Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6

by Anna Smith

  He folded his arms and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘What the fuck happened yesterday?’ he said slowly.

  ‘I met the girl who’s the best pal of the woman who got half her arm cut off.’

  ‘Now you are kidding me.’

  ‘Nope. She phoned me. Out of the blue. Her name is Julie. I met her yesterday afternoon, that’s why the day became such a blur. She told me everything. Honest to God, Mick, you won’t believe this shit. I can hardly believe it myself . . .’

  McGuire shook his head and sighed as he got up and went to his desk. He went into his drawer and took out a foil packet of pills.

  ‘I’m going to need one of these.’ He held it up. ‘My ulcer’s starting to niggle.’

  ‘I think you should definitely take one,’ Rosie said, dreading how he would react.

  He popped a pill and perched on his desk, looking down at Rosie. ‘Go on. Get on with it.’ His brows knitted.

  ‘It’s all connected,’ Rosie said. ‘At least I think it is. The diamonds, the attaché case, the girl with the mutilated arm. I haven’t worked it out yet, but I think it’s all part of one big story.’ She waited as he turned the information over in his head. ‘There’s something else. Now I don’t want you to go nuts when I tell you this . . . just hear me out. Julie and the other girl, Nikki. They took the attaché case from the hotel room.’

  ‘What attaché case? This is the first I’ve heard of this.’

  ‘Oh . . . right. I forgot to tell you. But there’s this attaché case that belongs to some dangerous people connected to the dead Pakistani guy. It was in the hotel room at the Albany, and now it’s missing. The bad guys want it back. It contained a lot of money, fake passports . . . and diamonds. Rough diamonds.’

  ‘Is this a fairy story this Julie bird has spun? How much money is she after?’

  ‘None. She’s shitting herself, because she has the case and knows they’re after her. And it’s not a fairy story. My cop contact told me.’

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that this Julie bird has the missing case? The case that may be linked to all this, and therefore is linked to at least one, possibly four crimes? One of them being a girl whose arm was taken off?’ McGuire covered his face with his hands. ‘Gilmour, please tell me you didn’t see this case. Please tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Aw fuck! You did. You handled the case. Christ almighty!’

  Rosie put her hands up.

  ‘I know, I know. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Mick, she had it in her car. She opened it and I saw inside. What was I supposed to do? Phone the cops?’

  ‘Well . . . That’s one thing you could have done, given that half of Strathclyde’s finest are hunting for her.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t. It’s an amazing story. There are passports and money in the case . . . and diamonds!’

  His eyes widened. ‘Did you touch them? Did you touch anything?’

  Rosie said nothing.

  ‘Fuck. You did, didn’t you?’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘Well, just the diamonds. I had to. I had to see them for myself.’

  ‘Aw, Jesus wept! We’re in trouble. This bird will be next for shaving, and the cops will get a hold of this bloody attaché case. We’re fucked.’

  ‘No we’re not. We just have to find a way around it.’

  ‘What bloody way around it?’

  ‘I don’t know that yet. That’s why I’m telling you, Mick, let’s think about it.’

  McGuire’s phone rang and he looked at his watch.

  ‘Christ! I’ve got conference in five minutes. Come in after lunch and we’ll talk . . . That’s unless this bird is found dead before then.’

  Rosie stood up and headed for the door.

  ‘What about Pakistan? We should go.’

  McGuire rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Then he shook his head and gave her an exasperated look. ‘Get me a costing . . . You, Matt and this Omar Sharif character. Have it on my desk in the morning and I’ll make a decision.’

  Rosie tried hard not to smile as she swiftly left before he changed his mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nikki sank back in the pillows, gazing out at the raindrops making tiny rivulets through the grime on the high-arched, steel windows. Glasgow’s famous Royal Infirmary looked a daunting enough building from the outside, with its old Victorian towers dominating the skyline at the edge of the city centre. Inside, though much had been modernised, Nikki still felt like a prisoner of some dark age. Her nightmares in the first few days after the attack had left her screaming and confused. And now, even though they’d stopped the morphine, the heavy painkillers made her spaced out and drowsy. So it had been hard to concentrate when the police had finally been allowed to interview her. They’d been waiting several days, they told her, as they placed the plastic chairs either side of her bed. The big cop had introduced himself as a detective inspector, but she couldn’t remember his name now, or the female detective sergeant. Nikki reflected on their questions and her answers and hoped she’d got away with it. They’d been very gentle with their probing, unlike the police she’d witnessed many times in Cranhill or Easterhouse when they battered down someone’s door in the middle of the night, and dragged a hoodlum from their bed. With her, they’d been more like counsellors, gently telling her that they know she’s in trouble, and that some very dangerous people are after her. Cheers, pal, she almost said – you don’t need to tell me they’re after me, I’m the one who’ll never be able to do a handstand again. But she’d kept her face straight, and said as little as possible. Her shock when they told her that she was recorded on CCTV coming out of the Albany Hotel was genuine. They’d even shown her the picture, and she could see Julie carrying the case. Her insides rattled like an engine, and only the sedative effect of the drugs made her calm enough to keep her mouth shut. Am I under arrest? she’d asked them. No, they told her: enquiries are ongoing. But they didn’t suspect that she had played any part in the killing of the Asian man in the hotel room. They swallowed her story that the dead man had been her punter, that she’d fled the room when he’d kept urging her to pull the belt tighter during a sex act. She told them he was alive when she left him. The only conclusion she could come to was that he did it himself after she left. What about the attaché case that’s clearly in the picture, they asked? She insisted she didn’t know anything about it. She couldn’t even recall if Julie was carrying anything, but if she was, then it was probably her own case, because sometimes she took a change of clothes with her when they were working. Julie had concocted the story last evening during visiting, on the off chance they had CCTV. She’d schooled Nikki so well that she was beginning to believe it herself. Now that the detectives had gone, she was exhausted and wanted to sleep. She closed her eyes, but as she was drifting off, she could hear a familiar voice in the corridor outside.

  ‘Thanks, Sister. I won’t stay too long . . . I understand.’

  Christ! It was Paul. What the hell did he want? Nikki opened her eyes to see him coming in the door, a sheepish look on his face and a bunch of petrol station flowers in his hand. With her good arm, she shifted in the bed and pulled herself up a little on the pillow.

  ‘Let me get that for you, Nikki.’ Paul took a step towards the bed and puffed up the pillow behind her, so that she was more upright. ‘There. That okay, darlin’?’

  He smiled, and Nikki met his bloodshot eyes and caught a whiff of fags on his breath.

  ‘Don’t call me darlin’,’ Nikki snapped, her stomach tensing up. ‘I’m not your darlin’. What are you doing here, Paul?’

  Paul’s face fell. He glanced away from her, then back, and his gaze fell on the bandaged stump. His lip trembled.

  ‘I’m your husband, Nikki. I want to help you . . . Look after you.’

  ‘Piss off, Paul,’ Nikki snarled. ‘Seriously? My husband? You should have thought about that when you b
lew our life savings at the bookies. You ruined everything . . . Everything.’ She turned away.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Paul’s lip twitched. ‘I . . . just want to look after you.’

  For a few seconds Nikki was so choked she couldn’t speak. She’d heard all this before, the contrite weeping and promises he would change. No more, she told herself. She pulled her stump away as he reached out.

  ‘Don’t, Paul. I . . . I can’t do this right now. Can’t you see the state I’m in? . . . I’ve lost my bloody arm. My life will never be the same again.’

  Paul placed the flowers on the bed, and she felt his hand brush across her foot and rest on her ankle. She wished he would just go, but the touch of him, the sheer feel of human contact was a comfort, even though everything in her body told her it was wrong. She had to find the strength. She jerked her feet away.

  ‘Don’t. It’s no good.’

  They stayed silent, and Nikki turned her face away, but could see Paul wiping his tears from the corner of her eye.

  ‘Did you speak to the cops? What are they saying? Have they got the bastard for this yet?’ he muttered.

  Nikki shook her head but kept her face turned away.

  ‘No. Probably never will.’

  ‘It’s been in the papers.’

  Nikki nodded, staring out of the window at the afternoon sky turning dark.

  ‘They hinted that you were a prostitute. And that this was some kind of punishment. That you might have robbed a punter.’

  Nikki said nothing, but kept gazing out of the window.

  ‘Is it true?’

  Nikki pushed out a breath.

  ‘How the fuck do I know what they’re saying? Listen. I don’t want to talk, can you not understand?’

  Silence. Paul walked around to the other side of the bed and wiped away the condensation on the window with his jacket sleeve.

  ‘There’s a lot of talk in the street as well. Something about a Pakistani guy – some guy who was found dead in the Albany Hotel. They’re saying he was a gangster . . . that somebody stole his money.’

  Nikki ignored his unspoken question and reached across to the cabinet to the glass of lukewarm water. She sipped from it and placed it back down.

  ‘I don’t know anything, Paul. Okay? I . . . I’m shattered. All I know is that my life is in a mess. I’ve lost part of my arm, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me next . . .’ She looked up at Paul, who was crying again.

  ‘I never wanted this to happen,’ he whimpered.

  For a second, Nikki wasn’t sure what he meant. Paranoia kicked in. Was he a part of this? Had he handed her over to them, helped set her up in some way? Knowing him, he’d do anything for money. Maybe that’s why the bastard was in here now . . . on a fishing expedition. But he just stood there, face in his hands, snivelling. Could he really do that? He looked so upset.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . I just want you back.’

  Nikki had heard enough.

  ‘I want you to go, Paul. I’m tired. I need to rest.’

  ‘What about Julie? Have you seen her?’

  That was it. The bastard was fishing, she thought.

  ‘What do you care about Julie? You can’t bloody stand her.’

  ‘I . . . I only want to know that you’ll have someone to look after you when you get out . . . if you don’t want me. Listen. I’ll do anything for you. Anything at all. I’ve stopped gambling.’

  ‘Aye. Sure you have.’

  ‘Well . . . I’m going to. I can get a job, make a new life for us.’

  She turned to face him.

  ‘Paul. I need to rest. I’m not well.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go. But think about it. When are you getting out?’

  ‘Christ! Why all the questions? I don’t even know myself. A few days, they said, if they get everything stabilised. But my life is different now. It’s over between us. Please go.’

  Nikki turned her head away, easing herself down on the bed, turning her body to face the window. She was barely breathing, and she could feel the warmth of his fingers, and the gentleness of his touch on the top of her arm where the bandage stopped.

  ‘Okay, Nikki. I’m going. I’m sorry. So . . . so sorry.’

  She didn’t turn around, but heard his footsteps as he left.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was baking hot. In the back of the taxi, Rosie squinted through the clouds of dust at the mayhem that was downtown Peshawar, Pakistan. The culture shock of suddenly being thrust into the midst of this nearly took the feet from her. The stench wafting in from an open sewer at side of the road turned her stomach. She closed the window and wiped sweat from her brow. The streets were teeming with people. There seemed to be no traffic laws – cars and trucks barging their way through the gaps between rickety carts pulled by hulking oxen. Tiny rickshaws buzzed like wasps alongside the cars, all honking horns continuously and fighting for space among the potholes.

  ‘Christ!’ Rosie fanned herself with her notebook. ‘Why is everyone rushing all over the place?’ She tapped Omar on the shoulder. ‘They’re driving like maniacs. What’s with the mad rush? Is there something I should know?’

  ‘It’s always like this.’ Omar half turned, flashing a smile. ‘At this time of day, everyone’s hungry, and they’re all frantically dashing home for the evening meal. It’s pretty mental. People get all aggressive when they’re hungry.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Rosie sank back. ‘I’m starving. Are we nearly at the hotel?’

  ‘A few more minutes.’

  She took in the scene across the busy road, where people swarmed around the throng of market stalls, selling everything from pots and pans to rusty car wheels and tyres, alongside mountains of fruit and vegetables. Nearby, children poked around a rubbish dump, collecting plastic bottles and tin cans and shoving them into sacks. Two men argued and pushed each other over a market stall, then fell into a fight, sending everything flying as they grappled on the ground. She closed her eyes and rested her head back. She’d be glad to get to the hotel. Minutes later, the car braked suddenly and screeched on a roundabout, knocking over a cyclist with a wooden cage full of live chickens perched on his handlebars. The taxi drove on, and Rosie caught a glimpse of the teenager on the ground, the bike on top of him and the chickens fluttering furiously, two of them escaping through some broken spars in the cage.

  ‘We just hit that guy! Shouldn’t we stop?’ Rosie asked.

  The driver sped up and cursed, turning to Omar and shaking his head. They spoke in Urdu, chuckling.

  ‘He’ll be fine, Rosie. It happens all the time.’

  Matt turned to look out of the rear window.

  ‘A couple of happy chickens just made it off death row.’

  ‘They’ll not get very far.’ Omar rolled down his window and stuck his head out for a look. ‘So, guys, what do you think of Peshawar?’

  Rosie puffed. She’d only seen the north-west frontier city that bordered Afghanistan on television and in newspaper coverage of the Afghan war with the Russians back in the eighties, while she was cutting her teeth as a reporter. She hadn’t been there, but the chaos on the streets reminded her of places in war-torn Africa where she’d later reported from, all of them lawless and edgy. As always, the nervous churning in her stomach when she knew she was in a foreign land and things were out of her control had started. Anything could happen in a place like this. She should feel safe with Omar, she reminded herself. He was more or less a local, he’d told her before they left Glasgow.

  *

  Once McGuire had agreed to the trip, demanding to be phoned from Pakistan several times a day, Rosie and Matt had spent most of the afternoon and evening with Omar before they left, discussing plans. In theory it sounded plausible, and so far, so good. They’d made it to Peshawar, and were on their way to a hotel. How hard can it be? Matt had said, nudging her as they’d gone through customs and immigration without a hitch. Their cover story was that they were here to report on Afghan
refugees, who were stranded in camps in the Pakistan border because their country was still too unstable to go home. Omar knew the ground well, and he’d described to them how he had relatives in Peshawar and all along the border. Most of them weren’t blood relatives, but they were all brothers.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ Omar had spoken frankly, ‘There’s an element of danger. Inside Peshawar itself, but especially outside. Some of these Afghan border towns are bandit country, so it’s not always safe. But I think we’ll be fine.’

  Rosie hadn’t relayed the ‘I think we’ll be fine’ part to McGuire. She’d been so surprised and pleased that he had decided to give the mission the green light that, as usual, she hadn’t given too much consideration to safety. She could only think of the plan. If all went well, they’d be in and out in a few days, hopefully with Laila and a couple of front-page splashes and spreads. She hadn’t heard from Sabiha – apart from the panicked phone call a couple of days ago – and she didn’t want to risk going anywhere near the house. Probably best that Sabiha didn’t know she was out here anyway. The less anyone knew, the better.

  *

  The taxi pulled off the main road and into the sweeping driveway of the Pearl Continental Hotel, a lavish white four-storey building, like an oasis in the midst of the swirling, dusty desert. A doorman kitted out like an extra from a film about the old Raj stood like a sentry, complete with crimson tunic coat, shiny buttons, fez headgear and a waxed moustache. When the car stopped he approached, bowing and scraping as he opened the door.

  ‘Welcome, Mem Sahib.’

  Rosie managed to keep her face straight, not quite knowing how to reply, then turned to Matt.

  ‘Just bear that in mind, pet. Refer to me as Mem Sahib from now on.’

  ‘Aye, right.’ Matt went to the boot as it clunked open and unloaded his gear, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder, and his laptop bag on the other.

  ‘This is rather plush,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Believe me,’ Omar said. ‘You don’t want to go downmarket in Peshawar. Some of the budget hotels . . . well, you don’t know what you’re going to wake up beside.’