by Anna Smith
Rosie made a mental note to bring Marion back a present for pushing the budget to the limit. She felt edgy enough in the streets, so the safety of a big international hotel was like a comfort blanket. But she knew it wouldn’t stay like that. In the next couple of hours they would meet Omar’s cousin, a Pakistani Glaswegian doctor who had married over here. Hopefully, he would give them the lowdown on Laila. Then it would be up to them how they played it. Rosie was impressed by how much Omar had gleaned of the area where Laila was apparently staying and what the set-up was. The Pakistani community was so tight-knit. In Glasgow, Pakistani people would more often than not know what was going on in their old homeland village, whether it was illegal or not, but they would never discuss it. That was the problem police always said they had with them – everyone who wasn’t Pakistani was an outsider. It was rare when a journalist like her could strike up a friendship with a character like Omar, and it was always the only chance anyone had of getting a glimpse behind the veil drawn over life in Pakistan.
*
‘So, we have a fair idea of where Laila is. Nothing concrete yet, but I have eyes and ears who are keeping me informed.’
Ismal spoke with an educated Glasgow accent – the product, Omar had told Rosie, of the city’s best private school, where wealthy Asians sent their sons to be turned into accountants, lawyers, surgeons – fulfilling the aspirations they had had for themselves, but could never have achieved as penniless immigrants a generation ago. Omar’s parents had never made enough money to send him to private school, but he always joked that he made more cash living on his wits than most professionals. Knowing Omar, he probably did. But if Omar was the market trader who could convince you to buy something you absolutely didn’t need, Ismal was the studious pragmatist, who exuded an air of calm and maturity beyond his thirty years. Over dinner in the hotel’s swish restaurant, Rosie had allowed the two cousins to run the show, content to listen to their stories of growing up in Glasgow, of the racism and the camaraderie among the group of Muslim mates who all stuck together. In his Western clothes and with a trendy haircut, Ismal looked too young to be a doctor and to be working in the kind of difficult environment he had described, in the Afghan refugee camp deep in Pakistan’s famous Swat Valley. As Rosie watched the two of them in discussion, she also didn’t object to the fact that they would slip into their own language when they were talking about something they did not want her to hear. It rankled a little, but now was not the time to deal with it. She’d come all the way over here to get Laila, and she needed them, Ismal especially, onside. Finally, over coffee, the conversation was turning to the business in hand.
‘So, how much do you know about where Laila is?’ Rosie looked inquiringly at Ismal. ‘Is she here in Peshawar?’
Ismal put down his cup and clasped his hands in front of him on the table, in the kind of pose he probably used for doctor–patient chats. He nodded slowly.
‘Here’s the situation.’ He glanced at Omar. ‘I’ve already told Omar what I know, but we should go over it together now, so that we can make a plan.’
‘Of course.’ Rosie nodded.
‘Laila was brought here by one of her uncles – she arrived a few days ago – and she is staying with his family. They have a lot of connections in Peshawar, in the textile industry. You know that Laila’s father has a textile warehouse in Glasgow. The family are merchants who have been here for generations and they supply a lot of stores and factories within the city, but they have ambitions to branch out to the outlying areas and Islamabad. There is a larger, more successful textile firm in Islamabad, and that is run by this guy by the name of Gashood Maan. He is recently widowed and is, I think, forty-eight years old.’ He paused, glancing from Rosie to Omar. ‘An agreement was reached between the two families – a business agreement – that they would work together, create bigger profits for both of them, spread the firms further afield. You know how these things work.’ He paused again as they nodded. ‘But Gashood wants a young wife.’
‘And that’s where Laila comes in,’ Rosie said, knowing she looked disgusted.
Ismal raised his eyebrows and made a resigned face.
‘It happens,’ he sighed. ‘A lot. Too often for my liking. It’s not right. Laila’s only a child, barely two years older than one of Gashood’s oldest kids . . . and he has four children in all. So Laila will be a skivvy for him and his children.’ He shook his head. ‘And, what will be really tough for a young girl like Laila, born and bred in Glasgow, is that she will have to live here. Probably in Islamabad, where she won’t know anyone, and where she’ll have to adhere to the strict regime of the family pecking order.’
‘Jesus,’ Rosie said, catching Matt’s eye. ‘So she’ll be more or less a prisoner?’
‘Yes. No other way to put it.’
‘So unfair.’
‘I know.’ He nodded to Omar. ‘We both know how these things are, don’t we, cuz?’
Omar shrugged and looked down at the table.
‘Sure. That’s why I turned down any offers I had from my parents trying to match me off with women. It just wasn’t not for me, and it caused me a lot of problems in my family. Some people don’t even speak to me. But I’m my own man, and I won’t change. I made my own choice of wives.’
Rosie and Matt exchanged glances and managed to keep their faces straight at his ‘wives’ remark.
‘You’re married, Ismal, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. But not the way my family wanted. I came here a couple of years after I qualified and had worked in Glasgow hospitals. I decided I wanted to take a year or so out to work with the refugees. I came with an aid agency, and that’s where I met my wife – Asima. She’s Pakistani and a nurse. It was one of these things, a blessing to meet someone who became a friend, and it developed from there. I couldn’t have wished for anything more. My parents were trying to marry me off –’ he snorted and shook his head – ‘more or less to the highest bidder. Trying to find me a wife from Pakistan or Scotland, because as a doctor I’d be considered a good catch.’
‘But I’m better-looking,’ Omar chipped in, grinning.
‘No you’re not.’ Ismal gave him a playful dig across the table. ‘But seriously. That’s how it was. Who knows what would have happened? Would I have resisted my parents’ wishes forever? I don’t know. But they know I’m strong-willed, and in the end I think they were just glad I married a Muslim girl. Asima is from Peshawar, and she knows Laila’s family. That’s why I’m so well informed. She wants to help us too.’
They sat in silence for a few moments and Rosie waited for Ismal to take the lead.
‘So,’ Ismal said. ‘By tomorrow, I will know for sure where they have taken her. Her uncles have family up along the Swat Valley, and they are going there while they make preparations for the wedding.’
‘The wedding?’ Rosie felt her mouth drop open. ‘They’ll marry her off that quick?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. She’ll be married within the next couple of weeks. Plans are already underway. Once the agreement is made by the family, nothing will break it.’
‘Except us,’ Omar said with a Glasgow swagger.
‘That’s the plan.’ Ismal looked at his watch. ‘So I think we should be looking at heading up to Swat tomorrow, early. I’ll organise the transport, and Omar will take you two in the morning and get you kitted out. You can’t turn up in any of these areas with jeans and a T-shirt on. You’ll have to get the full traditional shalwar kameez gear, and you, Rosie, must keep your head covered at all times – your face also, when we drive through bandit country.’
‘Bandit country?’ Rosie said. ‘Omar did mention something about that.’
‘Yeah. I always have an armed guard with me when I’m going up to the camps, when I drive through certain areas. Swat is lawless. It’s run by gangsters who will do anything for money – kidnap, robbing, murder.’
‘Just like Glasgow, then.’ Matt shrugged.
They all laughed, but Rosie fe
lt her stomach knot.
‘Yeah. Just like Glasgow, Matt. Only worse – there’s no drink! These days, there’s also the Taliban, and that’s another story.’
Ismal’s smile faded as he got to his feet. He glanced furtively around the hotel foyer, where a few businessmen sat in corners, and Rosie watched them, wondering if they were selling textiles, or daughters.
‘Be careful who you talk to around here,’ Ismal said softly. ‘Walls have ears. All sorts of people come here for business meetings, so you never know who’s sitting opposite you, and don’t think for a moment you’re safe speaking English. Nine times out of ten, people will understand what you’re saying. And half of them probably live in Bradford or London. So don’t be fooled by appearances. Things are changing here . . . and not for the better.’ He looked at Rosie. ‘Just be careful. Omar has told me about you and Matt and the scrapes you’ve been in. You’ve had some lucky escapes, so I don’t want anything to happen to you on my watch.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Rosie said.
And with that he was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Big Gordy MacLean’s arse was twitching. As if things weren’t fucking difficult enough, having to put fires out all over the housing schemes, with these turf wars in the East End spilling over into his side in the north of the city, he now had a posse of fucking Pakis digging his ribs. Pakis? Who knew they were into anything other than sneaking a few bodies in to give them cheap labour in their restaurants and shops? Nothing wrong with that, but diamond smuggling? This was a new one on him. In fact, in the beginning, when they’d found that creepy cunt lying stiff in the Albany Hotel with a belt around his neck, Gordy hadn’t even given it a second thought. Even when it turned out that he was a punter, and one of his escort birds had been the last to see him before she bailed out, he still didn’t think it was a big deal. Shit happens – as long as everybody keeps their mouth zipped. But within twenty-four hours, he was getting grief from the boys in Manchester and London, telling him he’d better come up with some answers. Some big shot in the Pakistani crew who ran heroin out of Asia and supplied a lot of the market back in the UK was royally pissed off because his attaché case had gone missing. So Gordy had better find out what had happened, and quick.
That was two weeks ago, and if the threat didn’t exactly freak him out then, it sure as Christ did now. Because in the space of a fortnight, he’d been instructed to look the other way when the Paki mob sent one of their boys up to deal with the bird. Part of him felt a bit sorry for that daft Nikki when the word came back that they’d chopped her fucking arm off. I mean, who does that, these days? Plus the fact he was pissed off that they did it on his turf. But worse than anything, wee Alex, his trusted mate, who’d been with him since they were teenagers slashing their way across Glasgow, had been murdered two days ago. Shot once between his eyes at point-blank range, in his own car – and for what? Gordy had screamed at the big man down in Manchester, after he’d seen seen his mate lying on a mortuary slab. Because Alex had driven the car with the bird in it that night she got the chop, and he’d set her up. Just in case he talked. They couldn’t take any risks. Swallow it, he was told. And now this. He was getting a visit from the big man himself. Johnny Vanner had phoned this morning to say he was on his way up from Manchester and he was bringing some big shot called Sahid Khan. Just be ready, he was told.
Gordy sipped a glass of mineral water in his office and looked at his watch. He was already nervous that he’d been told to send everyone home so that he was completely alone before Johnny and this Khan character arrived. It was important there was nobody who could clock a face. It had the reek of a hit all over it, and although Johnny had given him assurances that he wouldn’t come to harm, Gordy was still shitting himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used that line himself on somebody whose brains he’d blown out later. It wouldn’t be the first guy he’d knowingly sent to his death, with an arrangement that they’d hook up for lunch with him the following day. Christ! This shit was getting harder every fucking year. Part of him wished he could just sell up, take the money and run. He was already worth a fortune in property in the Costa del Sol and Glasgow. He could survive on what he’d made so far. His da would have been proud if he’d been here to see how well he’d done. Given that Gordy and his ma had been left with shag-all after his father was murdered, it had been a long haul punching his way through the ranks to take over the north side, but he and Alex had been tough bastards and nobody messed with them. Being Gavin MacLean’s son had helped a little, as his father’s reputation was feared. But he’d still had to fight like a tiger to get where he’d got to. Gordy had reaped rewards for having no fear. For the last couple of years he and Alex stayed away from the drugs and were content to run the birds and the escort agencies and saunas, as well as their lap-dancing club – El Paradiso. They’d made a deal with the East End boys that’s how it would be, and let them run the coke and the heroin. It was shitty stuff anyway. Running whores had never been easier, especially now they were being shipped in from all over the world. Cheap as chips, and beautiful too. Nobody gave a blow job like a Ukrainian teenager who was shit scared it would be her last. That was how he kept them. But things were about to change. He opened his desk drawer and brushed his fingers over his gun. It was loaded and ready, but Johnny would expect that anyway. His eyes fell on his glass rosary beads, the ones his ma had given him when she came back from Lourdes four years ago. He swallowed hard at the thought of his wee ma. He’d cried for a whole year after she died and his life would never be the same again. He’d made her happy after his da’s shooting fifteen years ago, and that’s what drove him on to be the best. Nobody, but nobody would ever hurt him or his ma again. He was untouchable. Or so he thought. The front door intercom buzzed and the hair stood on the back of his neck. Fuck’s sake, man, calm down. He pressed the buzzer.
‘Aye?’
‘It’s me. Alright?’
Gordy recognised the voice. It was Johnny Vanner.
‘In you come, man,’ he said, trying to sound as though he was taking all this in his stride.
Gordy stood up as Johnny Vanner walked into the office and held the door open for the Pakistani man coming in behind him.
‘Howsit going, lad.’
It was a statement more than a question, and the ‘lad’ part was always thrown in by Vanner to let Gordy know that whoever he thought he was in Glasgow, he was shag-all outside of the city. In fact, Vanner had once actually told him that, in a friendly but firm way, during a boozy night in Glasgow when he’d been there on business. Gordy was in no doubt who was running the show here, and he hoped the hand he reached across to Vanner wasn’t like a wet dish cloth.
‘Not bad, Johnny.’ Gordy glanced at the Pakistani’s poker face. ‘Well . . . It was okay till all this shit started to hit the fan.’
‘This is Sahid Khan.’ Vanner nodded in the Pakistani’s direction. ‘He’s a good mate. We do a lot of business together, so, as I was saying to you on the phone, somebody fucks with Khan’s lads, they fuck with me.’
Gordy stretched out his hand to the big Pakistani who looked uncomfortable in his pinstriped suit, the jacket buttons stretched over a pot belly. His fleshy cheeks were pockmarked and the stubble on his chin had flecks of grey. He said nothing as he shook Gordy’s hand and held on for a few beats, looking right through him. Gordy motioned them to sit down, and he watched as Johnny smoothed out his lapels of his jacket and checked the creases in his trousers, tilting his head to the side to admire the shine on his black brogues. Then he sniffed and looked up to Gordy.
‘So. What’s the fucking score, lad? You found this case yet?’
Gordy put both hands up.
‘I’m on it, Johnny. I’ve got my people all over the place. If this guy had a case with him in the hotel room, then the only person who could have taken it must have been that bird, Nikki.’ He shot Khan an angry look. ‘The one whose arm you got chopped off.’ A surge of rage bit at G
ordy’s gut as he eyed the Pakistani, and the words were out before he could stop himself. ‘And by the way, Khan, with all respect, I think your guys went a bit far there. I mean, chopping half the bird’s fucking arm off!’
Khan stared back at him, unblinking.
‘It was only supposed to be her hand. But my boy fucked up.’
‘Oh,’ Gordy said, surprised at the sarcasm in his voice. ‘So that makes it alright then? You come up here, and chop up one of my girls, and I’m supposed to swallow it. Well, let me tell you, pal, I don’t know how you do business down in your neck of the woods, but you don’t do that here.’ He paused, glancing at Johnny, whose face was impassive. ‘This is my fucking turf. I run it. You have no say here.’
The silence hung in the air and Gordy could feel his breath shallow and the anger rise up, tightening his throat. Calm the fuck down, he told himself. He knew Johnny would let him go so far, a bit of respect on another man’s turf, but he had to watch his step. He waited for a reaction. So far, there had been no mention of diamonds from Khan, and he wasn’t about to bring it up. Khan had obviously been told by Vanner that Gordy was some kind of gofer up here and he didn’t need to be told all the details. Resentment tore at his insides. Eventually, it was Khan who sat forward.
‘Okay . . . I hear what you’re saying, Gordy, but this was my stuff. The guy in the hotel was dropping something for me, and it cost me a lot of money because now I can’t deliver. Where I come from, you steal something, you lose your hand.’
‘You don’t even fucking know if she stole it.’
‘Well, we think she did.’
‘You think?’ Gordy heard his voice go up an octave with indignation. ‘It’s not enough to chop someone’s bastard arm off because you think she stole it. I assumed she was only going to get a bit roughed up, or I wouldn’t have co-operated.’ He glanced at Johnny. ‘And that’s the truth, Johnny. It’s not right.’