Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (28 page)

‘Do it, you wee prick!’

Paul scrolled down, then his legs slightly buckled and he steadied himself against the metal filing cabinet.

‘Read it out!’

Paul swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down like a golf ball.

‘Read it!’

‘J-Johnny V-Vanner.’

‘Louder!’

‘Jo-Johnny Va-Vanner,’ Paul stammered, glancing from one to the other.

‘Johnny Vanner. Calling you. And as you’ll see, last night you also called him. Twice.’

‘I . . . I don’t know, Gordy. Honest . . . Fuck me, man! I just don’t know how the fuck that happened. It’s not me who was calling him. Somebody must have had my phone. Or . . . Or . . . I mean, it must be a mistake. I didn’t even know I had his number.’ He looked at Terry. ‘How did I get Johnny’s number in here?’ His lip quivered so much he could hardly speak.

Terry rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gordy felt a little switch go off somewhere inside his brain. He’d heard enough. More than enough of this little shit trying to squirm his way out of it. Stupid, thick bastard thought he could play with the big boys. A coldness ran through him. He’d felt it before, that surge of adrenalin like a rush of blood to his head, so that he almost felt high and detached from what he was doing. He’d felt it the first time as a kid in the caravan site, when he would have beaten the bigger boy to death if they hadn’t dragged him off. And over the
years when he’d battered or shot someone – point blank in the face if that’s how it happened – he was almost on automatic pilot. In total control of his movements, but unable to stop. In two strides Gordy was at his desk and into the right-hand drawer. He brought out the Glock, the weight and the metal feeling good in his sweaty palm.

‘Aw fuck, Gordy! Please! I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. I just got into bother . . . I dropped over a grand the other night at the racing, and I owe some bad people a lot of money. They were going to do me in . . .’ The words came out between sobs, saliva and snot dripping from his mouth. A dark patch spread across the front of his jeans.

‘Shut the fuck up! What did you tell him, you prick?’

‘Nothing! I don’t
know
nothing!’

‘Lying bastard! Did you tell him where the birds were staying?’

Nothing.

‘You’ve got five seconds to answer. The truth!’

‘Okay. Okay . . . I told him where they were. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Please—’

Gordy didn’t wait for a response or a final plea. He lifted the gun and fired. Paul’s chest exploded and blood splashed back onto Gordy’s clothes and onto his desk. He watched as Paul slumped against the wall and then slid down to the floor, blood pumping out of his torso. Gordy had done it without thinking too hard. It was the only way. You dealt with it and you moved on.

‘Fucking arsehole!’ Gordy put the gun back in the drawer and closed it.

‘Get Brian back in, Terry,’ he said ‘You guys get this shit off my floor and get rid of him once it’s dark. Do it before the club opens later. Alright?’

‘Sure, boss.’ Terry took out his mobile and punched in a number.

It hadn’t been a hugely successful confrontation, Rosie concluded, as she and Matt went through the revolving doors and into the foyer of the
Post
. Apart from the few good pictures he’d snapped of her getting manhandled out of the Shah household, there wasn’t much that would take the story forward. She was hoping Don and his DCI would lean on them enough for someone in the house to burst. Right now, the first of two interviews with Laila, back home and talking about her plans for the future, would have to be good enough. She still had to put it together for the spread. The teenager’s father had hot-footed it to Pakistan to sort her out when he’d heard she’d absconded. He’d probably been in mid-air at the same time as they were en route back to Glasgow. That, in particular, felt good, but Rosie wouldn’t be happy until she’d nailed someone over Rabia’s death.

‘Hey, Rosie, you’ve not half upset our Asian brothers.’
Jean the receptionist greeted them with an indignant face. ‘These phones have been red-hot with complaints.’

‘Really?’ Rosie grimaced. ‘Sorry, Jean.’

‘Great story, though. Actually one or two of the phone-ins were in support. I fielded all the calls up to Editorial.’

‘Great, thanks. I’ll see what’s happening in a minute.’

As she and Matt stepped onto the editorial floor, at least three reporters looked up from their desks, where they had been furiously taking notes. Judging by their frustrated expressions, they’d been getting pelters all morning. It happened sometimes, if a front page had been controversial or ruffled a few feathers. Some would predictably be spitting rage, but in Rosie’s experience, plenty more callers backed the
Post
for having the balls to tackle the big issues. She went across to her desk and dumped her bag, fishing out her notebook.

‘I hear it’s been a bit busy,’ she said to Declan as he put the phone down.

‘Aye. Just a bit, Rosie. I’ve taken about twenty calls myself. I don’t think we’re too popular out in Little Karachi this morning . . . or even the real Karachi.’ He grinned. ‘You might need to go into hiding, like Salman Rushdie.’

‘Oh dear,’ Rosie said, half joking. ‘Are they all angry, or is there anyone, I mean of a Pakistani type, who thinks the story was good?’

‘Oh yeah. Quite a few actually. Women. No men. None of the callers would be identified, but I’ve got some good
lines, and a few women talking about their own experiences. Some good stuff.’

‘Hmm. But without names, it’s not great. We’ll just be accused of making it up. I’ll have to speak to McGuire and see how he wants to play it.’

As she said it, her desk phone rang.

‘Hi, Marion.’

‘I’ve been watching for you. Mick says to come straight through.’

She made a here-we-go face at Declan as she picked up her notebook and pen.

‘Showtime!’

Rosie knocked once on the door and walked in. She wasn’t that surprised to see the managing editor, Jack Weaver, sitting on a chair opposite McGuire. It was clearly not a social visit, because the paper’s lawyer, Tommy Hanlon, was sitting on the sofa, throwing her the kind of mischievous look he did when they were all in the shit.

‘Do I sense a little problem, chaps?’ Rosie raised her eyebrows, half smiling.

‘Just a bit. Sit down, Rosie.’ McGuire gestured her to the sofa.

‘We expected a bit of aggro,’ Weaver said. ‘But it’s a bit more than that, so we’re having a chat on how we respond.’

‘So what’s happened? The troops say there’s been a lot of phone calls.’

‘Yeah. To Editorial, to here, and to the MD’s office.’

‘Why are people phoning him?’

‘It’s through the Pakistani Association. I think he was at a dinner there last year, so he made a lot of contacts.’

‘Aye. Well, he’ll not be asked back this year, then,’ Hanlon quipped.

Rosie tried to keep her face straight.

‘Declan tells me a few calls were also supportive,’ she said. ‘Mostly women saying they agree with the story and the girl’s plight. Some telling their own stories. No names though . . . Well, they’re hardly going to be posing for pictures if they’re in an unhappy situation.’

‘True. But it’s good that we’re getting both sides. We’ll pick the best of them today and do some kind of story to go with the main Laila-back-home interview. We’ve got to stand our ground.’ He gave the managing editor a look that was bordering on defiance.

‘Of course we do, Mick,’ the managing editor replied. ‘But we also need to put some balance on tomorrow. We—’

‘The story was balanced today, Jack,’ Rosie interrupted. ‘We didn’t even do a leader on it. All I did was tell the story the way it unfolded.’

‘Well, it’s caused outrage.’

‘That’s tough shit. People don’t like it when their way of life is questioned.’ Rosie spread her hands. ‘But we were a hundred per cent right.’ She gave McGuire a pleading look. ‘Guys, we’re not going to start backtracking here, are we? Not after the kind of stuff we had about the stoning in
Swat, and the more-or-less kidnapping of a wee girl to get married to some old geezer in the middle of nowhere. We’re in the clear here.’

‘No, no,’ McGuire waved his hand. ‘But we’ve had a lawyer’s letter from the Pakistani Association. They’re taking it to the Press Complaints Commission.’

‘Big deal.’ Rosie snorted.

‘It still needs to be dealt with, Rosie. So I’ll need you to write your account,’ Hanlon said.

‘My account was all over the paper today,’ Rosie replied, more belligerent than she meant to be.

Hanlon sat forward, more businesslike than friendly now.

‘I mean, how you got the story. How you pursued it. What the leads were. We have to be seen to be totally clean here, or they’ll accuse us of harassment.’

‘Harassment? That’s good coming from them. Tell that to Laila. If it weren’t for us, she’d have woken up this morning with some old bastard grunting on top of her – if you’ll excuse the graphic image. If anyone was harassed, it was her. Come on, for Christ’s sake, lads!’

Hanlon chortled under his breath.

‘Look. What we’ll do is defend this rigorously. You know that, Rosie. Once you write your account, I’ll fire a letter back to them. We’ll wait to see what the PCC says. We can’t react until they contact us, but I want to be ready.’

‘And that’s not all,’ the managing editor said.

He had the kind of hangdog face that was made for
delivering bad news. ‘We’ve had a call from over a dozen newsagents across the country saying they’re stopping taking the
Post
. That’ll spread.’

‘Well, that’s just stupid if they do that. They’ll lose money,’ Rosie said.

‘They’ve threatened it anyway.’

‘Have Distribution got contingency plans?’ Rosie looked from McGuire to Weaver.

‘Yes. We’ve still got plenty of retailers onside at the moment. But we’re going to put some vendors on the street,’ Weaver said.

‘Plus, this will get plenty of publicity,’ McGuire said. ‘It already has. Breakfast TV was holding up our front page this morning, and all the papers will follow it today. We’re clean on this. Aren’t we, Rosie?’

‘Of course. I’m not even worried.’ She shrugged.

What she wanted to say was that the angry mob would soon be silenced when she officially reported to the police that she was attacked outside her flat by some headcase who threatened to cut her throat just because she was trying to do her job. She didn’t want to mention it right now because it had only been between her and McGuire. The managing editor would explode if he knew that the editor had sent Rosie to Pakistan on a dangerous mission, after she’d already been attacked investigating the same story. He was always covering his back in case a reporter came back at any stage, claiming they weren’t given proper help
or counselling by the newspaper after some traumatic experience. But Rosie knew the moment she went public with the information it would have a serious impact. If they wanted a fight, the gloves were off.

*

Rosie was running late for her meeting with Don in the coffee shop at the bottom of Great Western Road. Her sit-down interview with Laila and her mum and grandparents had been more of a human story than an explosive one. But she hoped it would quell a lot of the anger in the Pakistani community over this morning’s revelations. She was surprised when Laila’s grandfather, an orthopaedic surgeon at the city’s Western Infirmary, shook her hand and congratulated her for exposing what he called a ‘sham’ marriage when she’d arrived at their home. His own parents, he told her, had also come from the Swat Valley a generation ago and moved to Karachi before the family emigrated to the UK when he was six years old. He had been brought up at a time when Swat was a beautiful part of Pakistan and tourists flocked to it. Now, he said, it was a hotbed of Islamist fanatics. Much of the community in Glasgow had turned their backs on his part of the family long before Laila’s arranged marriage, and he was prepared to keep it that way. Plenty of other Muslims in Glasgow and Scotland felt the same way as him about throwing their children into a marriage they didn’t want. The interview had gone well, and with the other calls to
the
Post
from women telling their own stories on both sides, Rosie was satisfied she had a balanced spread for tomorrow’s paper.

Don was already waiting for her at the cafe when she arrived. He looked up and smiled when she walked in.

‘Sorry I’m late. I had a big interview to write up, and it took longer than I expected.’

‘No problem. Great story today, pal. But you are definitely not popular. Remind me never to go for a curry with you again.’

Rosie chuckled as she sat down and slipped off her coat. The waitress came up and she ordered a decaff white coffee. Don ordered another black.

‘So how did it go?’

Don sat back and smiled broadly.

‘I’m about to make your day, sunshine.’

‘Really? I can’t wait. Did they buckle under the stiff questioning of Strathclyde’s finest detectives?’

‘Not quite. But we did we get lucky.’ He paused. ‘And I’m going to need your full cooperation on this – sooner rather than later.’

Rosie shot him a puzzled look.

‘Cooperation? What do you mean?’

‘I need you to make a formal complaint about the knife attack at your house.’

Rosie raised her eyebrows, still not sure.

‘How come?’

‘Well. Here’s the situation. We were at the Shah household and everyone was getting a little hot under the collar. But of course, as you know, we didn’t have a whole lot to go on – much the same as yourself, except we had more documentation. I could sense unease around the room – a few of the guys were beginning to argue amongst themselves and I got the feeling they were trying to blame each other. We didn’t get all that far, but I do know they’re beginning to feel the pressure. So, softly softly, as they say. We’re making our way to the door, telling them we’ll be back, when suddenly we spot some guy coming out of a car and up the path. His face is showing all the signs of having been recently battered to a pulp.’ A playful grin on his face. ‘You get my drift?’