Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (11 page)

‘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.

As she walked across the car park, she suddenly became aware of a bin moving. Then, in a second, someone was on her. She was grabbed from behind and dragged to the side
of the building into the darkness, away from the lights on top of the building and out of view of the CCTV cameras. Weirdly, her first thought was that McGuire would go nuts. He’d warned her so many times never to go home at night unless she was in a taxi right to the front door. But now, she felt a strong arm pull her back and her legs went weak as she felt the coldness of the steel on her neck. Christ! Outside my own house. How fucking stupid is that? She tried to speak, afraid to as much as move her hands. She could feel the knife and the pulse in her neck.

‘Please. What do you want? Take my bag. I’ve got money.’

Even like this, desperate and vulnerable, Rosie hated the sound of her begging, when all of her instincts were telling her to kick backwards between his legs. But she was too terrified to move.

‘Keep away from my family. You hear me?’

The Pakistani accent was crystal-clear, rasping in anger, and she could feel his hot breath on her hair. She was rigid with fear, waiting to have her throat sliced.

‘Keep away from my family or I’ll cut your head off, you bitch.’

The blade seared into her flesh, but she didn’t feel pain. Just warm blood running down her neck. He released his grip and shoved the back of her head hard. Her face hit the brick wall as she slumped to the ground, her hand clutching her neck. She could hear his footsteps running away and she slowly got to her feet and staggered to the
doorway, her bloodstained fingers trembling with fear as she pushed the key into the lock. As she stepped inside the door, she turned to see the hooded figure running out of the car park and jumping into a waiting car. Rosie closed the door and stumbled up the stairs to her flat, fumbling with the lock, one hand on her neck to stem the blood running through her fingers. She rushed into the bathroom and slammed on the light with her free hand, still clutching her neck with the other. In the mirror, her shocked, ashen face stared back at her with terrified eyes, one side of her cheek grazed and bleeding from the roughcast wall. Blood was dripping through her fingers and onto the basin. She rinsed a facecloth in cold water and pressed it tight to her neck, barely breathing, her legs feeling like jelly. After a few seconds she took her hand away and could see the gash. It wasn’t much. A line of about three inches, though deep enough to bleed heavily. Jesus! She wasn’t even sure where the jugular vein was, but she would be bleeding much more if it had been hit. But what if the knife had nicked some little vein next to it? She rinsed the cloth and pressed it to her neck again, then slumped onto the toilet seat, feeling light-headed. Calm down, she told herself. You’re not going to bleed to death. It’s only a flesh wound. She rested her head back on her shoulders, hoping that would stem the blood flow, and closed her eyes. The shrill ring of her mobile startled her, and she fished it out of her coat pocket. No name. She pushed the answer button, trying to compose herself.

‘Rosie! Rosie! It’s me. Sabiha!’

‘Sabiha! Are you alright?’

‘No. I can’t talk. Listen to me, please, Rosie. I don’t have much time. It’s Laila. She’s gone! They’ve taken her!’

‘Gone? Where?’ For a moment Rosie was confused, her head swimming.

‘To Pakistan! They took her! To the north – the Swat Valley! Please help! I can’t talk to you again. Please!’

‘Have they hurt you?’

‘Yes!’ Sabiha was crying. ‘Please keep away from me. I’m sorry. Help my cousin! Please help us!’

‘Where are you?’

‘I can’t talk. I will try to get a message to you. Don’t contact me again. They saw us in the park. They beat me! They won’t let me see my babies!’ She broke into sobs.

‘I’m so sorry, Sabiha.’ Rosie felt suddenly nauseous. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The line went dead. Rosie stood up and looked in the mirror, her face crumpling as the floodgates opened and tears ran down her face. Stop it, she told herself. You cannot lose it. She gingerly took the cloth off her neck and watched the drops of blood mixed with her tears rinse away.

It had been a sleepless night after Rosie finally went to bed, lying flat on her back, careful not to move a muscle for fear of opening the wound. She’d decided the cut wasn’t bad enough to merit a trip to the Accident and Emergency unit. She’d delicately cleaned it and used a couple of butterfly stitches she had dug out from an old First Aid bag that the
Post’s
in-house medical department had given her for one of her foreign trips. It seemed to hold it in place. She’d forced herself to drink a brandy for the shock and went to bed. When she eventually drifted off, her nightmares were full of shadowy figures chasing her with knives and dragging her up dark alleys, and finally she woke to the same ringing of the phone in her head that she’d been waking up to for most of her life. And again her eyes were wet, as the final, garish image that brought her screaming out of her fevered sleep was that of her mother hanging on the end of a rope. Rosie lay still for a few
moments, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands and sniffing. Crying in her sleep again. Always the same when she was stressed, and sometimes even when she wasn’t. She was fine, she told herself. It could have been worse. Her finger lightly brushed the wound. It stung, but at least it was holding up. She let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling. If she didn’t get out of bed right now, she never would. ‘Come on, Gilmour,’ she said aloud. ‘Get on with it.’ She swung her legs onto the floor.

*

‘What the fuck—’ McGuire’s mouth dropped open as Rosie walked into his office. He slammed his pen onto the desk and sat back. ‘What the fuck happened to you, Gilmour?’

Rosie put her hand up in a calming gesture. She knew the bruise and grazing on her face were raw.

‘I’m fine, Mick. It’s not as bad as it looks.’ She didn’t need sympathy or she’d go to pieces right here in front of him. ‘I got attacked last night.’

‘What? Christ almighty! Where? Who?’ McGuire was on his feet and coming out from behind his desk. ‘Come on, sit down.’ He took her arm and led her to the sofa. ‘Tell me.’ He sat opposite her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’

‘Where did it happen?’

Rosie shifted in her seat and pushed out a sigh.

‘Er . . . Outside my flat. In the car park.’

‘Aw, for fuck’s sake, Rosie! How many fucking times have I told you? Fucking hell!’

‘Christ, Mick,’ Rosie could feel her lip trembling. ‘Give me a break, I got bloody cut.’ She bit her lip to stop the tremor.

McGuire’s voice suddenly softened as he put both hands up.

‘Okay, I’m sorry.’ His eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘It’s . . . It’s . . . Well . . . you know, Gilmour, how much I live in dread of something like this fucking happening to you.’

His eyes met Rosie’s and for a poignant moment there was no need for words.

‘I’m well touched, Mick. And they say you’re a right hard bastard too. It’s just not true.’ Rosie shot him a little tongue-in-cheek smile. She had to do something. A spat she could cope with, but a tender moment would have her blubbing all over his office.

‘Yeah, right.’ He smiled back. ‘I am a hard bastard when people like you don’t do what they’re bloody told – as if you ever would. But I just don’t want you getting killed, okay?’ He cleared his throat and folded his arms. ‘So, what the Christ happened?’

‘I was coming into the car park after having a glass of wine with a cop contact, then just as I’m getting towards the front door, suddenly some bastard grabs me from behind and holds a knife to my throat.’ Rosie eased down the zipper in her high-neck sweater, revealing the wound.

‘Aw, for fuck’s sake! Why didn’t you phone me last night? You should have gone to Casualty.’

Rosie shook her head.

‘No point, Mick. Once I got into the house and I could see it was only a flesh wound, I dealt with it. I honestly didn’t want to involve anyone. You go to Casualty, they have to tell the cops, then I have to deal with a lot of questions I don’t want to answer.’ McGuire nodded in agreement.

‘So who was the bastard? How did you get out of it? Your face looks sore.’

‘I know. He pushed me hard against the wall when he let me go – once he’d cut me. Then he just ran away. I got into the house in time to get a quick look and saw this guy in a hooded jacket running towards a car. He climbed in and they roared off.’