Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (7 page)

‘I’m always working, pal,’ Rosie said in mock indignation. ‘I’m just not always in the office.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I was on my way out the door of my flat, so now I’m back in. What’s up? It’s very early, even for Her Majesty’s finest to be this switched on.’ She crossed the room and stood by
her terrace window, gazing out at the gloomy sky across the city and the traffic below.

‘I’m giving you a heads up, Rosie. An attack on a woman last night. Really horrible – some psycho chopped half her arm off.’

‘What? Is she dead?’

‘Amazingly, she’s hanging in there up at the Royal Infirmary. But she’s in some nick. Lost a lot of blood, poor bastard. Hacked at her legs as well. What a mess.’

‘What happened? Any ideas yet?’

‘Well, she’s unconscious, so we’ve got nothing from her. But she was found lying on a grass verge on a slip road off the M8, down towards Paisley. Christ knows how she’s alive. She could have frozen to death, never mind her injuries and the blood loss.’

Rosie tried to get her head around it. There were plenty of psychos out there capable of all sorts of torture, but chopping arms off took gruesome to a whole new level.

‘So who is she?’

‘We know who she is from her purse and credit cards. We think she’s a hooker. Nikki Russell. Thirty-something. We’ve got cops all over her street trying to build up a picture of her background. She’s from the East End, so what the fuck was she doing out in Paisley in the dead of night?’

‘It doesn’t mean she’s a hooker just because she was ten miles from her home. Christ’s sake, man, she might have been visiting someone. Or it could have been a domestic.’

Rosie objected to police jumping to the hooker conclusion. She’d seen some brutal domestics, and sat through court cases where husbands did horrible things to their wives, and vice versa. But she had to admit to herself that a woman alone in this kind of situation did tick plenty of the vice girl boxes.

‘So if –
if
– she is a hooker, did some punter pick her up and turn out to be a psycho?’

‘We think so. That’s the danger for these birds, but they just don’t listen. We tell them not to get into cars with people because there are a lot of weird bastards out there, but they don’t listen. Usually they’re just working to get enough for their next fix.’

‘Who found her?’

‘A young couple taking the slip road noticed a shoe and then they saw her legs. But when they got out of the car they just about keeled over – her arm had been hacked clean off at the elbow. It was lying there in the snow.’

‘Jesus, Don. That’s awful. What kind of twisted bastard does that?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘Did they . . . I mean, were doctors able to save her arm?’

‘Nope. They tried, there was a five-hour operation to stitch it back on, but nothing doing. She’d lost too much blood. She’s lucky to be alive – though when the poor bird wakes up she might not see it that way.’

‘Christ!’

An image of Mags Gillick, the junkie prostitute who had her throat cut because she was helping Rosie expose police corruption, flashed across her mind. Nobody gave a shit about these girls, no matter how much lip service was paid to trying to clean up the streets and provide drop-in centres. Even if the police and social services did have some success, it wouldn’t stop them. Most of the women who went out to sell their bodies for sex were risking everything for their next heroin hit.

‘So do you actually know if she’s a prostitute? Or a drug addict?’

‘Well, not in the classic sense. Oddly enough, the word is there’s no sign of drugs in her system. It’s very early doors and they’re doing tests, but we’ve had a nod from the hospital that she’s not a user.’

‘So she might not be a prostitute.’

‘Well, maybe not. Though she could be an escort. Who knows? If I were a betting man, I’d say the good money is on her having been picked up by a punter who turned out to be a complete monster. And worryingly, he’s still out there. The boys are going through CCTV footage of the motorway and homing in on that slip road, but that’s going to take forever. We will find the fucker, though, mark my words.’

‘I hope you do. And soon. What’s happening re: press releases and stuff? Is there a press conference?’

‘No press conference today. I think the bosses want to play it very tight for the first twenty-four hours, to see if
she wakes up and can give them any information. According to the young couple, she was drifting in and out of consciousness when the ambulance came and she was calling out for Julie, whoever she is. We’ve been through her mobile and found a number for Julie – but it’s ringing out. We’re on the case, big time.’

‘So are you putting anything out at all?’

‘Yeah. There was a basic press release an hour ago, and in the next hour there will be more for the lunchtime news appeal, but it won’t be as detailed I’m telling you, so be careful how you write this.’

‘Sure.’ Rosie picked up her bag and headed again for the front door. ‘I’m going down to the office now, so I’ll give you a shout later. You never know. We might get a call from a punter or friend who knows her.’

‘Fair enough.’

He hung up.

*

Rosie met Declan on the stairs as she made her way up to the editorial floor. She’d already called Marion to arrange a quick meeting with the editor before he disappeared into the conference.

‘Declan. That’s some stuff about the girl on the motorway. What have the cops put out?’ Rosie asked, stopping on the stairs.

‘Not much. Just that her arm was hacked off and that she’s in hospital. They’re doing a bit more soon, I’m told.’
He shook his head. ‘Unbelievable. Barbaric. No name yet. They’re hinting that she was a hooker. Have you heard the same?’

‘Yes.’ Rosie jerked her head in the direction of the editor’s office. ‘I’m going in to see McGuire. You see what you can dig up from police, or any address. They’ll have to put a bit more out in their next press release if they’re making an appeal. I’m still working on the Pakistani bride death, so you’ll have to take care of the day-to-day story on the girl. I’ll feed you anything I get.’

Declan nodded, and Rosie walked briskly upstairs and across the floor to the editor’s office. She knocked on the open door, but didn’t wait for an answer before she went in.

‘Come in,’ McGuire said, glancing up from his screen. He motioned her towards the chair opposite his desk and she sat down. ‘What the hell’s going on, Gilmour? I mean, who chops a woman’s arm off?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I hope you’re going to tell me something I can put on my front page tomorrow.’

‘Well, it’s early doors yet, Mick. The cops are keeping everything tight and hoping to speak to the girl when she comes round.’

‘Any chance of us getting in?’

Rosie gave him a look.

‘No way.’ She sat forward. ‘A press interview will be the last thing on the police agenda.’

‘So, what’s the score?’

‘Well, my cop pal tells me the thinking is she’s a hooker, but no drugs have shown up positive, so if she is, then either she works on her own or with an escort agency. Police are all over that. But these escort agencies and girls working from flats are all so difficult to pin down. It’s not as though they clock in.’

‘So what else?’

‘CCTV. Cops are going through the cameras on the M8 to see if they can get a sighting of the car that took her there.’

McGuire sat back and sighed.

‘This is not good. We need to get into the hospital, or the cops have to give us something more. This is one of the most brutal attacks we’ve ever seen in this country, so they need to get their arses in gear and give us something good to latch on to. We already want to get a piece together on hookers and the dangers out there. I’ll get Features to do that – speak to all these do-gooders and welfare workers who deal with them. Maybe we can get a couple of women on the game who’ll talk anonymously? But the main thing is to build up a picture of who this girl is.’

‘My police contact said the couple who found her have told them she kept calling out for Julie. They found her number on her mobile, but can’t get through. No answer. So we have to find Julie, hopefully before the cops do.’

‘Well, let me know if you need a hand.’

Rosie looked at him.

‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘What?’ McGuire looked bemused, then half smiled. ‘Oh, the hand!’ He chuckled. ‘Actually, no. I didn’t even think of it – but you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah.’ Rosie stood up, ready to leave. ‘By the way, I got hold of the girl I was staking out on the Pakistani bride story.’

McGuire perked up.

‘Really? Did she talk?’

‘Not really. She was terrified. Her name’s Sabiha, and she’s the bride’s sister. She’s been here for four years and has two kids. I took it as far as I could with her, following her up the road as she was trying to get away from me. I finally put it to her that I didn’t think Rabia committed suicide. She stopped at that point, turned and I could see she was on the verge of tears. She said no way would Rabia kill herself. But she wouldn’t speak to me.’ Rosie sighed. ‘So I’m not sure where I go with that. I tried to give her my card, but she wouldn’t take it. But all I can do is hope for the best that she’ll find my number and get in touch. I’m not really expecting her to contact me. Living in that house with all the family members, she’s scared out of her wits. So I have to find another way. I’m working on it.’

McGuire pursed his lips.

‘You haven’t told me anything good yet, Gilmour.’

‘I know, Mick. You’ll be the first to know if I’ve got anything good to tell.’ She stood up. ‘But look on the bright side . . . At least you can clap your hands.’

Rosie headed for the door.

It was risky to pursue the girl again when the knockback had been so emphatic. But there was something about Sabiha’s eyes, the desperation, the very fact that she had agreed that Rabia hadn’t committed suicide. All Rosie’s instincts were telling her that she was bursting to talk but was too terrified. McGuire’s words kept coming back to her – that she hadn’t told him anything good yet. It wasn’t that she was under pressure, but she was acutely aware that she wasn’t the only one who was impatient that nothing was moving on her stories. She was as desperate as the editor to get a handle on the background to Rabia’s death, but these days, with the press trying to regulate itself so that they didn’t step over the line, it was dodgy keeping on going back to someone if they’d already said they didn’t want to talk. If they were a criminal you just waded in, regardless of the rules, as long as you were satisfied you could expose them all over the front page for what they
were. But Sabiha was innocent, young and clearly damaged from whatever was going on in her life. Rosie knew it would only take the girl breaking down and blabbing to one of the elders in her family that she was being harassed by a newspaper reporter for lawyers’ letters to start flying all over the shop. You had to tread carefully – even more so with ethnic minorities. I shouldn’t even be here, Rosie thought, draining her coffee cup, keeping a close eye on the newsagent’s across the street. Then she saw Sabiha coming out of the shop. One last shot, Rosie thought. One last shot.

She jumped up, left money on the counter and dashed out of the door and into her car, which was parked just a few yards away. To her surprise, the girl did not turn the corner to take the long straight road up to her house, but she crossed the street and went in the opposite direction. Rosie switched on her engine, turned the car and followed her slowly along the road. She kept well behind her, but could see her cross at the traffic lights, then walk towards the gates of the massive Queen’s Park. Rosie pulled her car in to the side of the road and got out, following a long way behind her but keeping her in sight. She watched as Sabiha went into the park and walked towards the benches around the boating pond. From what she could make out, there was someone on the bench who stood up when approached. A young girl dressed in traditional Pakistani garb embraced Sabiha as she approached. Rosie glanced around the park, looking for somewhere to watch for a few moments without
being noticed. A couple of joggers came up behind her and padded past her down towards the girls. Beyond where they sat, the park was quiet, except for one man walking his dog in the distance and two women pushing prams. Rosie walked on to the grass away from the girls, but where she could still see, and stood under a tree, watching. But she felt edgy. In a place like this you looked conspicuous if you just stood around under a tree. She had to make up her mind, fast. She strained her eyes and could see that the younger girl was crying, her head in her hands. Sabiha put her arm around her shoulder and leaned into her, comforting her. Rosie automatically found her feet taking her towards them. Just do it, she told herself. As she softly approached the bench, the girls glanced up at her and a flash of fear registered in Sabiha’s eyes.

‘Please, don’t be afraid,’ Rosie held out her hands in a calming gesture. ‘Just, please, hear me out. Listen, I can see something is upsetting you. I know you are frightened, and I apologise for barging in. But please let me talk for a moment.’

The girl who had been crying suddenly stopped, looking bewildered, and turned from Rosie to Sabiha. She said something in Urdu, and Sabiha squeezed her arm as though she was reassuring her.

‘What are you doing following me like this? Please. Can you not see we are upset? We are frightened. Can you leave us?’

‘But perhaps I can help you,’ Rosie chanced, because they made no attempt to stand up or run away from her. ‘Is this your friend?’ She gestured towards the bewildered girl. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘She is my cousin.’

‘What’s wrong? I promise you can trust me.’ Rosie looked the young girl in the eye, holding her gaze for a moment.

The younger girl again spoke in Urdu to Sabiha and she replied, glancing at Rosie as though explaining who she was.

‘Please, tell your cousin not to be afraid, that I may be able to help. But I can only help if you talk to me.’