Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 Read Online Free Page B

Julie picked it up and scrolled through it.
    ‘It’s a voice message.’
    She put it on to loudspeaker. It was an Asian accent mixed with a rough northern England lilt.
    ‘Ahmed. Where the fuck are you? You’re not answering your phone. I need to talk to you about the meet tomorrow.’
    Nikki’s hand went to her mouth.
    ‘Jesus, Jules! This is serious!’
    ‘I know.’
    For the first time all evening, Julie looked nervous. They both jumped again as the mobile rang, and watched in silence until it stopped.

Chapter Three
     
    From her seat at the cafe’s window, Rosie watched the newsagent’s across the street. She’d been outside the Shah house, sat in the dark, since before seven this morning, watching the comings and goings, hoping for a glimpse of the girl. Mostly it was men leaving early, probably going to work. At one stage the widower came out, got into his silver BMW and roared out of the street. Eventually, two women came out with kids in school uniforms and coats, wrapped up against the bitter wind, and they walked in the direction of the primary school at the end of the road. Then nothing. After another half hour, she saw the girl leave and head up the street towards the shops. Rosie followed at a very discreet distance. When she saw her going into the newsagent and not coming out after a few minutes, she assumed she must be working there. Perhaps it was part of the family business. Rosie and Declan had run a check on them, establishing that the Shah family owneda textile-importing business, a cash and carry and three Indian takeaways, as well as a string of corner shops. It was always difficult within the Asian community to figure out who actually owned what as business premises were often rented and the businesses run by extended families. Rosie knew she couldn’t risk going into the newsagent in case she bumped into someone from the house yesterday. She wanted to get Sabiha alone. So she waited, ordered another cup of tea, and worked out her next move.
    *
    In McGuire’s office yesterday afternoon, he was, as usual, strident as she’d told him of her visit to the Shah house.
    ‘I just don’t trust them,’ he declared.
    ‘You can’t make sweeping statements like that, Mick. Not out loud anyway. It sounds racist.’
    ‘I’m not racist. Not in the least. And I don’t care whether it’s Catholic, Protestant, Hindu, or born again fucking Christian. I don’t like the way these people treat their women. They’ve obviously locked that poor girl in her room. Maybe she was forced into a marriage she didn’t want, or brought over here against her will. I don’t care what religion that is. It’s just wrong. Stuff anyone who calls me racist.’ He stood up. ‘And don’t forget, Gilmour. It was this paper that exposed the real racist bastards who were terrorising voters when that Pakistani MP was running for election. We put them in jail for what they did, and I’m proud of that. But I’ll be asking questionswhenever I want, about whoever I want. That’s how I do business.’
    Rosie smiled to herself, recalling his outrage when a Ku Klux Klan-style fiery cross was stuck in the Pakistani MP’s garden days after he was elected to the House of Commons. The
Post
had gone all out on the investigation and tracked down the sick bunch of right-wing thugs to a flat in Glasgow. They’d found out that a couple of them were wealthy white businessmen.
    ‘So, how we going to tackle this?’ He sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘I’m not putting some sob story in the paper about them all sitting round there weeping over the girl, if there is any hint that their actions, or inaction, played a part in her death. And that fucking lock on the outside of the door tells me enough. What are the cops saying?’
    ‘Not a lot. I think there’s a feeling they aren’t getting the real story from the family. But they have no evidence whatsoever of a crime. Okay, the girl had recent slash marks on her wrist, and