by Anna Smith
‘Would you like some tea?’ the man asked as he led her down the hall, where a door opened into a large room.
‘Yes,’ Rosie replied, a little surprised at the hospitality. In a lot of death knocks you got huckled out smartish. ‘Thanks. Some black tea would be great.’
The man barked something loudly in Urdu in the direction of the kitchen, and a young woman in striking yellow traditional dress with her head covered, came out and more or less bowed. She made brief eye contact with Rosie. It was only a second, but it was enough. There was something there, something in the dark shadows under her eyes, which darted from Rosie to the ground. She was very pretty and probably in her early twenties; clearly cowed by the older man, she kept her eyes downcast as she nodded, then turned and went quickly back into the kitchen.
Rosie was a little taken aback when she was led into one of the large rooms off the hallway. She glanced quickly around the three big sofas and chairs, where at least eight men sat in a circle as though in a meeting. They were all dressed traditionally, a few of them rattling prayer beads in their hands, talking in hushed tones. They stopped instantly and turned towards her. Silence.
‘Hello,’ she said, not really knowing what else to say.
‘Please. Take a seat.’ Shah motioned her to an upright chair, and she could feel all the eyes following her as she sat down, as though it was she who had been summoned.
‘This my family. Brothers and cousins. And –’ he pointed to a lean-faced, handsome young man with thin lips, who looked up from the floor, then back down – ‘this my son, Farooq. The husband of the bride. His heart is broken.’
The widower nodded and looked away from her, clasping his hands on his lap. Rosie could see his white knuckles. She glanced at his fingers, heavy with gold rings, a chunky bracelet on his wrist. A huge diamond ring, too big to be anything other than a fake, glistened on his pinkie. What was it with these guys and their bling? Don’t judge, she told herself. Listen to what they say. There were people in the newsroom who would make their minds up straight away, but Rosie wasn’t one of them. She did feel a little claustrophobic from the sheer presence of all these men, though, sitting looking at her, waiting. She swallowed back a little panicky feeling. Just get this over with, she told herself.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Farooq.’ She looked directly at the widower, and waited at least four beats.
He raised his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing. Two out of five for the heartbroken widower impression, Rosie noted.
‘My son is too upset to speak. It’s been a very big shock. They were only married three months ago.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, and gave a sympathetic shake of her head. ‘I read it in the police statement.’ She took a breath and looked at Shah. ‘I understand they met in Pakistan just a few months ago?’
She was trying to choose her words carefully. Arranged marriages were a way of life in the Pakistani culture, and it was difficult for others to understand.
‘I take it the marriage was arranged in the normal way?’ Rosie glanced around the room, stony faces staring back at her, and then turned to Shah.
‘What do you mean – in the usual way?’
There was a little flick of resentment in Shah’s tone. A couple of the men shifted in their seats and puffed. Rosie had to rescue this, but she also had to stand her ground.
‘By that I mean, in the usual way within your culture, where people tend to meet their future husband or wife through family and connections.’ Rosie looked around at the men who stared back at her. She let the silence hang, the air cranking up with tension. She wasn’t going to shift on this. ‘I understand Rabia was in the UK for the first time for the wedding. She must have found it very different from back home.’
Nobody was answering. Christ!
‘What I’m trying to say is, Mr Shah, do you think perhaps she was homesick and it all got too much for her?’ Rosie turned to the groom. ‘Did she say anything, Farooq, about being depressed? Show any signs? Missing home? Understandable, really.’
Farooq glanced at his father but made no reply.
Shah took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
‘Yes. I think she may have been a little depressed. It happens with the young girls sometimes, because they are in a strange city, far from their families. But really, it just takes time to settle.’
‘So there was no indication of how depressed she actually was?’
‘I wish there was,’ he said and looked at the others, whose faces were like flint.
Rosie said nothing. Her Strathclyde detective pal, Don, had tipped her off that the girl had marks on her wrist, consistent with self-harming, or someone else harming her. But the family couldn’t throw any light on it, and Rosie got the distinct feeling that bringing it up right now was not a good idea. Police had ruled it was a straightforward suicide and the body had been buried within forty-eight hours, so it was really too late to do anything about it anyway. This was going nowhere. But something in her gut told her they were lying, or at the very least, hiding something.
The door opened, and the young girl from earlier came in carrying a small tray with a glass of tea and a plate of small pastries. She placed it down on the coffee table in front of Rosie and as she did, Rosie noticed welts and bruising on her wrists. The girl backed away, but was close enough to clock Rosie the moment she’d glanced at her wrists. She nodded in thanks for the tea and lifted the glass to her lips, hoping she had said enough with her eyes to acknowledge the girl’s distressed look, before she backed away and left the room.
‘She is the bride’s sister, Sabiha,’ Shah said. ‘It has been difficult for her.’
‘I see,’ Rosie said. ‘Has she been here for a long time?’
‘Yes. Four years. Married to Farooq’s cousin. They have two children.’ He sat back. ‘It takes time to settle down into the life.’
Rosie changed the subject.
‘Its a very large house, Mr Shah. It must be good to have all the family together. To be honest, I think that’s a great part of your culture, that family is at the heart of it.’
Rosie hoped to draw him out, but the notion of living with several families under the same roof would be her ideal of hell. She drank the lukewarm sweet tea.
He nodded.
‘Of course. We all work very hard for each other. We have three families living here. My own wife and our two sons and their children. Often Sabiha and her children come to stay. It is very comfortable. You like to see? I show you around?’
Rosie wasn’t sure what to do. He stood up. It didn’t seem to be an invitation. They left the room and she followed him along the hall and upstairs. He showed her what he called the playroom, where two boys sat with toys on the floor and another two girls were drawing with crayons. They climbed the creaking stairs to the top floor.
‘Did Rabia live on the top floor here with her husband?’
‘Yes. In the room at the end. But we won’t go there. It’s too upsetting.’
Rosie glanced down the hall, where the light faded, and a sudden chill ran through her. At the very top of the door was a bolt with a looped latch, a crude effort, not even straight. Her eyes flicked to the bottom where there was another, similar lock. She looked away and said nothing. She’d seen enough. Whether Rabia had been homesick, they would never know. But she’d been locked in. Rosie suddenly wanted to get out of this house as fast as possible. She looked at her watch.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Shah. I do know how difficult it has been, and I appreciate you explaining your loss and the background, and giving me this time. I will go now and leave you in peace.’
‘You will say what a good girl she was? That it is just a sad thing that has happened?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Rosie knew she had no intention of writing a story.
As the front door closed behind her, she took in a lungful of frosty air. The late afternoon sky was growing dark, the houses in the distance beginning to look like silhouettes alo
ng the skyline. She went down towards her car, where Matt sat up quickly and started the engine. As she approached, she turned around and could see the young girl in the yellow dress at the window. She was staring at her. Rosie thought her lips moved, but then she disappeared and the curtain was drawn.
‘How did it go?’ Matt said. ‘Did they give you any food? No doggy bag with a couple of samosas or anything?’
Rosie suppressed a laugh.
‘Christ! You never change.’
‘I’m starving. But how was it?’
‘Place gave me the bloody creeps. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Chapter Two
Nikki stared out of the taxi window, her mind re-running the scene they’d left, the body on the hotel room floor. Julie had warned her it was crucial that they looked just like any other guests. Once the body was discovered – no doubt by a chambermaid in the morning – the cops would be all over the place, she’d said. The Albany had been a decent enough city centre hotel in its day, but it wasn’t top-drawer now, and was the kind of place random couples often booked into for the night if they’d got lucky at a club. Nikki had taken one last look over her shoulder at the naked body of her punter as Julie gently prodded her towards the bedroom door. They’d strolled down the long corridor in silence and stepped into the empty lift. When the lift doors opened she was glad that the foyer leading to the bar area was crowded. It looked like some kind of organised reception, and guests were being handed a glass of champagne on arrival. They’d made their way through the throng, and Nikki couldn’t believe the cheek when Julie took a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray and knocked it back, leaving her empty glass on a table close to the exit. They’d jumped into one of the waiting taxis, and as it pulled out of the car park Nikki started crying.
‘Right. Calm down, you.’ Julie handed Nikki a tissue. ‘It’s alright. Nothing’s going to happen.’
Nikki sniffed and wiped her nose with trembling hands.
‘Christ! I’m shaking like a leaf.’
‘Come on now,’ Julie squeezed her arm. ‘You’ll be fine when you get a stiff drink.’ Julie leaned forward to the glass partition and spoke to the back of the driver’s head. ‘Cranhill, pal.’
‘Have you got drink in the house?’ Nikki asked.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Julie replied with a sarcastic grin. ‘See. You’ll be fine, Nikki. Just stop panicking.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued. ‘What we’re going to do is convince ourselves that shit back there didn’t happen. Okay, we’ve got the case, but who is ever going to know that? As far as any punter lying stiff on the floor, forget it. It didn’t happen – okay?’
‘Easier said than done,’ Nikki sniffed.
In the driving sleet, the black Hackney weaved its way through the city centre and briefly on to the motorway before taking a slip road into Cranhill, a sprawling housing scheme in the city’s East End. Julie told the taxi to pull up at the last house on the corner of a row of drab council maisonettes.
‘Home, sweet home.’ Julie gestured to Nikki to get out of the car as she paid the driver. Then she climbed out, clutching the attaché case, and slammed the car door shut.
The white Christmas that had seen the city clothed in six inches of snow had turned to brown slush in the constant icy rain. The dawn of the new millennium had been so exciting just twelve days ago, when Glasgow and the rest of the world hailed its arrival amid a spree of wild partying and hopes for a new beginning. Right now, all of that seemed a long time ago, as Nikki and Julie carefully trod over the slush and puddles, the freezing sleet slapping their faces. A blue carryout plastic bag swirled through air and attached itself to a naked tree where it fluttered like a flag. Two of the street lamps were out, and only the occasional chink of light from windows in the six-storey block guided their way up the steps and into the dark entrance.
‘Fucking streetlights have been like this since the start of December. It’s like the blackout. If it was posh Bearsden, the council would have been out smartish, but they don’t give a shit about people up here.’
‘I know.’ Nikki picked her way up the steps, through the debris and discarded lager cans. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’
Julie flicked a light switch when they stepped inside her hallway, then strode on ahead to the living room, switching on lamps and a gas fire. It immediately began to glow over imitation coals and the room came to life, as welcoming as a warm hug on a miserable night like this.
‘There. That’s better. All cosy now. The central heating came on two hours ago.’ She put the attaché case down and turned to Julie, standing in the doorway. ‘Come on. Let’s get a bloody drink. G and T alright?’
‘Thanks. It’s nice and warm in here,’ Nikki said, following her into the kitchen: marble worktops and top-of-the range units. ‘Your house is really great, Jules. I think that every time I come here. Must have cost you a packet.’ She smiled.
‘Yeah. Would have done, but as you know, most of it was blagged.’
She took out a bottle of gin from the cupboard and two heavy crystal glasses, then a block of ice cubes from the freezer. Nikki watched as the ice cracked when Julie poured two good glugs of gin into the glasses, and the bubbles hissed and danced as she added the tonic.
She handed Nikki a glass. ‘Sorry, we’re right out of limes, pet,’ Julie said. ‘That bloody butler’s getting fired in the morning.’
They both burst out laughing and clinked glasses.
‘To us,’ Julie said. Then she looked at Nikki wistfully and nodded. ‘To friends forever.’
‘Friends forever,’ Nikki said, biting her lip to hold back the tears, suddenly remembering the first time they’d got drunk together, fifteen year olds before the school disco. It seemed a lifetime ago, and look at them now. She swallowed hard and smiled.
‘God, I needed that,’ Nikki said, taking another gulp, enjoying the alcohol warming her all the way down her gut. ‘I wish I could be as calm as you. I keep seeing that guy lying dead on the carpet.’
Julie handed her a cigarette and they both took their drinks into the living room and plonked themselves onto the sofa. Next to the comforting hiss of the fire and the warmth of the room, they could have been two old mates relaxing after a hard day’s work. If only, Nikki thought. Life would never be the same after tonight.
‘So,’ Nikki said. ‘This is lovely, Julie. But . . . but we can’t really just pretend that shit an hour ago didn’t happen. There’s a guy lying dead on the floor of the Albany.’
‘I know there is. And he’ll still be dead in the morning. We’ll think of something.’
‘What’s going to happen once they discover him?’
‘What do you mean? Is it going to lead back to us?’
‘It won’t. Unless that arsehole Georgie at the agency spills her guts. Like I said, the guy would have booked his escort under a different name than the name he gave at the hotel. Most punters do that. At least, let’s hope so. I mean there’s no evidence that a girl was in the room with him. It looks like one of these sexual things guys sometimes do themselves, when they’re having a hand shandy. It’s dangerous, but apparently that’s part of the thrill. Whatever floats your boat, I suppose.’ Julie shrugged, then looked at Nikki. ‘I hope you didn’t drop anything out of your bag, or anything like that.’
‘No,’ Nikki said, ‘I don’t think so.’ She tried to remember her movements in the room, in case she’d left anything behind. Don’t even go there, she told herself.
The alcohol was helping to calm her down and they sat staring at the flames for a long moment.
‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll not be doing too many jobs like that in a hurry.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be doing any more at all, Julie. I’m just no good at it.’
‘Nonsense. Look how much you made last weekend. The old guy loved you. Left you an extra thirty quid for nothing. Some guys . . . they phone for an escort for the evening and nine times out of ten it’s sex they want, an
d even if it is, most of them are just ordinary guys, but some are just lonely and want a woman to talk to. It’s a matter of getting used to it. There’s seldom a problem, think of it as a job and don’t get all hung up about it. It has to beat the shit out of stacking shelves in the supermarket, or working in the old people’s home as a skivvy.’
Nikki nodded, but her gaze fell on the attaché case. Julie gave her a mischievous grin.
‘Will we open it?’
Nikki let out a sigh.
‘Might as well.’
Julie brought it across the room, then knelt down and fiddled with the lock, pressing the clips. Nothing. Then she fished around in her handbag and came out with two small keys on a ring. She held them up.
‘I forgot about these. In his wallet.’ She brought out a mobile phone. ‘And this.’ She handed it to Nikki. ‘Here. Have a look through it. See if there’s any numbers we recognise.’
‘How do you mean? The agency? That’ll be on it. But not my number. My number won’t be on it, will it?’
‘Just kidding. Lighten up, woman.’
She fiddled with the lock and key, and one lock snapped open. The other followed, and Julie lifted the lid. There were a couple of new white shirts, still in cellophane, and two pairs of underpants. She rummaged around, pushing them to the side.
‘Looks like it’s got a false bottom.’
Nikki got onto the floor, pulled herself closer and sat cross-legged, watching as Julie unzipped the false bottom and opened it. They both looked at the contents, and then at each other.
‘Passports?’ Julie screwed up her eyes, rumbling around in the case. ‘Jesus!’ Then her hand emerged, holding a thick wedge of money in an elastic band. ‘Look. A late Christmas present!’