Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6

by Anna Smith

  ‘I was told there had been a robbery, and that maybe someone would come to me and make me an offer. He said if I touched this stuff they would cut my hands off. Those were his words. He said if anyone came, I had to call them immediately, because one day, they would find out if I had touched them, and by that time it would be too late.’

  ‘Usual heavy duty shite.’

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘So. What do you think?’ Gordy scrutinised Ezra’s face, his pale grey eyes, wondering if he could see betrayal anywhere in there.

  ‘I think it is a very dangerous game to play.’

  ‘But one that could make us very rich.’

  ‘I’m already rich.’

  ‘But I’m talking big rich. Listen, Ezra. If there are, say, maybe ten or even fifteen of these little beauties, that’s big bucks, right?’

  Ezra nodded.

  ‘Shifting them is the issue, though.’

  ‘Well. You’re the man for that. Can you do it? Will you look at them for me, when I pick the rest of them up? I’ll cut you in big time – more than just expenses and payment for the work.’

  ‘I know you will, Gordy. I trust you on that.’ He looked at the framed photograph of his father back in Poland. ‘I despise Vanner. You know that.’

  Gordy nodded.

  ‘Then let’s fuck him.’

  They sat in silence, both of them looking at the diamond.

  *

  Gordy felt a little spring in his step as he walked out of the Argyle Arcade and along the street, turning left to where Terry was parked in the Jag. Things were looking up. He knew he’d have to pay through the nose to weigh Ezra in for moving the diamonds, and even though he didn’t know the size of the pot himself yet, he got the feeling there was plenty to go around. These two tarts back in the farmhouse, pontificating like mobsters, hadn’t a clue what was coming to them. But they deserved all they got. Ideas above their station, making him sign over his beloved club, talking down to him. He opened the passenger door and got inside, immediately noticing the worried frown on Terry’s face.

  ‘Boss,’ Terry said, glancing up as he eased the car up Renfield Street and stopped at the traffic lights. ‘We’ve got a problem.’

  Gordy looked at him, as Terry flicked open the glovebox and brought out a mobile phone.

  ‘What?’ Gordy asked, irritated. He wasn’t in the mood for bad news.

  ‘Paul’s mobile. He must have left it here when I gave him a lift to the club this morning.’ He hesitated, scrolling down the recent calls. ‘It just rang. I didn’t answer it.’ He showed Gordy the screen. ‘Johnny fucking Vanner,’ Terry said, matter-of-fact.

  ‘What? You’re fucking joking!’ Gordy snatched the phone from his hand, staring at the screen in disbelief. ‘In the name of fuck! I don’t fucking believe this! When did it ring?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago. I was going to come and get you, but I didn’t want to interrupt you.’

  ‘Shut up a minute!’ Gordy said, his mind a blur as he studied the mobile’s menu and checked outgoing calls. The rage rose in his face like a fireball as he screeched, ‘The scheming wee cunt! He’s been phoning Vanner! Fucking twice in the last two days. I’ll kill the cunt. Stone fucking dead, I’ll kill him!’ He wanted to smash the phone to pieces, but his walnut dashboard cost too much to damage. ‘I’m going to ram this fucking phone right up his arse. Where is he?’

  ‘I left him in the club, like you said, Gordy. He was stocking the shelves and cleaning the floors. Brian was going down to make sure he wasn’t spending any time on his own or he’d have his fingers in the till. We know what a thieving wee cunt he is.’

  ‘Pull over here for a minute,’ MacLean snapped at Terry. ‘Get Brian on the phone.’

  Terry stopped the car, picked up his mobile and punched in Brian’s number. When it was ringing he passed it to Gordy.

  ‘Brian. It’s me. Listen, don’t react to this. Don’t say a word and listen good. Is that wee fucker Paul in there? Just aye or no. Right. Good. Get him to go into my office – just tell him to pick up a folder or something. Then lock him in. Understand? Then I want you to take the keys, lock every door and window and lock the door from the outside. I want that wee cunt locked in the place. I’ll be down in five minutes. Just you get off your mark when you’ve done what I say. Okay?’

  He turned to Terry. ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  Suddenly, Paul’s mobile rang, and they both sat staring at it on the dashboard. It was the number of the call box in the club. They let it ring.

  ‘Wee bastard’s obviously just discovered he’s lost his phone.’ Gordy’s lips curled into a sneer.

  ‘What a silly cunt!’ Terry said. ‘He’ll be shitting himself.’

  ‘He’ll be shitting blood when I’m finished with him.’

  Gordy could feel his heart thumping, a mixture of rage, anxiety and adrenalin, as minutes later Terry eased the Jag into the reserved space outside the front door of the club. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He needed to deal with this coldly and clinically, without making a song and dance about it. He didn’t need to ask why Paul was phoning Vanner or Vanner was phoning him. It was staring him in the face. He was double-crossing him. After everything he’d done for the wee bastard, weighing in that leech of a money-lender Paul had got up to his arse in debt with. He’d done it, not out of some big hand of generosity, but because he was a useful wee sneak to have around, and Gordy knew he’d be forever in his debt, doing his bidding at every turn. This is how he repays him. He didn’t need to ask him why he’d phoned Vanner, but he as sure as fuck was going to get it from his lips before he battered the shite out of him.

  Gordy got out and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys, unlocking the main shutter and then the heavy double doors. Terry was at his back. Inside, the club was in darkness, depressing when you saw how vibrant and busy it was at night with the lights and colours and music blaring. He walked softly across the wooden dance floor to the steps at the far side and climbed up to his office, Terry behind him. They both stood outside the locked door, Gordy breathing hard from the exertion of the stairs and the excitement. He put the key in the lock and pushed the door open, fast. Paul, his face the colour of death, was in the corner. Gordy walked in and stood for a moment, letting the silence hang, watching.

  ‘Where’s Brian?’ Paul’s voice sounded shaky. ‘He told me to come in here and pick up a yellow folder and then the stupid bastard locked me in.’

  Gordy said nothing. Paul gave him an edgy look, then looked down at the floor. He couldn’t look either of them in the eye. Gordy went into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mobile. He stepped forward, slapping it on his desk so hard that Paul jumped.

  ‘Your mobile,’ he said. ‘You left it in Terry’s car. You’ve got a missed call there.’

  With each word, Paul’s body crumpled a bit more and Gordy could see his legs actually shaking.

  ‘Pick it up,’ Gordy said.

  Paul looked at him, then Terry.

  ‘Fucking pick it up, I said.’

  Paul stretched a trembling hand across the table and picked up the phone, barely able to hold it.

  ‘Now go into your missed calls and read the last call you didn’t get.’

  Paul looked at the screen, the mobile trembling in his hands. He did nothing.

  ‘Do it, you wee prick!’

  Paul scrolled down, then his legs slightly buckled and he steadied himself against the metal filing cabinet.

  ‘Read it out!’

  Paul swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down like a golf ball.

  ‘Read it!’

  ‘J-Johnny V-Vanner.’

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘Jo-Johnny Va-Vanner,’ Paul stammered, glancing from one to the other.

  ‘Johnny Vanner. Calling you. And as you’ll see, last night you also called him. Twice.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, Gordy. Honest . . . Fuck me, man! I just don’t know how th
e fuck that happened. It’s not me who was calling him. Somebody must have had my phone. Or . . . Or . . . I mean, it must be a mistake. I didn’t even know I had his number.’ He looked at Terry. ‘How did I get Johnny’s number in here?’ His lip quivered so much he could hardly speak.

  Terry rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gordy felt a little switch go off somewhere inside his brain. He’d heard enough. More than enough of this little shit trying to squirm his way out of it. Stupid, thick bastard thought he could play with the big boys. A coldness ran through him. He’d felt it before, that surge of adrenalin like a rush of blood to his head, so that he almost felt high and detached from what he was doing. He’d felt it the first time as a kid in the caravan site, when he would have beaten the bigger boy to death if they hadn’t dragged him off. And over the years when he’d battered or shot someone – point blank in the face if that’s how it happened – he was almost on automatic pilot. In total control of his movements, but unable to stop. In two strides Gordy was at his desk and into the right-hand drawer. He brought out the Glock, the weight and the metal feeling good in his sweaty palm.

  ‘Aw fuck, Gordy! Please! I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. I just got into bother . . . I dropped over a grand the other night at the racing, and I owe some bad people a lot of money. They were going to do me in . . .’ The words came out between sobs, saliva and snot dripping from his mouth. A dark patch spread across the front of his jeans.

  ‘Shut the fuck up! What did you tell him, you prick?’

  ‘Nothing! I don’t know nothing!’

  ‘Lying bastard! Did you tell him where the birds were staying?’

  Nothing.

  ‘You’ve got five seconds to answer. The truth!’

  ‘Okay. Okay . . . I told him where they were. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Please—’

  Gordy didn’t wait for a response or a final plea. He lifted the gun and fired. Paul’s chest exploded and blood splashed back onto Gordy’s clothes and onto his desk. He watched as Paul slumped against the wall and then slid down to the floor, blood pumping out of his torso. Gordy had done it without thinking too hard. It was the only way. You dealt with it and you moved on.

  ‘Fucking arsehole!’ Gordy put the gun back in the drawer and closed it.

  ‘Get Brian back in, Terry,’ he said ‘You guys get this shit off my floor and get rid of him once it’s dark. Do it before the club opens later. Alright?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’ Terry took out his mobile and punched in a number.

  Chapter Thirty

  It hadn’t been a hugely successful confrontation, Rosie concluded, as she and Matt went through the revolving doors and into the foyer of the Post. Apart from the few good pictures he’d snapped of her getting manhandled out of the Shah household, there wasn’t much that would take the story forward. She was hoping Don and his DCI would lean on them enough for someone in the house to burst. Right now, the first of two interviews with Laila, back home and talking about her plans for the future, would have to be good enough. She still had to put it together for the spread. The teenager’s father had hot-footed it to Pakistan to sort her out when he’d heard she’d absconded. He’d probably been in mid-air at the same time as they were en route back to Glasgow. That, in particular, felt good, but Rosie wouldn’t be happy until she’d nailed someone over Rabia’s death.

  ‘Hey, Rosie, you’ve not half upset our Asian brothers.’ Jean the receptionist greeted them with an indignant face. ‘These phones have been red-hot with complaints.’

  ‘Really?’ Rosie grimaced. ‘Sorry, Jean.’

  ‘Great story, though. Actually one or two of the phone-ins were in support. I fielded all the calls up to Editorial.’

  ‘Great, thanks. I’ll see what’s happening in a minute.’

  As she and Matt stepped onto the editorial floor, at least three reporters looked up from their desks, where they had been furiously taking notes. Judging by their frustrated expressions, they’d been getting pelters all morning. It happened sometimes, if a front page had been controversial or ruffled a few feathers. Some would predictably be spitting rage, but in Rosie’s experience, plenty more callers backed the Post for having the balls to tackle the big issues. She went across to her desk and dumped her bag, fishing out her notebook.

  ‘I hear it’s been a bit busy,’ she said to Declan as he put the phone down.

  ‘Aye. Just a bit, Rosie. I’ve taken about twenty calls myself. I don’t think we’re too popular out in Little Karachi this morning . . . or even the real Karachi.’ He grinned. ‘You might need to go into hiding, like Salman Rushdie.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rosie said, half joking. ‘Are they all angry, or is there anyone, I mean of a Pakistani type, who thinks the story was good?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Quite a few actually. Women. No men. None of the callers would be identified, but I’ve got some good lines, and a few women talking about their own experiences. Some good stuff.’

  ‘Hmm. But without names, it’s not great. We’ll just be accused of making it up. I’ll have to speak to McGuire and see how he wants to play it.’

  As she said it, her desk phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Marion.’

  ‘I’ve been watching for you. Mick says to come straight through.’

  She made a here-we-go face at Declan as she picked up her notebook and pen.

  ‘Showtime!’

  Rosie knocked once on the door and walked in. She wasn’t that surprised to see the managing editor, Jack Weaver, sitting on a chair opposite McGuire. It was clearly not a social visit, because the paper’s lawyer, Tommy Hanlon, was sitting on the sofa, throwing her the kind of mischievous look he did when they were all in the shit.

  ‘Do I sense a little problem, chaps?’ Rosie raised her eyebrows, half smiling.

  ‘Just a bit. Sit down, Rosie.’ McGuire gestured her to the sofa.

  ‘We expected a bit of aggro,’ Weaver said. ‘But it’s a bit more than that, so we’re having a chat on how we respond.’

  ‘So what’s happened? The troops say there’s been a lot of phone calls.’

  ‘Yeah. To Editorial, to here, and to the MD’s office.’

  ‘Why are people phoning him?’

  ‘It’s through the Pakistani Association. I think he was at a dinner there last year, so he made a lot of contacts.’

  ‘Aye. Well, he’ll not be asked back this year, then,’ Hanlon quipped.

  Rosie tried to keep her face straight.

  ‘Declan tells me a few calls were also supportive,’ she said. ‘Mostly women saying they agree with the story and the girl’s plight. Some telling their own stories. No names though . . . Well, they’re hardly going to be posing for pictures if they’re in an unhappy situation.’

  ‘True. But it’s good that we’re getting both sides. We’ll pick the best of them today and do some kind of story to go with the main Laila-back-home interview. We’ve got to stand our ground.’ He gave the managing editor a look that was bordering on defiance.

  ‘Of course we do, Mick,’ the managing editor replied. ‘But we also need to put some balance on tomorrow. We—’

  ‘The story was balanced today, Jack,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘We didn’t even do a leader on it. All I did was tell the story the way it unfolded.’

  ‘Well, it’s caused outrage.’

  ‘That’s tough shit. People don’t like it when their way of life is questioned.’ Rosie spread her hands. ‘But we were a hundred per cent right.’ She gave McGuire a pleading look. ‘Guys, we’re not going to start backtracking here, are we? Not after the kind of stuff we had about the stoning in Swat, and the more-or-less kidnapping of a wee girl to get married to some old geezer in the middle of nowhere. We’re in the clear here.’

  ‘No, no,’ McGuire waved his hand. ‘But we’ve had a lawyer’s letter from the Pakistani Association. They’re taking it to the Press Complaints Commission.’

  ‘Big deal.’ Rosie snorted.

  ‘It still needs to be dealt
with, Rosie. So I’ll need you to write your account,’ Hanlon said.

  ‘My account was all over the paper today,’ Rosie replied, more belligerent than she meant to be.

  Hanlon sat forward, more businesslike than friendly now.

  ‘I mean, how you got the story. How you pursued it. What the leads were. We have to be seen to be totally clean here, or they’ll accuse us of harassment.’

  ‘Harassment? That’s good coming from them. Tell that to Laila. If it weren’t for us, she’d have woken up this morning with some old bastard grunting on top of her – if you’ll excuse the graphic image. If anyone was harassed, it was her. Come on, for Christ’s sake, lads!’

  Hanlon chortled under his breath.

  ‘Look. What we’ll do is defend this rigorously. You know that, Rosie. Once you write your account, I’ll fire a letter back to them. We’ll wait to see what the PCC says. We can’t react until they contact us, but I want to be ready.’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ the managing editor said.

  He had the kind of hangdog face that was made for delivering bad news. ‘We’ve had a call from over a dozen newsagents across the country saying they’re stopping taking the Post. That’ll spread.’

  ‘Well, that’s just stupid if they do that. They’ll lose money,’ Rosie said.

  ‘They’ve threatened it anyway.’

  ‘Have Distribution got contingency plans?’ Rosie looked from McGuire to Weaver.

  ‘Yes. We’ve still got plenty of retailers onside at the moment. But we’re going to put some vendors on the street,’ Weaver said.

  ‘Plus, this will get plenty of publicity,’ McGuire said. ‘It already has. Breakfast TV was holding up our front page this morning, and all the papers will follow it today. We’re clean on this. Aren’t we, Rosie?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not even worried.’ She shrugged.

  What she wanted to say was that the angry mob would soon be silenced when she officially reported to the police that she was attacked outside her flat by some headcase who threatened to cut her throat just because she was trying to do her job. She didn’t want to mention it right now because it had only been between her and McGuire. The managing editor would explode if he knew that the editor had sent Rosie to Pakistan on a dangerous mission, after she’d already been attacked investigating the same story. He was always covering his back in case a reporter came back at any stage, claiming they weren’t given proper help or counselling by the newspaper after some traumatic experience. But Rosie knew the moment she went public with the information it would have a serious impact. If they wanted a fight, the gloves were off.