Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7

by Anna Smith

  ‘Sure. No pressure there, then! I’m on it. But we need a better picture of who she was back in Glasgow before she hit the big-time. It’s always been a bit vague. Maybe ask someone like Declan to look into it.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Gilmour. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Rosie smiled at his sarcasm. ‘No problem. I’ll call you later.’

  She hung up. Typical McGuire. It wasn’t enough that the first four pages of his and every other paper would be chock-full of Bella Mason tomorrow. He wanted something different, an exclusive. Didn’t they all? she thought, as she and Matt went towards Reception, stepping over cameras and luggage from the various media crews arriving, all of them after the same exclusive.

  *

  The press conference had been two shades of shag-all, and a complete waste of time, Rosie told Matt, as she met up with him in the hotel bar that afternoon. The Spanish police had read a brief statement and taken a couple of questions – a pointless exercise as the stock answer to each was: ‘It is under investigation.’

  ‘We’re not really any further forward,’ Rosie said, as Matt studied the menu. ‘They’re having a post-mortem to determine the cause of death, but I’ll be surprised if it says anything other than “striking the ground from a great height”, or words to that effect.’ She paused and flicked at the menu in Matt’s hands. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Of course, boss,’ he joked. ‘But I’m starving.’

  Rosie waved the waiter across, and Matt ordered a burger and chips.

  ‘When in Spain . . .’ Rosie said, rolling her eyes. She ordered some kind of stew that sounded Spanish enough to be home-cooked.

  The bar was quiet, despite the posse of press around for the Bella Mason story. Most of them would be out taking pictures or trying to chase up Bella’s publicity people, who’d been doing their best to avoid everyone. All the information seemed to be carefully orchestrated by her PR team in London. They’d put up some bloke with ridiculous dyed black hair – apparently her publicity agent – to read a brief statement, and he’d taken no questions. Rosie sipped her mineral water and tried to think outside the box. She had managed to get a guest list for the rooftop party on the night of Bella’s death from the friendly concierge, whom she’d tipped heavily when he’d brought her bag up to her room. He’d confided that he’d been on duty that night, and said he’d heard Bella had been crying in the cocktail bar earlier in the afternoon. She asked him to try to remember everything he’d seen that night, and if he’d meet her later for a drink.

  Rosie heard an angry voice trying and failing to keep the volume down on whatever he was bitching about. It was the publicity manager from the press conference, and he was berating some young female who was clearly close to tears.

  ‘I don’t give two fucks who wants a sit-down interview, or who claims to have the inside story. It’s all crap! That’s what these parasite journalists do, for Christ’s sake. What planet are you living on, Sarah?’

  ‘He looks like a pantomime dame,’ Matt said. ‘Is he wearing make-up? And is that a wig he’s got on? Surely there must be better ones than that!’

  Rosie watched as the pair of them went to sit in the far corner of the room. ‘I think it’s all his own creation, tons of backcombing and hairspray. He’s a weird-looking bastard,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in approaching him for an interview. He’ll probably be hysterical.’

  Rumours of cocaine and depression had been whispered about Bella Mason for the past three years, but no newspaper ever had anything concrete to publish. Whoever was supplying her must be getting well paid off by her handlers because nine times out of ten a dealer, or someone further down the food chain, approached the newspapers to make a few quid by selling a celebrity down the river. Cocaine and celebrities went together like bacon and eggs. It was more or less compulsory. Rosie had never been to a showbiz party, but her colleagues on Features said the toilets were like a blizzard every time you went in.

  *

  Rosie waited in the cafe off the Calle Preciados pedestrian precinct, hoping the concierge would show up. He’d no doubt expect some extra cash. There was always the possibility he was a chancer, and that she wasn’t the only reporter he was passing information to, but that was the risk you took. She watched the tourists enjoying being outside in late-afternoon sunshine as she tried to get her head round what had happened. Her gut instinct told her that Madrid wasn’t where Bella’s story had its roots. It had only ended here, tragically.

  The concierge was coming through the door. He raised his chin in acknowledgement when he saw her, then pointed to an empty table in the far corner. He went across and sat down. Rosie followed, taking her coffee with her.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I’m sorry my Spanish isn’t good enough to have a real conversation. Do you mind speaking in English? Yours is better than my Spanish . . . Er, I didn’t get your name?’ Rosie stretched her hand across the table. ‘I’m Rosie Gilmour. I work for the Post newspaper in Scotland.’

  ‘José.’ He shook her hand and smiled. ‘Thanks. I learn my English from talking to all the tourists.’ He frowned. ‘But please, first, Rosie, you must promise me that nobody will know I talk with you. I would lose my job, and I have a family.’

  ‘Don’t worry, José. That won’t happen. I promise.’

  The waiter came and José ordered a black coffee and a brandy. ‘I’m finished for the evening now. I’m meeting my wife for dinner.’ He scanned the room. ‘Okay. I can tell you some things that maybe you are interested in.’ He leaned closer. ‘I told you the dead girl, Bella, was crying earlier in the afternoon, in the cocktail bar?’

  ‘Yes. You did. Who told you that? The barman?’

  ‘Sí. Yes. Pablo. He’s my friend. But he told me something else.’

  Rosie raised her eyebrows in anticipation. ‘What?’

  ‘In the bar that time, there was another woman. Older. British woman. I see her too. She was staying in the hotel for three nights, before Bella is dead.’

  Rosie’s radar pricked with all sorts of possibilities. ‘Do you know who she is? Her name? Is she still there?’

  ‘No. She checked out the next morning. Very early. I know her name was Chambers. But I don’t know the first name. I can get it for you. But it will be difficult.’

  He looked Rosie in the eye, and she knew where he was coming from.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while, José. Just a name would be fantastic. Her address, too, if you can get it.’

  He nodded. ‘I will get it by the morning.’

  ‘Terrific. What else can you tell me about the bar that afternoon and the woman? Was she there when Bella was crying?’

  ‘Yes. Pablo says the British woman is, well, I don’t want to be unkind . . . but maybe a bit of an alcoholic. She had three gin and tonics in the afternoon and was a bit drunk. She was in the bar by herself, drinking. She was in there every afternoon when it was quiet, drinking alone. She looked sad, Pablo said. I sometimes see her go out in the middle of the morning, and if I was working at night, I saw her come in. She was all the time quite drunk.’

  ‘Okay. If you can get me some details on her I’d be grateful.’ Rosie paused, lowering her voice. ‘Now, the night it happened. You said you were on duty. Did you see anything that you think would interest me? Anything unusual?’

  He shrugged. ‘Lots of cocaine, of course. In the bathrooms, in the corridors. Many people snorting it like crazy. Is normal at these things.’

  ‘What about Bella? Did you see her?’

  He nodded. ‘I see only one thing. Some guy passing her a packet. Like the kind of packet I see people with cocaine. I see it a lot. People get a small packet from the dealer, then they go to the toilet for snorting.’

  Rosie watched his face for any signs that he was making this up. He looked genuine. ‘You saw this?’

  ‘Yes, I tell you. But I cannot say for sure if it is a drug. It could be anything. But it was the same guy I saw earl
ier giving a couple of packets to someone else.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about him?’

  ‘Yes. He was big. Like a bouncer or doorman. Very strong. Like maybe he takes the steroids. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie said. ‘Was he Spanish?’

  ‘No, no. He is British. English. I’m not sure. But not Spanish. I heard him talking. The problem is he and the other friend with him – same with the big muscles – they are not on the guest list of Señor Mervyn Bates, who was organizing the party. So when they came to the door of the rooftop restaurant, I had to tell someone to go and get him. He told me not to worry, that it had been a mistake, and that these men were with him.’

  Rosie was hooked. Something was taking shape here. Whether any of it was provable, or relevant, was another story. ‘So it was one of those guys you saw giving Bella the packet?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked surprised. ‘But not just Bella. I saw him giving two other men and one of the model girls a packet also. But, to be honest, that is the kind of thing I see here all the time at parties. Always the drug dealers.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they gave their names when they were allowed in.’

  ‘No. Señor Bates said they didn’t have to, that they were with him.’

  ‘Have you seen them around the hotel since?’

  ‘No. They went away later. After Bella fall from the roof it was all panic. Everyone shocked. People left the party and began to go from the hotel. Many police were arriving.’

  ‘And you didn’t see the two guys at all?’

  ‘Yes. I saw them go down the fire escape.’ He paused. ‘But other people did that too. I think maybe people who had been taking cocaine wanted to get out because police would be asking all the guests some questions. That’s just my opinion.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about these men that would stand out?’

  José nodded. ‘The one who gave the packets. He had very blond hair. Like the bleached hair. Very short hair, and a small beard.’ He drew a goatee on his face with his hands.

  ‘Great. What about the other guy?’

  ‘He has a small scar under his eye. Like here. Almost like a small hole.’ He pointed to his cheek.

  ‘Listen, José. Is there any CCTV of the hotel that I could maybe get access to?’

  He puffed a sigh. ‘That is too difficult. I think. So much CCTV, the whole day and night every day. Would take a long time to go through it. But I think anyway the police have come and taken everything.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Okay. It was a long shot.’

  José knocked back his brandy and finished his coffee. He looked at his watch. ‘Rosie, I have to go. I am meeting my wife close to here. Do you mind?’

  Rosie went into her bag and brought out two fifty-euro notes. She slipped them across the table to him and he took them, sliding them under his hand. ‘Not at all. Thanks for your help. Tomorrow when you get the name of the lady, we’ll sort things out. You understand?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘But it’s really important to me that you only talk to me.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked a little wounded. ‘I am not a false person. I will see you in the foyer tomorrow. I start at eight.’ He stood up. ‘I am very pleased to meet you Rosie. And to help. I think, I hope, from your eyes that I can trust you.’ He shook his head. ‘I am very sorry for that young girl. I have a daughter only maybe a few years younger. To die like that. Kill yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t kill herself, José.’

  He stared at her for a long moment and nodded slowly. ‘Maybe not.’ He turned and left.

  Chapter Two

  Millie stirred as the pilot announced they were about to land at Gatwick. For a frantic moment, she couldn’t work out where she was, or if she was dreaming. She was afraid to open her eyes, the images unfolding as though she were watching someone else’s nightmare. She’d lain on the bed in the hotel, terrified to move, wide awake and waiting for the darkness to lift so that she could get out of Madrid and as far away as possible. As soon as it was light, she slipped downstairs with her case and checked out. She’d had no idea where she was going when she got into the taxi. She was wrecked from shock and lack of sleep, her body trembling because she hadn’t had a drink in several hours.

  She told the driver to take her to the main Madrid Puerta de Atocha railway station, where she went to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and looked up at the departures board, wondering where to go. She wanted to get out of Madrid quickly but didn’t want to go to the airport. There was bound to be press passing through, and she didn’t want the tabloids getting any inkling she’d been there. Barcelona seemed the easiest choice, and once the gin had steadied her nerves, she purchased a ticket and got onto the train for the long journey. When she got there, she took a taxi to the airport and bought a flight to Gatwick. She had a vague plan that she would go to Eastbourne and book into a small hotel out of the way until she could get her head around what she had witnessed.

  She’d been a fugitive from the moment she’d walked out of her home in London while Colin was away on business. But she’d known then exactly what she was doing, that her trip to Madrid would be one way. But now she was still a fugitive, still running with nowhere to go, and with no desire to go back and face Colin. His people would have been discreetly looking for her for days now. Once the Spanish police began trying to trace all the guests at the Hotel Senator as part of their inquiries, she would be absent. If they contacted her home to track her down, Colin’s first priority would be to work out how he could keep this under wraps in case the press got hold of it. He’d have to find her, though. That much she knew. He couldn’t have his flaky lush of a wife being linked in any way to the death of Bella Mason, without having his story ready in case he was approached by the media.

  She blinked back tears of frustration, anger and disgust as she pictured her husband. If only the media knew the kind of bastard Colin Chambers really was. The former Tory golden boy who could outperform any opposition, whether on his feet in the House of Commons or in front of a TV camera, with his wit and acerbic put-downs, had lost his seat when Labour had swept to power three years ago. It had been nothing but a minor irritation for him, because he was now a sought-after consultant and speaker everywhere, from London to the United States, and was probably richer now than he had ever been. If only those people who hung on his every word knew that he was a wife-beater, a ruthless adulterer, who had bedded at least two of the wives of the ministers he’d sat with at the cabinet table in Number 10. Millie had concealed bruises and scars for the past twelve years that would prove what he really was. But she had more than that.

  *

  Millie sat on a seafront bench in Eastbourne, hypnotized by the gentle roar of the sea washing over the pebbles, recalling long, sultry summer holidays there as a child with her parents. She’d booked into a small hotel close to the pier, knowing it would be the last place Colin would look for her. She picked up a discarded copy of the Mirror from which a picture of Bella Mason stared out at her, the jewel-green eyes transporting her back to the hotel roof. She shuddered, recalling Bella’s face as she’d met her gaze across the crowded room. Had this girl seen something in Millie’s eyes that made her recognize the sadness? The vulnerability of her own self? A pang of remorse niggled. Millie had turned her back on Bella; she’d been so self-centred, only concerned only with going out on the roof to take her own life. If she’d stopped, perhaps she could have in some way befriended the girl . . .

  It was a ridiculous notion, given that Bella had been surrounded by an entourage whose job was to keep her under wraps until the next prearranged photo shoot. But guilt had been part of Millie’s psyche for most of her life. Guilt and lack of self-belief. Now, the newspaper headlines screamed that Bella Mason was a tragic beauty, hinting that she had killed herself and supplying tales – digging up stories of drugs and depression that the poor girl wasn’t there to deny. But the real truth, if only they knew it, was that Bella hadn�
�t wanted to die. Millie was the only person who could tell the world the truth, the only witness to Bella’s desperate struggle with her killers on the roof. Yet she had scurried off to save herself.

  Shame engulfed her. Even though she’d been about to take her own life when it had happened, Millie’s basic instinct, when the chips were down, had been to save herself. How fucked-up was that? If Colin found out what had happened, he’d berate her that she was even a failure at suicide, a coward who had run off to protect herself. Something had been very wrong with Bella Mason: she’d clearly wanted to go to the police and report whatever was going on. Now nobody would ever know what it was. Bella’s frantic struggle for life in her final moments made Millie see how trite and shallow her own suicide plan had been. She needed a drink.

  *

  Colin Chambers could hear the telephone ringing in the hallway, but he let it ring. Conchita, his Mexican housekeeper, would get it. He knew somehow it wouldn’t be Millie. Wherever the Christ she was, she’d be either too pissed or too strung out to call at this time of the morning. And even if she did, she would ring his mobile. The phone rang and rang.

  ‘Conchita! Telephone!’ he barked, from behind his Daily Telegraph. Where the hell was the bloody woman? He knew she wasn’t far away. She’d only put his breakfast in front of him twenty minutes ago, and she wouldn’t have gone out without telling him.

  The phone stopped ringing as Conchita burst into the dining room, flushed and out of breath. ‘Sorry, Mr Chambers. I was downstairs in the basement putting some washing in. I didn’t hear the phone.’

  Chambers looked over his reading glasses and shrugged. ‘Well, whoever it was, they’ve gone now. Can’t have been that important.’ As soon as he’d said it, the phone was ringing again. ‘Bloody hell! It’s all go this morning. Can you get that, please, Conchi?’ He watched as she went out of the door, her tight jeans hugging her pert little bottom. He sipped his coffee. He reckoned he could get into those jeans, with a bit of charm.