Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6

by Anna Smith

  ‘It’s a long story, Adrian.’

  *

  Rosie began to stir, conscious of Adrian’s warm body next to her. She stretched out her legs, eyes still closed, recalling the night. They’d finished the bottle of wine and flopped into bed, not lovers, but old friends, comfortable in their nakedness. By the time he leaned across and softly kissed her on the lips, she was already drifting into an exhausted slumber, incapable of responding. She couldn’t recollect the details of her dream, but only that she’d been struggling and gasping for breath. Then Adrian’s arms were reaching across to her, holding her close, his soothing tones telling her she was having a nightmare. Half asleep, they’d fallen into the comfort of each other, arms and legs caressing, Adrian’s tender kisses on her wounded neck, then all the way down, his tongue probing and tasting her till she moaned with pleasure and pulled him on top of her.

  Now, with the morning light creeping into the room, she watched the silhouette of his handsome face as he slept peacefully. She’d come to know so much about the big Bosnian since their fateful encounter in a cafe all those years ago, yet even though he had allowed her to see his darkness, in Sarajevo last year, standing at the graveside of his wife, who had been murdered by Serbian butchers; even though some of the layers had been stripped away and they’d shared nights like this before, where their passion was unstoppable, Rosie still didn’t know who he was. Or even what this was between them. He was so much more than her friend. He was her occasional lover, but still it was nothing. He would leave in a couple of days and she would feel mildly bereft, but her life would go on and she wouldn’t pine for him the way she still, deep down, pined for TJ in her darker moments. But what could she ever do with a man like Adrian? He had saved her life and she had watched him kill as he protected her. But there was something deep and dark about the way he’d done it, the clinical way he had shot the man in the Glasgow apartment, then went through his pockets and taken his money that day, and minutes later threw another attacker to his death from the third-floor stairwell. And last night, as she watched him pound the Pakistani attacker’s head again and again on the stairs, there was something frenzied about it. Something inside him was so angry that hurting people who had hurt others was about more than protecting the victim. It was as though he was avenging everyone who had ever been hurt, because he hadn’t been able to save his wife and unborn son that day when the Serbians came. She had noticed it more last night than ever before. He was angry. So angry. And he hid it well, in that pragmatic, quiet way of his that made her feel safe any time he was around. But sooner or later, he had to find a way not to be this angry, and Rosie didn’t know where to begin with that, or if he was even capable of getting to that place. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling her heartbeat reduce. She picked up her phone from the bedside table. It was eight thirty. She’d slept far too long. She slipped out of bed and padded along to the bathroom.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘You’re looking a bit rough,’ McGuire said, glancing briefly at Rosie, then back to his screen, as she walked into his office.

  ‘You really need to work on your chat-up lines.’ Rosie threw herself on the sofa and flipped open her notebook.

  ‘I’m just saying . . . in a caring way.’ McGuire came from behind his desk and sat on the easy chair opposite her. ‘You need to get a few early nights.’

  ‘Yeah, right. It’s on my forward planning agenda.’ Rosie stifled a yawn. ‘What do you have to do to get a cup of coffee in here?’

  ‘Marion!’ McGuire leaned his head back and shouted at the half-open door. ‘Can you bring me and our intrepid Gilmour a couple of coffees, sweetheart?’

  Rosie glanced over her notes, flicking through the pages, trying to work out where to start with Julie and Nikki’s story.

  ‘So how did it go last night?’ He put a hand up. ‘Oh, and by the way, your copy on Pakistan is fucking awesome! I was going to phone but I got tied up with the first edition.’

  ‘Thanks. Last night with Julie and Nikki was great, Mick. The two of them spilled everything – just about got the story of their whole lives. I was there till half nine. Matt came and took pictures, so we have everything in the bag. It’s great stuff.’

  Better to get the good news first, Rosie thought.

  ‘So where are they actually hiding out?’

  ‘In some little farmhouse outside Bannockburn. I don’t think anyone will go looking for them there. It’s a working pig and sheep farm, apparently. Some old guy, his wife and their disabled son live in the big house, and the girls are in a cottage next door.’

  ‘How long are they planning on staying there? They’re going to have to put their heads above the parapet sometime. What about the Nikki bird with the arm? How is she?’

  ‘She’s getting there. Really nice woman, actually. Well, on the face of it they both are. Julie is a bit of a hard case – looks like Nikki got talked into the escort-girl lark by Julie, who’s her best friend from way back.’

  ‘She must feel a bit responsible then.’

  ‘She does, but she’s a tough cookie. She’s the one who’s suddenly got the bravery pills to take on big Gordy MacLean.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Believe it or not, this big bastard came and visited Nikki in the hospital. Julie was there too.’

  ‘Jesus! After setting her up? Bet that went down well.’

  ‘It didn’t, at first. But he gave them all this crap that it wasn’t his fault. Came across all contrite and offered them a deal.’

  ‘A deal? They should have called the cops there and then.’

  ‘They can’t, Mick. Have you forgotten? They’ve got the bloody suitcase.’

  ‘Well. Yeah, but they need to do something.’

  ‘They are. He offered them a deal. Said that this big shot in Manchester, Johnny Vanner, is putting all the heat on him to get the diamonds back. He’s told them if they go along with him and give him the diamonds, he plans to stiff Vanner for them, keep them, and sell them in due course and – wait for it – split the proceeds with the two of them.’

  ‘Aye! They can trust that bastard as far as Nikki can throw him with her bad arm.’

  ‘Exactly. And they’re aware of that, but they’ve decided that they’re going to take the piss out of him. They made a deal with him. But they have no intention of honouring it. And what a deal, by the way. You know what they did? They could see that he’s is so desperate to get the diamonds that they drove a ridiculously hard bargain.’

  ‘A bargain?’

  ‘Yep. They got him to sign his club – that tacky shithole, El Paradiso, round in Mitchell Lane – over to them, before they agreed to give him the diamonds.’

  ‘The lap-dancing club? That’ll be right!’

  ‘I’m telling you. I’ve seen it in black and white. He must be even thicker than we thought. He’s only signed his club over to them, and now he’s waiting, with his arse twitching, hoping they come across with the diamonds.’

  ‘Gordy MacLean did that?’

  ‘Shows you how desperate he is.’

  ‘But there has to be an end to this story, so what is it?’

  ‘They said they want to get him done. Hand he over to the cops, once they get him to admit that it was him who set Nikki up for the attack on her. They want him done for that.’

  ‘If these women are so clever, they should be running some company, not working as hookers.’

  ‘Well, they are company bosses now. On paper, anyway.’

  ‘So let’s think how we’re going to play this.’

  ‘I don’t think we should get the cops involved in any way at all, Mick. I think the best thing is to get Julie and Nikki wired up and get it all on tape. Then we have our story, and then we go to the cops.’

  ‘And where will the girls be?’

  ‘We can get them away as soon as they finish dealing with MacLean.’

  ‘But he’ll shoot them. As soon as they hand over the diamonds, t
hey’re history. Are they that daft they can’t see that?’

  Rosie sighed.

  ‘Well, that’s the problem.’

  They sat quietly, Rosie turning it over in her mind, watching as McGuire did the same.

  ‘We’ve also got some more detailed pictures of the passports.’ She put her hands up as McGuire gave her a reproachful look. ‘I know what you’re going to say. But it had to be done. How are we going to find out if the passports are genuine if we don’t get the passport numbers and dates of birth? I had to get a close look. I’ve got a contact who can trace who they belong to. I noticed that all of them have had a stamp in Sierra Leone in recent months. And one of the passports is in the name of Rabia Sahid – the same date of birth as our suicide bride from Pollokshields, though I don’t know if Sahid was her maiden name. But I’ll find out. That’s the main one we want to trace.’

  Mick’s eyes widened.

  ‘I like the sound of that. We could use that as a separate story, a stand-alone splash, if we can prove it is her passport. It would put these people in the shit if they really are behind her death.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Yes, let’s do that. In fact, is there any way we can drop that hint to the cops without showing all our cards? The family could get their collars felt at the very least.’

  ‘It might not be her passport, though. I mean, it’s got her date of birth and first name on it, but it’s a different photograph. Probably been doctored.’

  ‘Well, we should tell the cops anyway and get them to ask the family to see her passport.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll speak to my contact.’

  ‘I want it as a story, Gilmour. Even if it’s only a form of words that says passports may be getting stolen and used for smuggling, something like that. You can get the cops to say they’re investigating. That gives us a chance to use it in the paper, and you never know who it might flush out.’

  Rosie nodded in agreement. McGuire stood up and walked behind his desk.

  ‘Right. We’re running your Pakistan rescue tomorrow, all guns fucking blazing. Just the story, no opinion, no comment. But if we can throw in something about dodgy passports, it’s a good fresh line in a couple of days. You never know who’s gone missing, or who’s missing a passport.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll make some calls to my pal now with the passport connections and see what he can come up with.’

  *

  Rosie had given her private eye contact, Mickey Kavanagh, details of the passport with Rabia’s date of birth and name. She was surprised when her mobile rang at her desk and it was him.

  ‘Hey, Rosie, I’ve got a result.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yep. If you’ve got a few passports it might take a day or so, but let’s deal with this one first, since it’s the most important.’

  ‘So what’ve you got?’

  ‘The passport was issued on the date you gave me to one Rabia Sahid in Lahore. I haven’t seen the picture, but I might be able to get a hold of it, though that’ll take at least a day. But I’ve got an address, so you can check that out.’

  ‘Brilliant. The girl’s home address in Pakistan should be on the wedding certificate at the registry office in Glasgow. We can check it there.’

  Mickey reeled off the address and Rosie carefully wrote it down, reading it back to him to make sure she’d got it right.

  ‘How many more passports have you got? And are they all Pakistani?’

  ‘There are seven in total. All Pakistani.’

  ‘Okay. Give me the details and I’ll check them out with my mate. But the problem you’ll have there is that you’ve nothing to check against. I mean, you can authenticate the girl, Rabia, if the address is the same one she put on the wedding certificate. But the others – they’ll be just random addresses across Pakistan. Unless you can find who they are, you’ll never really know.’

  ‘I know that, Mickey. We’re not going to be able to track every one of them down, but if we can prove Rabia’s is a fake, then that’s a pretty big deal. It gives us an in. We can ask the family where her passport is. In fact, my editor wants us to get the cops to do that.’ Rosie paused. ‘But I’d like to find out a bit more on the background about how this happens. There are obviously criminals behind it, but I need to be able to explain it simply.’

  ‘Well, put in simple terms, fake passports and stolen passports faked up with another picture or doctored, are quite commonplace. Gangsters are all over it, especially these days. My mate was saying that it happens a lot with Pakistani or Indian passports. People get out of the country by whatever means they can, either trafficked by gangmasters or in other ways. They turn up at UK border control and they’ve no passport. They just say they’re seeking asylum, and without a passport they can’t work, but they are given benefits. Then they disappear into the black economy. They’ve probably given up their passport before they left, maybe as payment for their passage here. That kind of thing.’

  ‘All of the passports I’ve seen have recent Sierra Leone stamps on them. Did I mention that earlier?’

  ‘No you didn’t, darlin’. Not like you to miss out such a salient point.’

  ‘Sorry, Mickey. I’m completely knackered. My head is all over the place. I just got back from Peshawar two days ago, and believe me it was mental over there. I’ll tell you all about it when we have that dinner. But since I came back, I’ve been flat out writing the rescue story I was telling you about, and now it’s developing arms and legs.’

  ‘No worries, sweetheart. I was only joking. But I’ll go back to my mate re: the Sierra Leone stamp, though I think we can safely assume that the passports have been used for smuggling diamonds out of the country.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m really grateful to have your expertise on this. We’ll have to get whatever story I write past the lawyers. But the main thing is, if I can get anything on Rabia’s passport – the rest is a bit of conjecture, but I’ll get some official expert to comment. The editor is very keen on the passport line. He thinks it might flush something out.’

  ‘It might well do. Good luck with it. I’ll be around next week, so let’s have a plate of pasta.’ He paused. ‘And get yourself an early night, Rosie. You can’t keep going at a hundred miles an hour all your life.’

  ‘I know. I’m going to have an early night very soon.’

  ‘See you, darlin’.’ He hung up.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rosie went to O’Brien’s fifteen minutes before she was due to meet Don. She did it on purpose, because she wanted to sit at the bar, sip a glass of wine, and relish how the day had panned out. The dog tiredness that had threatened to overwhelm her by four in the afternoon had been replaced with that sense of elation which only came from knowing you had nailed a story. Nothing else came close to it for her. Call it an empty life. Call it obsessed, but when everything fell into place, and people were about to be unmasked for the ruthless bastards they were, this was all the life she needed. It made up for the countless blind alleys you went up every day in pursuit of the truth. And it sure as hell pushed away the melancholy musing of her mixed-up personal life. That would probably never fall into place. But when Declan had given her the thumbs up as he appeared at the top of the stairs onto the editorial floor two hours ago, she could have done a triumphant back flip.

  He’d just returned from the registry office in Martha Street, where they didn’t part with any details of births, marriages or deaths, unless you went there in person. Declan had gone up and bought an extract from the marriage register showing the wedding certificate of Farooq Shah and his wife Rabia. And there it was, in black and white: Rabia Sahid’s address in Lahore, and the same date of birth Rosie had seen in the passport from the stolen suitcase. She still didn’t know how Rabia’s passport had ended up in the hands of criminals. But it had, and it had clearly been used for smuggling. At first it was euphoria that swept her away, but it was quickly followed by rage. She thought of the bedroom, the locks on the outside of the door, and the elders of
the family in the living room, the whole house cloaked in menacing silence. Everything in the house had been suffocating for the poor girl who wasn’t able to fight back. Whether she jumped or was pushed, Rosie would probably never know. But she had been wronged in so many ways. Maybe she too had been part of a business deal, in the way Laila was when her father punted her across to Pakistan to marry a man at least three times her age. Now, Rosie was in a position to go and knock on the door of the Shah house again. She swallowed a mouthful of wine and felt herself smiling as Don walked through the swing doors.

  ‘Pint?’ Rosie kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m only having one drink, Don, I’m totally done in. But I needed to see you. I’m going to make your night.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Rosie. You’ll get me all breathless with anticipation. I think I’ve got a warm glow in my pants.’

  Rosie chuckled.

  ‘Not that kind of excitement. Even better.’ She knew he was as driven by his work as her.

  The barman put the pint on the counter and Don took a long drink. He took out a packet of cigarettes and handed one to Rosie.

  ‘Smoking and everything,’ he joked. ‘You’re either wrecked with stress or onto something.’

  ‘I’m onto something. But I need to know that you won’t do anything about this until I knock on the door of these people.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘The Shah family. Rabia’s father-in-law, the widower, all that crowd. Something is rotten in that whole set-up.’

  ‘We’ve felt that since day one, but we haven’t got a whisker on them.’

  ‘Well, that’s about to change.’ She took a deep breath, feeling excited just repeating her story. ‘I haven’t said anything to you because I’ve had to keep things really tight, but I’ve been working on a story attached to this. Don’t ask me, because I can’t tell you a thing about that right now – I will when the time is right. But I think Rabia’s death is connected to this other story I’m pursuing.’

  ‘What other story?’