Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6

by Anna Smith

  ‘I took his money. His wallet and his phone.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosie said, raising her eyebrows a little.

  ‘Yeah. Fucking stupid, I know. But was I supposed to call the cops? I mean, we work for an escort agency owned by big Gordy MacLean. You know him?’

  ‘I do. Well, I know of him. Not to be messed with.’

  ‘Exactly. So we couldn’t spill our guts to the police. I decided we’d take anything that would ID the guy and get the hell out of the place. And that’s what we did. Except . . .’

  ‘What? Except what?’

  ‘There was a small attaché case. A wee aluminium thing. I decided to take that too. Nikki didn’t want to, but I thought, let’s just take every fucking thing and leave the holdall with a couple of shirts in it. So we took it and walked out of the hotel bold as brass – even though our legs were like jelly.’

  Rosie looked at her then out of the windscreen, thinking of Don’s earlier chat about the girls walking out with the case. This story was screaming legally-in-the-shit all over it. But she had to get it – all of it.

  ‘So what did you do with the case?’

  ‘We took it to Nikki’s and opened it. And inside it was lot of money and passports.’

  ‘Passports?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe fake, or something. But all with Pakistani or Asian-looking fuckers on the pictures.’

  ‘Incredible.’ Another bell went off in Rosie’s head, recalling Sabiha’s claims about the passports.

  ‘But that’s not all. There were a couple of bags, pouches, with a load of stones in them. We emptied them out, they looked like little driveway chips or something somebody had taken from a beach. Who knows what kind of crap people collect? But now we know what they are.’

  ‘What are they?’ Rosie asked, but she already knew the answer.

  ‘Diamonds. Rough diamonds.’

  Rosie could feel her eyes widen.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because we got pulled in by the boss – Gordy MacLean – and he’s asking did we see the case. It was him who said he’d been told there were rough diamonds in it. We had already denied we took the case, and would never admit it, but once he said diamonds, we knew we had to deny it forever.’ She paused. ‘How much do you know about big Gordy?’

  ‘I just know of him. Dangerous bastard, by all accounts. I take it he didn’t believe you.’

  ‘No. And that’s why Nikki got done over. I don’t know what the Christ this is all about or who’s behind it, but apparently its some big Pakistani gang from down south, and they’re all related to gangsters down there, who deal with people up here. So maybe the guy was up here on the drop.’

  Rosie looked at her. This was confirming what Don had told her. She tried to contain her excitement.

  ‘Drop to who?’ she said.

  ‘No idea, that’s just what we’ve been told. I don’t even know if that’s all a load of fanny coming from big Gordy.’

  ‘So what happened then? I mean that night when Nikki was attacked? How did it happen?

  ‘We got word to go see a couple of punters, and when we got there, she had to go on her own in the car with the driver, Alex. He’s Gordy’s best mate, and he doesn’t normally do the driving, but that night he did. When Nikki went into the car with him and they sent me away, that’s . . . that’s the last I heard of her until it was on the news that she’d been attacked. . . . It’s sick! So sick. And it’s my fault. The bastard sliced half her fucking arm off.’

  ‘Who? Alex?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was Alex who took her, but maybe he was meeting somebody. I don’t think he’s that kind of guy who would chop someone’s arm off. He’s an arsehole, but not like that.’

  ‘What a mess, Julie. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘It was me who insisted we take the case.’

  ‘Well. That’s done now – you can’t undo it. What you need to do is be here for Nikki and you really need to think about talking to the cops.’

  ‘What? And get both of us killed? No fucking way.’

  ‘So where’s the case now?’

  Julie was silent for a few moments, and Rosie waited, her heart thumping.

  ‘In the boot of my car.’

  ‘Fuck me!’ Rosie murmured under her breath.

  Every instinct was screaming at Rosie to call McGuire, get the cops involved and get the hell out of here. But nothing screamed more than the absolute kamikaze need to see the attaché case. Totally crazy and wrong on so many levels, because once she’d seen it and not done anything about it, she was part of the crime.

  ‘Can I see it?’ She couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Julie got out of Rosie’s car and quickly pinged open the boot of hers. Rosie took out her mobile, then put it back in her bag and switched it off in case anyone phoned. Julie came back around the car and slid into the seat with the attaché case on her lap. She clicked it open. Inside were several passports – all Pakistani. Rosie was dying to pick them up and have a look, but just watched as Julie did it.

  ‘You shouldn’t be touching any of this, Julie. Your fingerprints are all over the place.’

  ‘I know. But it’s too late for that.’

  Rosie glanced over her shoulder to make sure the car park was still empty as Julie fingered through the passports. There were nine in total, and as Julie opened each one of them, a Pakistani face looked out from the passport picture and Rosie looked at the name under each one. Most were men, but there were two women. They looked authentic, but could just as easily have been fakes, and sold or stolen by gangsters and then intricately doctored. Then, as Julie randomly flicked through them, a name caught her eye. Rabia.

  ‘Hold on. Can you just go back to that picture again?’

  ‘This one?’ Julie held it up.

  ‘Yeah. I want to see it again.’

  The name was Rabia Sahid but the picture wasn’t of the bride who’d jumped out of the window in Pollokshields. Julie flicked to the opening page and the date of birth and Rosie went through her notebook till she found the start of her notes on the story. The date of birth was the same. This was no coincidence. She took down the number and as much detail as she could, asking Julie to open all the pages where it had been stamped. The UK stamp was there and roughly matched the date when Rabia had come here for her wedding. She’d have to check the specifics when she got back. Julie went through the rest of them, and then laid the passports back in the case. Then she lifted out the wads of cash. Then the bag containing the stones. She emptied three out onto her palm.

  ‘Jesus, Julie. This is crazy. I think they are rough diamonds. But obviously someone very dangerous is looking for these, if they’re prepared to chop Nikki’s arm off. And every second you have them in your possession, your life is in danger. You have to do something, fast.’

  ‘What the fuck am I going to do? I’m not going to the cops.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘I can’t. I won’t. No way.’

  Rosie didn’t know what to say to her. She needed time. She wanted to talk to McGuire, but could nearly hear him screaming at the thought of her sitting in a car with a cache of smuggled diamonds and stolen or faked passports. But most of all she had to keep Julie onside.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m not at home as they’ve been looking for me. I’m out in Stirling. At a small hotel on the edge of the town.’

  ‘Good. I need some time to think. I’ve got to talk to my editor.’

  ‘You can’t put this in the paper.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Not yet anyway, and I wouldn’t do that without your consent. But I have to decide how to make a start. See where I can go with it.’ She switched on her phone. ‘Listen. I’m going to call a colleague I work closely with – you can trust him. I need him to get a picture of this stuff before we do anything, before we make any move whatsoever.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe I
should just fuck off now. Are you going to the cops? You are, aren’t you?’

  Julie was agitated now.

  ‘No, of course not. I promise you. We’ll talk about our next move. I want to make sure you’re safe.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Rosie switched on her phone and punched in Matt’s number.

  ‘Matt, where are you? Okay, good. Can you jump down to the Broomielaw to the car park of the old tile place. I need a pic taken quickly and discreetly. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite the icy-cold early evening, Rosie walked from her flat at St George’s Cross down to the nearby bar off Elmbank Street to meet Don. So much had gone on in the last few hours, she wanted to use the five-minute walk to clear her head and try to think straight. How the hell was she going to tell McGuire she’d just been sitting in a car with a handful of rough diamonds? He would have to be scraped off the ceiling. She didn’t want to tell Julie that she knew for sure they were diamonds, but she’d known exactly what they were from the moment Julie had put the pouch in her hand. Nine months ago, Rosie had been working on a story involving the smuggling of diamonds from Nigeria as part of a UK-wide feature, and had been given good access by police to see what rough diamonds actually looked like. She even had a few of them put in her hand at the two-day Scotland Yard seminar in London that the editor had sent her on. So she was as sure as she could be of what she was dealing with. The deadly trade of blood diamonds stretched beyond the dusty mines of Nigeria, and it was a safe bet that whoever was involved in this little cache wouldn’t hesitate to murder to get it back. It was bad enough that Julie took the dead guy’s case, his money and his passports, but now she had his diamonds. This was not good, on any level – especially now that Rosie had actually had them in her hand. Still, at least they had a photograph of them, which Matt was sworn to secrecy about. She knew she’d be in trouble when she had to spill all this out to McGuire in the morning. But, for now, she had to concentrate on whatever Don was about to tell her. If he mentioned anything more about diamonds, she’d have to keep her face poker straight.

  *

  ‘What a hoor of a night,’ Don cursed as he came into the bar, his hair soaked, red-faced from the cold.

  ‘I know. I just made it in before that heavy shower. You look freezing. Where are your gloves?’ Rosie motioned him to sit down in the wall seating, where she’d found a space in front of the flickering coal fire. ‘It’s cosy in here. I love this place. Old-fashioned. Nothing’s changed for generations.’

  Don rubbed his hands together vigorously and held them in front of the fire.

  ‘Gloves are for poofs.’

  Rosie smiled and stood up.

  ‘Pint?’

  ‘Aye. Dying for one.’

  Rosie returned with a lager for Don and her first glass of red wine of the evening.

  He went into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a piece of A4 paper

  ‘Wait till you see this,’ he said, triumphantly unfolding it and placing it on the table, smoothing it out. He glanced over his shoulder, but the bar was almost empty, apart from two old punters playing dominoes.

  Rosie leaned forward and immediately recognised Julie in the grainy CCTV picture. She hoped her face was impassive.

  ‘Is this from the Albany?’

  ‘Yep. From the foyer.’

  ‘It’s packed. Must have been some kind of do on.’ She pretended she was peering through the crowd.

  ‘Yeah. A sales conference. Loads of reps were gathered in the foyer for the champagne reception. But look closely at the two girls walking through that throng around the podium, going towards the exit. See them?’

  He made a ring with his finger around the women. Rosie kept up the pretence, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Yeah. I see them now. One of them’s carrying a case. Is that the girls you think were in the room?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know that. But one of them, the more hefty-looking girl, the one who isn’t carrying the case . . . That’s the girl who’s lying up in the Royal with her arm mutilated. That much we can be sure of.’

  ‘Christ! You’re positive?’

  ‘Sure enough to be hovering around the ward waiting for the consultant to give us the go-ahead to speak to her.’

  ‘What about the other girl? Is she the friend from the phone you were telling me about?’

  ‘We think so. But we don’t know for definite. We’re busting our arses trying to find her.’

  Rosie looked beyond him. She felt a twinge of guilt that she was keeping up the charade, but what else could she do? She couldn’t tell Don that she’d just been sitting with this very girl in a car down at the Broomielaw. She took a large gulp of her wine and swallowed, feeling it burn all the way down.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Don scanned her face. ‘Stressed out?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit.’ Rosie sucked in the smoke as Don flicked the lighter. ‘So, are you any closer to finding what this is all about?’

  ‘A bit. Number one, we’ve been told that some heavy people are going apeshit over the missing case. The word on the grapevine is that there were passports in it. Probably faked.’ He leaned closer. ‘But, listen . . . The tip that there were diamonds is growing; we’re as sure as we can be that he was delivering rough diamonds. Smuggled diamonds.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie sounded surprised enough to convince herself that she actually was surprised. ‘Rough diamonds? Up here? But who wants rough diamonds up in Glasgow? It’s hardly the gem capital of the world! Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Well, we can’t be sure. It’s coming from our mates down south at Scotland Yard that this guy was used by some crowd who are smuggling diamonds in from Africa. A Pakistani crew, apparently. It’s part of an international smuggling ring. The cops are on the case down south, but they know they’re not making great headway – they’ve made some seizures along the line and stuff, over the years, but nobody’s really cracked it.’

  ‘I did that seminar on diamond smuggling down at the Met a while ago and I remember the background. But what I can’t understand is why Glasgow? Normally they go to dealers down in London and then to Antwerp, where the diamonds would be cut and polished. There’s all sorts of required licences that can apparently trace every diamond back to its origin. It’s quite complicated. So how come they got under the radar? And what would the rough diamonds be doing here?’

  ‘That’s what we don’t know. But one theory is that this guy, Malik, was flying to Glasgow, maybe coming through Amsterdam or something and it was less risky to fly to Glasgow than Heathrow or Gatwick, and was maybe going to go down south on the train. Or maybe it’s that diamonds are the new black in Glasgow.’ Don rubbed his face. ‘We just don’t know. The dead Pakistani is from Bradford, but we don’t know anyone here who’s involved in it, so we haven’t a clue why he’d be in Glasgow.’

  Rosie was also trying to figure out what he was doing in Glasgow, but from a different perspective. She already knew from the limited conversation with Sabiha that someone within the Pakistani community was involved in smuggling, so maybe it was a reward, or whatever, for the provision of passports or bodies.

  ‘So are the cops going to release the line about the women and the suitcase? And how about the ID of the woman with the severed arm? The dogs in the street are barking her name. We could have used it last night, but the editor decided not to. It was stupid of you guys not to confirm.’

  ‘I know. New detective superintendent. He’s a bit of a nutjob and hates the press.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Rosie said, knowing if the new superintendent had an inkling of where she’d just been she’d already be on her way to the cells, awaiting the custody court in the morning. ‘Well, he’ll need to get his act together. This is a big story, Don.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Let’s just say the assistant chief constable has had a word in his shell-like.’

  ‘What about
the Pakistani jumper – the bride who took the swan dive?’ Rosie asked. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Nothing.’ he sighed. ‘But we know it stinks. They’re up to something, but we can’t go harassing or sitting on them, especially when they’re already throwing racism allegations around.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘You hearing anything?’

  Rosie sighed and shook her head. She hated holding out on Don like this, especially when he was being so forthcoming. She wished she could tell him just a hint of what Sabiha and her cousin had told her, but she couldn’t risk it. Once she’d handed over the information, she’d be handing over the girls as witnesses. It was too risky for them. The wine, on top of the adrenalin-pumping day it had been, made her suddenly tired. She was looking forward to going home to sit in a hot bath till she had made some sense of all of this. She needed to work out what her next move would be. McGuire would have to be told everything, and she wasn’t looking forward to that.

  ‘I have to go after this, Don. I’m knackered, and I’ve got a couple of calls to make before I call it a day.’

  Don drained his glass.

  ‘Me too. We’ve been doing overtime every night this week with all this shit that’s going on, so I’m pretty done in myself. Early one for me too.’

  When they finished their drinks, they stepped outside into the sleet, the traffic thinning out as they were two streets away from Charing Cross.

  ‘Will I walk you up the road?’ Don asked, glancing around at the deserted streets.

  ‘No, don’t worry. Sure, who’d be out on a night like this, only whores and polis.’ Rosie smiled.

  Don chuckled as he leaned in and she felt the warmth of his lips as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, sweetheart, what does that make you?’

  ‘Touché.’ She gave him a hug, and watched as he turned and went in the opposite direction.

  Rosie stood for a few seconds, gazing up at the rows of dismal tenements and feeling the sleet on her face. An unexpected image took her by surprise – of the night she and TJ stood in the downpour outside the restaurant after they had been on the brink of ending their relationship, but somehow couldn’t bring themselves to do it. A heavy loneliness swept over her, and she suddenly wished she could be back there, in the warmth of his arms that night on the pavement in the deluge. But so much had happened in the long time apart while he was in New York. It was months since she’d heard from him, and it was only recently that she had stopped picturing his life every day, wondering where he was at certain times, if he was thinking about her. But she still pined for him. Sometimes she thought TJ played more of a part in her psyche in his absence than he did when he was here. How screwed up was that? But she couldn’t help feeling the emptiness now that she was starting to move on, becoming less obsessed with him. He’d probably have moved on too, no doubt presuming she had. She’d convinced herself she had moved on, until moments like this. The sudden tears on her cheeks felt warm against the cold of the night, and she sniffed and pulled up her collar against the wind. Get a grip, woman, she told herself, as she walked up the road in the direction of St George’s Cross. The traffic was quiet and she walked briskly, blinking away tears. As she was about to cross the road, she became vaguely aware of someone in a shop doorway, but when she looked over her shoulder there was nobody there. She crossed the road, quiet, with little traffic and made her way along the deserted street and towards the car park which adjoined her block of flats. She looked over her shoulder again, uneasy, and thought she heard footsteps, but there was nothing. A little wave of anxiety punched her gut and she quickened her step. Maybe it wasn’t over yet with the UVF, or with Tam Dunn’s mob from the arms smuggling. No, she told herself, they were all in jail, and nobody would be mopping up after them. Thugs and gangsters just moved in like vultures when their leader was captured. No honour in them, they surrounded the spoils like hyenas, tearing it up for themselves. Nobody gave a damn about a journalist. But she walked quickly anyway. She’d be glad when she was in and safely inside the six-bar-locked fortress that her flat had become.