by Anna Smith
‘Goes without saying.’
Chapter Six
Nikki had only agreed to go on tonight’s job because Julie said it would look suspicious if she knocked it back. Better to keep up a bold front for the next few weeks then gradually just phase yourself out. Fine, Nikki thought. I can just about live with that. But getting all kitted out in her working gear was the last thing she felt like doing right now. Her heart was still going like an engine half an hour after she’d slammed the phone down on Paul.
*
It had started off as a civilised conversation, when he’d called her out of the blue to ask if she’d received his text message that he was moving on with his life.
‘Yes, I got it. Good luck to you.’
She hoped she sounded as uninterested as she was. She was surprised at how much she actually despised him now. Even the sound of his voice made her burn with rage. He had ruined her life. She lost the baby she’d longed for because of this selfish bastard. As far as she was concerned, he was already dead. Nikki put the finishing touches to her make up and looked at herself in the mirror while she listened to him. There were a few more lines around her eyes over the past eighteen months, and her face had lost a lot of its glow. When she was six months pregnant, she had just begun to put on a bit of weight around her middle and her face was fresh and full of hope. People talked about how vital she looked, and she loved it. Paul didn’t even seem to notice – he was already lost in his gambling addiction, secretly emptying their bank account. She sighed, studying her face in the bathroom light, half listening to him. With her make up heavier on the eyes and blusher on her cheekbones, her features were more pronounced and she looked well. She hoped she wasn’t too tarty – though that was what she was. Nobody was more aware of it than her. But it was only for a few more weeks. Paul was still droning on.
‘Can you hear me, Nikki? I’m really doing well now.’
‘Great. I said, good luck to you. Listen, Paul. I’m busy right now. I’m going out.’
‘Oh aye. It’s all about you, isn’t it? Never mind me, and the fact that I’ve turned my life around. It’s all about you. It always was.’
‘Look. I don’t need this. I haven’t needed it for a long time, so can you just piss off and get on with your life and let me get on with mine?’
‘Your new life.’ Paul’s voice was a snarl. ‘Out every night. Some mother you’d have made anyway.’
‘Piss off, Paul, you useless bastard,’ she snapped. ‘How dare you say that?’
‘No! You fucking listen. I know where you go at night. You and that big fucking tart, Julie. You’re whoring it.’ He sniggered. ‘A bit fucking past it if you ask me, the two of you. You must be offering discounts.’
She could see the red in her chest rise up her neck to her face, and the rage made her breath catch. How the hell did he know? She couldn’t risk saying a word, because she knew her voice would quiver.
‘Aye. You’re quiet now, alright.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘You think because I’m not around the scheme I can’t see what you’re up to? I know what you’re up to, you wee slut. I know who you work for and where you go.’
‘I’m hanging up, Paul. You’re talking a load of crap and I’ve not time to listen to you. Don’t call me again. If you do, I’m going to get the cops to you. I’ll get a fucking restraining order, you twisted bastard.’
‘Yeah, right. Go to the cops then. Tell them you’ve got a new job. You think they’ll listen to a fucking word you say.’ He paused. ‘I’m watching you. Don’t you forget it.’
The phone clicked off and Nikki stood staring at herself in the mirror, her lip trembling. She swallowed. ‘I won’t let him do this to me,’ she said out loud. ‘I can do this. He won’t beat me.’
*
In the taxi into the city centre, Nikki didn’t mention Paul’s phone call to Julie. When Julie asked her why she was so quiet, she said she was tired and hadn’t slept much last night. She wanted to get this over and get back to the house. It was a hotel outside the city they were going to, Julie had told her. They were being picked up by Alex – Gordy’s right-hand man – which was unusual in itself, as it was normally Davey, a pervy little creep, who drove them on jobs if they were out of Glasgow. He was waiting for them at the top of Renfield Street, and they got out of the taxi and into the car.
‘So where is this hotel?’ Julie asked.
‘Just outside Paisley,’ Alex said. ‘I’ve got to get some petrol first on the way down.’ He turned around to face Julie. ‘But there’s been a change of plan, darlin’. Did you get a phone call?’
‘No.’ Julie gave him a surprised look. ‘What change?’
‘You’re to go up to the Thistle Hotel for a punter. Room two-six-seven. One of the birds had been booked earlier on, but she’s called off. The babysitter didn’t turn up or was pished or something. So she can’t come. You’ve to go. So I’ll drop you and I’ll take Nikki to her punter.’
‘But I didn’t get a call. Usually, Georgie would call me.’ She took her mobile out of her bag and scrolled down her call list.
‘She’s off tonight. It was Denny who phoned me. He said I’d to tell you. Do you want to phone him? He’ll not be happy. He was just about to sit down to dinner with his wife when he phoned me.’
Julie sighed. Denny was one of Gordy’s hardmen who occasionally worked at the agency if Georgie was off. She glanced at Nikki’s worried look.
‘So am I just to go on my own down to Paisley?’ Nikki asked, looking from the driver to Julie.
‘I’m taking you,’ Alex said, indignant. ‘Did I not just say that? I’m dropping you and I’ll wait outside for you.’
Nikki looked at Julie.
‘It’ll be alright,’ Julie said. She prodded Alex in the shoulder. ‘Make sure you wait for her.’
‘Fuck off,’ Alex said, pulling the car up outside the Thistle Hotel. ‘Your punter will be waiting for you.’
‘I’ll phone you,’ Julie said, opening the back door. ‘You’ll be alright. I’ll call you in about an hour. And any problems, you phone me.’ She reached across and squeezed Nikki’s shoulder, then got out of the car and tottered across in her high heels to the hotel entrance.
*
Alex drove out of the city and onto the motorway towards Paisley. A few miles along the M8, he took a slip road and headed for a service station. When the car pulled in, Nikki suddenly became aware that the petrol station was deserted, with no outside lights and the car park in darkness.
Suddenly two figures appeared from the shadows, moving towards the car.
‘What is this?’ She turned to Alex.
Her words were barely out when she glimpsed one of the men getting to her side of the car and grabbing the door.
‘What the fuck? Oh, please, Alex! What’s going on? Please!’
The car door was yanked and a hand dragged her out by the hair. She grasped at Alex’s arm, trying to hold on.
‘Don’t do this! What’s wrong?’ She pleaded. ‘What is this?’
‘Fucking shut up!’ Alex spat, jerking her hand away from him.
Nikki stumbled as she was pulled out of the car, but was hauled to her feet by the hair. Her face was slapped so hard she felt blood spout from her nose. Then she heard the flick of a knife, and saw the shine of the blade as he held it to her throat and dragged her across the darkened car park before bundling her into a car.
‘Move one fucking muscle and I’ll cut your throat.’
The voice wasn’t Scottish. She glanced at his face, the sallow skin. He looked Pakistani or Indian. The accent was from Manchester or somewhere in the north of England.
He switched on the lights and screeched off, driving with one hand and holding the knife.
‘Now just shut the fuck up.’
Nikki nodded, sniffing and wiping tears and blood from her face.
He drove out of the car park and onto the M8 towards Paisley. After a few minutes he turned off the motorway and into a slip
road leading to a deserted industrial estate. He stopped the car and switched off the headlights. Nikki looked out of the windscreen at the total blackness, her head swimming with panic.
He turned to her, the knife at her throat. ‘Where’s the case?’
‘What?’ For a second Nikki had no idea what he was talking about.
‘The fucking case you took, you bitch.’
She froze. She could feel her legs trembling uncontrollably and she swallowed the urge to throw up.
‘Please don’t hurt me! I don’t know what you’re talking about. What case? I told Gordy everything.’
‘The case you took from the Albany. From your punter’s room. We know you took it.’
She shook her head. How could they know that? She could hear her teeth chattering. This was it. She was going to die here in the middle of nowhere. She glanced down at the handle on the door. Suddenly, a mobile rang on the dashboard, distracting him, and in the moment it took for him to check the screen Nikki’s hand had slipped down to the handle, opened the door and she had rolled out. She clambered to her feet and started to run in her high heels, going over on her ankle and kicking them off, then running barefoot in the rain and slush. In the distance she could see headlights from cars on the motorway, and she headed towards the lights, running so hard she could hardly breathe. His heavy footsteps pounded behind her, and she heard him curse and wheeze. Closer and closer. If she could just make it to the motorway, wave a car down. Then suddenly, she felt a thud on the back of her neck and everything turned black. On the ground, she opened her eyes, and he was on top of her, punching her hard on the face. She could feel the wet icy slush on her back and thighs and was on the verge of passing out again. But suddenly, something was hacking or burning at her leg and she screamed in pain with a voice she didn’t even recognise. She could feel her flesh being torn. She opened her eyes and saw a crazed look on his face. He was kneeling behind her, and she saw the glint of what looked like a machete above his head. When it hit her arm just below her elbow, there was a moment of searing hot pain, and she opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. Everything swayed above her. Somewhere she could hear the sound of hacking. She thought she must be dreaming because there was no pain any more. Then her head fell to the side, and she thought she saw part of her arm lying on the brown slush like a piece of meat.
Chapter Seven
Rosie was keying in the numbers on her burglar alarm as she prepared to leave her flat, when her mobile rang. She cursed under her breath, fumbling around in her bag for the phone while trying make it out of the door before the alarm went off. She found it and saw Don’s number on the screen. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, so if he was calling now, it must be important. She pushed the reset button on the alarm and went back into the apartment, answering the phone as she dumped her bag on the sofa.
‘You not at your work yet?’ Don joked. ‘I thought you’d have had half a shift in by this time.’
‘I’m always working, pal,’ Rosie said in mock indignation. ‘I’m just not always in the office.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I was on my way out the door of my flat, so now I’m back in. What’s up? It’s very early, even for Her Majesty’s finest to be this switched on.’ She crossed the room and stood by her terrace window, gazing out at the gloomy sky across the city and the traffic below.
‘I’m giving you a heads up, Rosie. An attack on a woman last night. Really horrible – some psycho chopped half her arm off.’
‘What? Is she dead?’
‘Amazingly, she’s hanging in there up at the Royal Infirmary. But she’s in some nick. Lost a lot of blood, poor bastard. Hacked at her legs as well. What a mess.’
‘What happened? Any ideas yet?’
‘Well, she’s unconscious, so we’ve got nothing from her. But she was found lying on a grass verge on a slip road off the M8, down towards Paisley. Christ knows how she’s alive. She could have frozen to death, never mind her injuries and the blood loss.’
Rosie tried to get her head around it. There were plenty of psychos out there capable of all sorts of torture, but chopping arms off took gruesome to a whole new level.
‘So who is she?’
‘We know who she is from her purse and credit cards. We think she’s a hooker. Nikki Russell. Thirty-something. We’ve got cops all over her street trying to build up a picture of her background. She’s from the East End, so what the fuck was she doing out in Paisley in the dead of night?’
‘It doesn’t mean she’s a hooker just because she was ten miles from her home. Christ’s sake, man, she might have been visiting someone. Or it could have been a domestic.’
Rosie objected to police jumping to the hooker conclusion. She’d seen some brutal domestics, and sat through court cases where husbands did horrible things to their wives, and vice versa. But she had to admit to herself that a woman alone in this kind of situation did tick plenty of the vice girl boxes.
‘So if – if – she is a hooker, did some punter pick her up and turn out to be a psycho?’
‘We think so. That’s the danger for these birds, but they just don’t listen. We tell them not to get into cars with people because there are a lot of weird bastards out there, but they don’t listen. Usually they’re just working to get enough for their next fix.’
‘Who found her?’
‘A young couple taking the slip road noticed a shoe and then they saw her legs. But when they got out of the car they just about keeled over – her arm had been hacked clean off at the elbow. It was lying there in the snow.’
‘Jesus, Don. That’s awful. What kind of twisted bastard does that?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘Did they . . . I mean, were doctors able to save her arm?’
‘Nope. They tried, there was a five-hour operation to stitch it back on, but nothing doing. She’d lost too much blood. She’s lucky to be alive – though when the poor bird wakes up she might not see it that way.’
‘Christ!’
An image of Mags Gillick, the junkie prostitute who had her throat cut because she was helping Rosie expose police corruption, flashed across her mind. Nobody gave a shit about these girls, no matter how much lip service was paid to trying to clean up the streets and provide drop-in centres. Even if the police and social services did have some success, it wouldn’t stop them. Most of the women who went out to sell their bodies for sex were risking everything for their next heroin hit.
‘So do you actually know if she’s a prostitute? Or a drug addict?’
‘Well, not in the classic sense. Oddly enough, the word is there’s no sign of drugs in her system. It’s very early doors and they’re doing tests, but we’ve had a nod from the hospital that she’s not a user.’
‘So she might not be a prostitute.’
‘Well, maybe not. Though she could be an escort. Who knows? If I were a betting man, I’d say the good money is on her having been picked up by a punter who turned out to be a complete monster. And worryingly, he’s still out there. The boys are going through CCTV footage of the motorway and homing in on that slip road, but that’s going to take forever. We will find the fucker, though, mark my words.’
‘I hope you do. And soon. What’s happening re: press releases and stuff? Is there a press conference?’
‘No press conference today. I think the bosses want to play it very tight for the first twenty-four hours, to see if she wakes up and can give them any information. According to the young couple, she was drifting in and out of consciousness when the ambulance came and she was calling out for Julie, whoever she is. We’ve been through her mobile and found a number for Julie – but it’s ringing out. We’re on the case, big time.’
‘So are you putting anything out at all?’
‘Yeah. There was a basic press release an hour ago, and in the next hour there will be more for the lunchtime news appeal, but it won’t be as detailed I’m telling you, so be careful h
ow you write this.’
‘Sure.’ Rosie picked up her bag and headed again for the front door. ‘I’m going down to the office now, so I’ll give you a shout later. You never know. We might get a call from a punter or friend who knows her.’
‘Fair enough.’
He hung up.
*
Rosie met Declan on the stairs as she made her way up to the editorial floor. She’d already called Marion to arrange a quick meeting with the editor before he disappeared into the conference.
‘Declan. That’s some stuff about the girl on the motorway. What have the cops put out?’ Rosie asked, stopping on the stairs.
‘Not much. Just that her arm was hacked off and that she’s in hospital. They’re doing a bit more soon, I’m told.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbelievable. Barbaric. No name yet. They’re hinting that she was a hooker. Have you heard the same?’
‘Yes.’ Rosie jerked her head in the direction of the editor’s office. ‘I’m going in to see McGuire. You see what you can dig up from police, or any address. They’ll have to put a bit more out in their next press release if they’re making an appeal. I’m still working on the Pakistani bride death, so you’ll have to take care of the day-to-day story on the girl. I’ll feed you anything I get.’
Declan nodded, and Rosie walked briskly upstairs and across the floor to the editor’s office. She knocked on the open door, but didn’t wait for an answer before she went in.
‘Come in,’ McGuire said, glancing up from his screen. He motioned her towards the chair opposite his desk and she sat down. ‘What the hell’s going on, Gilmour? I mean, who chops a woman’s arm off?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I hope you’re going to tell me something I can put on my front page tomorrow.’
‘Well, it’s early doors yet, Mick. The cops are keeping everything tight and hoping to speak to the girl when she comes round.’
‘Any chance of us getting in?’
Rosie gave him a look.
