenger side of the car. The girl had her head down as she walked along the pavement, and looked up, startled, when she saw her.
‘Excuse me, Sabiha?’ Rosie took a step towards her.
The girl stopped in her tracks, her eyes darting around and over her shoulder. She took a step as though trying to pass Rosie.
‘Wait! Please!’ Rosie said. ‘Sorry. But can I have one moment to talk to you?’
Sabiha stopped and shook
her head quickly, her eyes full of fear.
‘No. Please. No.’ She sidestepped Rosie and went beyond her, walking briskly.
‘Okay, I’m sorry.’ Rosie quickened her step behind her. ‘Sabiha, I wanted to talk to you about your sister Rabia . . . I think someone is not telling the truth. I . . . I saw the lock on the bedroom door. I think someone harmed your sister.’
It worked. Sabiha stopped rigid, and half turned, but then immediately turned away and kept walking.
‘Listen, Sabiha. I have a feeling something very bad is going on. Don’t be afraid. Just . . . please, take my card.’
Sabiha stopped again and this time turned fully around to face Rosie, and she could see the dark smudges under her eyes.
‘Go away!’ Her trembling fingers went to her lips. ‘You’ll get me into trouble talking to me. Go away! Don’t you see? You can’t help! Go away!’
Rosie resisted the urge to reach out and touch her arm.
‘But maybe I can help,’ she looked her in the eye. ‘I can only help if someone talks to me. Sabiha. You have been here for four years. You must know what goes on. What was troubling your sister so much that she took her own life?’
The girl’s lip quivered. She shook her head.
‘No! Rabia did not kill herself.’
Rosie was nearly in. She opened her mouth to speak, but the girl put her hand up.
‘Please. I must go home. I have my children. That is all that matters now.’
As Sabiha turned to walk away, Rosie stepped forward and thrust her card towards her.
‘Here. Please take it. If you get a chance and feel you want to talk, then call me. Any time. No one will know. I promise.’
Sabiha shook her head, then she was gone, moving swiftly up the road, her steps quickening.
*
Rosie stepped on to the editorial floor of the Post as the various executives spilled out of the morning conference, each carrying their schedule for features, news and sport for tomorrow’s paper. As she approached her desk, Declan, one of the paper’s rising young stars, was putting on his jacket and stuffing his notebook and tape recorder into his pocket.
‘I was going to phone you in a minute, Rosie.’
‘What’s up? Where you off to?’
‘The Albany. Guy found dead in a hotel bedroom. I got a tip from one of my cop pals. A chambermaid found some guy naked on the floor with a belt round his neck.’
‘Why are the cops into that? I’m surprised they’re not just saying it looks like suicide, or one of those kinky sex jobs. Do they think someone’s done him in?’
‘Dunno yet. But I’m going to take a run up, and see what’s going on. I’ll give you a shout once I get a handle on it.’
Rosie was already punching a phone number into her mobile: Don, a detective sergeant in the Serious Crime Squad, who’d been her close friend and police inside source for years.
‘Don. Howsit going?’
‘Rosie. The very woman. I was going to buzz you to see if you fancied a drink later.’
‘Good idea. What about the dead body on the floor at the Albany. Did somebody bump him off?’
‘Don’t know yet. But it’s who he is that’s of interest to us.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Ever hear of a Pakistani gangster by the name of Ahmed Malik?’
‘Nope. From around here?’
‘Initially, Glasgow. But moved down south years ago. Manchester or Bradford. He’s a major racketeer now, involved in fake passports, identity cards. And, wait for it, we’re hearing from the boys down at Scotland Yard that he’s been dabbling in diamond smuggling.’
‘Diamond smuggling? Pakistanis? That’s a new one on me. We looked at a guy a few years ago who was making fake passports for illegal immigrants he was bringing in to work in restaurants. I’d have thought that was the level of stuff they did. But diamonds?’
‘Word is that there’s a bigshot Pakistani boss down in Manchester – his name is Sahid Khan – and this guy was working for him. Malik was a glorified delivery man.’
‘So what was he doing up here?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Tell you what, Rosie. It’s too early to get any real picture here. Why don’t I meet you later at O’Brien’s and maybe I’ll have some more.’
‘Great. We’ve got a young reporter up at the Albany anyway, sniffing around.’
‘Okay. See you later.’ Don hung up.
Rosie sat down at her desk and checked her screen for anything on the wires about the dead body. Nothing so far. She picked up her mobile and punched in a number.
‘Omar. What you up to, pal? I need to pick your brains on a couple of things. Do you fancy a coffee? I’ll come up to the West End if you can take afford to some time out from your empire.’
‘For you, Rosie, anything. See you in fifteen minutes.’
She hung up and headed back down the stairs.
Chapter Four
‘Right. Run that past me again, Nikki . . . You got the call from Julie that you both had punters to meet . . . She went to see hers at the Thistle, and you went to the Albany.’
‘That’s right, Gordy.’
Nikki’s mouth was so dry she could barely get the words out. This was the first time she’d met big Gordy MacLean in person, but his reputation was enough to scare the shit out of her. Nobody ever crossed him and lived to brag about it. Anyone who did was usually found face down in the Clyde, or trussed up and buried in a shallow grave out in the country – and, rumour had it, they weren’t always dead when it happened. He looked like a mean bastard too, his eyes piercing her as though he could see she was lying through her teeth. She could feel her face redden. She chanced a glance at Julie sitting next to her, who gave her as reassuring a look as she dared. Nikki cleared her throat. She took a breath, hoping the story she and Julie had concocted this morning would be believable. It had to be.
‘Yeah. That’s it. The guy didn’t talk much at all, just wanted straight sex. He seemed alright and was keen enough, if you know what I mean, when he took his clothes off. But when he tried to have sex with me, he couldn’t manage it. So, after a couple of attempts – and I mean, I was doing everything I could for him – he just said sorry and asked me to leave. I wasn’t sure if he’d pay. I’m new to this, so I wasn’t sure what the set-up was. But then he took a wad of notes out of his jacket pocket and gave me the money. He looked more embarrassed than anything. So I put my clothes on and left.’
‘You left. Just like that?’ Gordy sat back on his office chair and linked his fingers over his pot belly. ‘Can you remember what was in the room, any bags or anything?’
‘Bags?’
‘Aye. Luggage. Like a suitcase or anything?’
Nikki narrowed her eyes, hoping she looked as though she was racking her brains.
‘I think there was a holdall on the floor.’
‘You didn’t see an aluminium suitcase? Like one of them attaché cases you see businessmen carrying?’
She shook her head.
‘Nope. Nothing like that. I mean, I wasn’t looking for anything. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was in the room. Do other girls notice everything in rooms when they go to a punter? I’m only looking at the punter. He’s the one who’s paying for me, so that’s all I’m interested in.’
Gordy picked up his mobile phone and held it up.
‘You didn’t see a mobile?’
Nikki shook her head.
Gordy said nothing and let the silence settle over them as he stared at Nikki for so long she could feel sweat trickling down her back. Her heart was thumping.
‘So what is the situation, Gordy?’ Julie broke the silence. ‘This guy’s dead. We know that much. And Georgie told us she heard he was naked on the floor with a belt around his neck. Is that right?’
‘Aye.’
‘So he either did it to himself or somebody’s done him in. Who is he anyway, Gordy?’
Gordy glowered at her
.
‘Doesn’t matter to you who the fuck he is. And, until I got a phone call putting a rocket up my arse about two hours ago, it didn’t matter a fuck to me either. But now it does. Because now I’ve got someone breathing down my neck, asking where this Paki cunt’s attaché case is. Because there were fucking rough diamonds in that case. Smuggled diamonds. And the last person to see him alive was you.’ He turned his icy glare to Nikki.
‘Well, he was alive when I left. That’s all I can say. What else do you want me to say?’ Tears welled up. ‘The poor guy’s dead. Who knows if he committed suicide, maybe because he couldn’t have sex? I feel guilty. If I could have done something more for him to have sex with me, then maybe he wouldn’t have done himself in, if that’s what happened.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Gordy shook his head and looked perplexedly at Julie. ‘What you doing bringing somebody into this game with a fucking conscience?’ He turned to Nikki. ‘Listen, darlin’, this isn’t a social service we provide here. Some punter wants a ride, then we supply it and move on to the next customer. Anything else is of no consequence to us. But this guy was apparently carrying a case with a lot of valuable stuff in it. He was making a delivery down south, and decided to take a bit of down time before his meeting the next day. But suddenly he’s found brown bread on the hotel floor. And his last point of contact was Discreet Escorts.’
‘How do you know that, Gordy? Is he a regular?’ Julie asked.
‘No, he’s not. First time. But he got one of the guys he knows up here to give him our number, and he called us himself. So, all of a sudden, every fucker is doing a post-mortem trying to work out what happened. And somebody has told his boss that he was meeting one of our girls.’ He looked at Nikki. ‘That’s you . . . and you were the last person to see him!’
‘But maybe I wasn’t,’ Nikki protested, sniffing. ‘Anything could have happened after I left. But I didn’t do a thing. Honest, Gordy. I’ve told you everything. You’re looking at me as if I did something, and I didn’t.’ She broke down in sobs.
