Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (25 page)

She went into the kitchen and opened a drawer. Gordy wondered if the whole bag was in the drawer. He could simply cut all this shit short if he wanted and shoot the two of them right now. But no, he’d wait to see what they were worth first. What if they were shite?

Julie came back in and opened the palm of her hand.

‘That it?’ Gordy bent over, peering at the small stone, no bigger than a gravel chip and just as grimy.

‘Yep. That’s it. I don’t know much about rough diamonds, but they don’t come in the size of lumps of coal. This is it.
The rest of them are similar.’ She put it between her thumb and forefinger and handed it to him. ‘Here. Don’t lose it.’

Gordy stood with the stone in the palm of his hand, moving it around with his other hand.

‘Doesn’t look much.’ He took his silk hanky from his jacket pocket, wrapped the stone in it and folded it half a dozen times, then put it into his pocket. ‘We’ll see.’

They stood there in silence. Nikki flicked the TV channel and two women came on arguing over something on Sky News.

‘You alright, Nikki? How’s the arm?’

‘Great. I’m filling in forms for the Paralympics. I’m thinking of the table tennis.’

Gordy stifled the urge to snigger and shook his head.

‘Aye. Well, glad you’re not letting it get you down.’

He turned towards the door.

‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I get this valued. Next couple of days probably, then that’s it. We’re done. You agreed on that?’

‘Of course. We have a deal.’

He left, headed towards his waiting Jag, and got in and slammed the door.

‘Table fucking tennis,’ he muttered.

‘Eh, boss?’ Terry asked.

‘Nothing. Let’s go.’

Rosie flicked through the
Post
as Matt drove out of the office car park and headed along the Clydeside. As tabloid front pages went, it couldn’t have been much more sensational. WORLD EXCLUSIVE, the coloured strapline blazed across the top, and below, a massive picture of Laila at Glasgow Airport in the arms of her mother. The banner headline screamed: TEEN BRIDE’S ESCAPE FROM PAKISTAN HELL. Underneath, a smaller strapline: I WAS PROMISED TO AN OLD MAN. Running along the foot of the page was a small graphic picture of the bloodied woman lying in the dirt. The strapline read – Inside: STONED TO DEATH.

Rosie browsed the shocking images on the spread of the stoning.

‘Jesus! Still makes me feel sick, Matt, just looking at this. Amazing pictures, though. Your mates will all be jealous.’

‘Yeah. Not a bad job, all said and done.’ He slapped her thigh. ‘And we got away with it, mate.’

‘I spoke to McGuire briefly when I came in this morning, and he’s already had Sky TV and the Beeb on asking for pictures. They’ll go worldwide. Especially the stoning snaps.’ Rosie pulled down the sun visor, examining her face in the mirror. Not too bad. She’d slept better last night – almost seven hours and no nightmares, surprising given what she’d just been through in recent days. ‘Though I’m not expecting hearts and flowers when we hit this door.’

‘No. They’ll be going nuts. How do you want to play this?’

‘I think it’s best if I go in on my own. That’s if I get past the doorstep. You’d be better to stay outside. You can’t take pics inside anyway unless they allow it, and I definitely don’t think they’ll be up for posing. So if you just get one of whoever comes to the door, then be there for the moment they chuck me out . . . which might not be too long after.’

‘Is it safe enough for you to go in there by yourself? You’ve already been attacked, probably by someone connected to them.’

‘I know, but it’s different now. They can’t do anything because the story is all over the papers. I’ll be safe enough, but if I’m any more than twenty minutes, and I don’t even think I’ll get that long, then phone me. And if I don’t answer, come and get me.’

Rosie’s tone was buoyant, but inside she was edgy. She’d
felt intimidated the first time she came here, with all the elders sitting staring at her in the living room. Now they’d be beyond furious. But it would take a crazy person to attack her on a day like today, when their culture and way of life would no doubt be scrutinised by all the media, who were probably banging on Laila’s grandparents’ door right now. Rosie was confident they wouldn’t talk, but she hadn’t heard from her this morning, and there was a little twinge of worry that they were upset by the coverage in the
Post
. People often poured out their hearts to reporters, but when they saw it in black and white blasted all over the newspapers, they sometimes got cold feet. It happened. She’d dealt with it before. She pushed the niggle away. Matt pulled up and parked outside the house. Several cars were in the driveway and a couple more bumped up on the pavement as though they’d been parked in a hurry. They might have already gathered for a family crisis talk. But Rosie had the upper hand – they wouldn’t have a clue how much information she had uncovered. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was ready.

‘Good luck, pal.’

Rosie climbed the steps and knocked on the door as she switched on the tape recorder in her coat pocket. From the corner of her eye, she saw a curtain twitch in the bay window. No answer. She knocked the door again, three emphatic hits of the knocker and listened to hear if there was any activity inside. There was the sound of several
locks being turned and the door opened fully. Shah, the father, stood in front of her. Rosie instinctively glanced beyond him in time to see a couple of young girls scurry upstairs. No sign of Sabiha. At the far end of the hall, she was sure she saw Faroq slipping into the lounge, where there was a low hum of conversation.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you, Mr Shah.’

‘I have seen your paper today. Rubbish! You attack our people. Our family. I have nothing to say to you.’

‘I have said nothing about
your
family, specifically, Mr Shah. Not yet. There is no mention of Rabia, or you, or her apparently heartbroken husband Farooq.’ Rosie knew the last words had a hint of sarcasm. She hoped he got it. She was in no mood to be pushed around.

‘What is this rubbish about the girl, Laila? She is the daughter of my cousin. Her marriage was arranged in the normal way. This has nothing to do with anyone except our own community.’

‘Arranged? To a forty-eight-year-old man? Laila is fourteen.’

‘That has nothing to do with you or your newspaper.’

She was getting more than she expected. It was good. If he’d slammed the door in her face, it would have been difficult to take things further. But as long as he was fighting back like this, she could pull him along, before she got to the real questions.

‘Look, Mr Shah. Can I come in? I’m happy to report what you’re saying to me – your side of things, if that’s how you want to play it. Let’s not stand out here on the steps where everyone can see us.’

She stood her ground. He waited a few moments and stepped back as though he was going to close the door, then, to Rosie’s surprise, he gestured with a nod for her to come in.

‘Some of my family are here,’ he said over his shoulder as he went along the hall. ‘And I can tell you that your paper will be receiving lawyers’ letters from the Pakistani community. Many people are outraged.’

When Rosie entered the room, the low murmur of voices stopped, and the men inside looked at her with disgust. One of them got up and stormed past her out of the door, muttering something in Urdu. Shah called him back, but Rosie heard his footsteps in the hall and the front door open and slam shut. She wasn’t intimidated this time, not like the last; she wasn’t suffocated by these men. It wasn’t that she didn’t respect them. She didn’t know enough about their lives, and the way things had been drummed into them for generations. All she knew was that they were hiding something.

‘Sit. Please.’

Shah motioned her to sit in an armchair. She felt the eyes of the eight or nine men in the room burn through her. Farooq sat on a wooden stool, leaning his back against the wall, his mouth tight in his lean face.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Rosie looked straight at Shah. ‘Where is the girl, Sabiha? The girl who brought us tea the last time I was here?’

The question hung in the air, and the men shuffled their feet and looked at Shah.

‘Why are you asking that?’

‘Would it be possible to see her?’

‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Why should you ask that? What is that to do with you?’

Rosie let the silence hang for as long as she could. Farooq shifted in his chair. Shah held her stare.

‘I think you know why.’ Rosie looked him in the eye.

He glanced around the room and waited several seconds.

‘Sabiha is busy with her children.’

‘But she lives here.’

‘No. At the moment she is with the family of her husband. They are living in Paisley now.’

Rosie’s heart sank a little. She knew she couldn’t admit that she’d spoken to her. They would know it anyway, but she couldn’t give them the proof. Nearly two weeks now and nothing from Sabiha. Shah was irritating her with his obtuseness, but it was clear she would get nowhere with questions on Sabiha.

‘Okay. I’d like to ask you something else.’ She paused. ‘Rabia . . .’ Her eyes fixed on Farooq and he tried to stare back, but dropped his gaze to the floor. Rosie went into her
bag. ‘Farooq, I have a copy of your wedding certificate here.’ She held it up. ‘It says Rabia’s address is in Lahore. You see? Right here?’ She pointed at the line with the address.

Farooq looked at his father but said nothing.

‘Yes,’ Shah said. ‘That is the birthplace. We had to put that on the wedding certificate.’

‘And you would need the passport for the documentation for the marriage. That right?’

Shah glanced away and nodded in agreement.

Rosie pressed on.

‘Where is her passport now?’

Shah looked at Farooq.

‘It will be in Farooq’s possession. Why?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What are you getting at with these stupid questions?’ He shook his head.

Farooq squirmed.

‘Farooq doesn’t have the passport, Mr Shah. It’s gone. I think you know that. I have seen a copy of Rabia’s passport, but it has a different picture.’

Shah shook his head and tried his best to look incredulous, but Rosie could see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

‘I have seen it, because the truth is that criminals had it in their possession.’

She watched him in silence, then asked:

‘Did you sell it?’

‘What? What is this rubbish?’

Shah stood up, doing a good impression of outrage. The other men mumbled and muttered angrily.

‘Throw her out,’ one of them shouted.

‘You can throw me out if you like,’ Rosie snapped back. She stood up. ‘But you don’t scare or threaten me. None of you do. I want all of you to know that. And I want you know this: we are going to expose what you have done here. To Rabia. To Sabiha.’

Shah pointed to the door.

‘Get out! My lawyers will speak to your editor.’

‘They can speak all they like. But you know what you’ve done. What really happened to Rabia, Farooq? Do you want to comment on that? Did she fall? Or was she pushed?’

The men began to get to their feet, raising their voices and shouting over each other, arguing among themselves. Some of their anger was directed at Shah, but most of it was at Rosie.

‘You should go now,’ Shah said.

‘I’m going. What are you going to do to me? Send someone to cut my throat? Because you don’t scare me. You might be able to intimidate some women into silence, but there are girls like Laila who will talk to people like me. There always will be. I’m asking you again. Where is Sabiha? What has happened to her?’

‘Get out! Nothing has happened! She lives with her family. I told you. Coming here and stirring up trouble.
And . . . and you go to our country and try to make us look like bad people. That is our land of our fathers. How dare you!’

‘I went to find Laila. To bring her home.’

‘It’s not your business!’ He raised his voice.

‘It is,’ Rosie said calmly. ‘She’s a fourteen-year-old Glasgow kid and she needed our help. She
asked
for our help, you know that. That is why you and her family took her to Pakistan.’

Rosie went towards the door of the room, as several of the men closed in on her. Her heart was racing.

Shah marched her along the hall to the front door and opened it up. He put his hand on her arm as he pushed her out. Rosie could see Matt taking pictures.

‘How was it?’ Matt asked when she get into the car.

‘Er . . . I was about as welcome as a Rabbi at a Taliban fundraiser. They’re raging. Tried to intimidate me as I was leaving – all these crusty old men gathering around me.’

‘Aye? Did you tell them where to go?’

‘I had to keep my anger in check. I felt like punching someone out. They’re playing the race card. Threatening legal action . . . claiming our story is criticising their way of life. They just don’t see it as we do. In their eyes, they’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘What about the passport?’

‘I could see the husband squirming in his seat about that. They’re guilty of something there, but we can’t really
prove what, as yet. Not sure if the old father knew. We’ll just have to go with the fact that it’s been used by someone else. They wouldn’t show it to me.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s because they know they haven’t got it.’

‘Maybe they’ll be a little more forthcoming with the cops.’

Rosie punched in Don’s number.

‘How did you get on?’ he said without preamble.

‘They’re not exactly happy, Don. Over to you.’

‘What about the passport?’

‘Didn’t crack a light. But when you go there, watch out for the husband, Farooq. He definitely looked worried when I mentioned it, and when I showed them the wedding certificate. But they just denied everything, then chucked me out of the house.’

‘Well. We’re on our way there now. Best for us to hit them straight away. And of course, we’ll be much more charming than a tabloid reporter.’