Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7

by Anna Smith

  She came back in, holding the cordless handset. ‘Is for you, Mr Chambers.’

  ‘Who is it?’ He sighed. He really didn’t like to have conversations until he was properly fed and had eased into his day.

  Conchita spoke into the handset: ‘Who is calling, please?’ She frowned, confused. ‘Is a foreign accent, sir. Like maybe Spanish or Italian.’

  Chambers beckoned for the phone and she handed it to him, then left the room. ‘Hello? This is Colin Chambers. Who is this, please?’ He could hear crackling on the line and some activity in the background. ‘Hello?’ he said again.

  ‘Oh. Hello. Am I speaking with Señor Chambers?’

  ‘Yes, you are. Who is this?’

  ‘Are you the husband of Señora Millie Chambers?’

  Chambers felt his stomach twist. Millie. Something had happened to her. His mind went into overdrive. What the hell had she done? Was she in jail? He knew she wouldn’t be dead, because protocol stated that the foreign police force would contact their UK counterpart, who would come round in person and knock on the door. So she was alive. Stupid bitch had obviously fucked something up royally if the Spanish police were calling him.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ His voice was sharp, businesslike. He was in charge.

  ‘Hello, Señor. I am sorry to trouble you. My name is Juan Alonso. I am the official interpreter for the Policia Nacional in Madrid.’

  ‘Yes. What’s going on?’ Chambers pictured his wife in some police station confused and pissed out of her head. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to have someone pick her up and make sure it stayed under wraps.

  ‘The police are investigating the death of Bella Mason, a young lady, a British model. She fell to her death from the roof of the Hotel Senator on the Gran Vía in Madrid.’

  Chambers knitted his eyebrows in confusion. He vaguely remembered something on the news last night about the girl falling from a roof in Madrid. It didn’t interest him. Just another coked-out celebrity who couldn’t hack fame and fortune, he’d thought.

  ‘What has that to do with my wife?’ he asked, looking at his watch. He was due in the city for a meeting in the next hour. ‘Just get to the point,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Where is my wife?’

  ‘We are trying to contact her at this address. That is why we are phoning, Señor. She was a guest at the Hotel Senator on the night of the girl’s death. The police are trying to trace all the guests of the hotel so they can interview them as part of the investigation. Is it possible to speak with Señora Chambers to arrange an interview?’

  Chambers felt a flush rise in his neck. This was all he fucking needed at a time like this. Fucking Millie, out of her head somewhere in Madrid, manages to be in the same hotel where some silly tart tripped off the roof. The press would be all over the story of the model, because that was what sold newspapers. But the fact that a fucking Tory ex-cabinet minister’s wife was staying there at the same time took the front page to a whole new level. What a stupid cunt that woman was. If he could get his hands on her right now he’d wring her bloody neck. He was in the middle of negotiating a six-week speaking tour of America, and being in the papers for having a nutcase wife would not help seal the deal. He tried to compose himself. Thinking on his feet was, after all, his speciality.

  ‘I see. Well, I’m afraid my wife is not here at the moment. Didn’t anyone speak to her before she left the hotel? I mean, in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy?’

  ‘No. She left very early in the morning so she was already gone by the time the police were looking for her. There were more than two hundred guests in the hotel, so the police are going through them. Most of them were interviewed the same night or the next day, but now they are trying to speak to the others.’

  Chambers allowed the pause while he worked out what to say.

  ‘Can you tell me when she will be available?’

  ‘Well, the problem is, my wife is travelling at the moment in Europe. She was only in Madrid briefly.’

  ‘Yes, Señor. For three nights at the Hotel Senator.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chambers pictured Millie staggering from bar to bar in a stupor. Then, for a second, there was an image of the two of them, carefree and in love, in Madrid many years ago, before it had all gone tits-up. ‘Er . . . Yes. But I know she’s on the move now and, to be honest, she doesn’t check in with me every day.’

  ‘Does she have a mobile telephone?’

  ‘No. She didn’t take it with her. She would normally phone me every few days to keep me abreast of her travels,’ Chambers lied. He had been ringing her mobile for days and it was switched off. Millie had either lost or thrown it away.

  ‘Oh. I see. Well. If it is possible, the next time she gets in touch, could you please ask her to call this number?’ He reeled it off.

  Chambers wrote it down, anxious to get off the phone. He walked out to the hallway. ‘I’m sure she’ll have nothing to tell you, other than the fact that she stayed at the hotel. She probably isn’t even aware of the incident.’

  ‘I understand, Señor. But we would like to speak to her, as we are speaking to everyone.’

  ‘I’ll let her know.’

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘I have another call coming in. Thanks for getting in touch.’ Chambers hung up and leaned his back against the staircase. ‘Holy fucking shit!’ he said aloud.

  Chapter Three

  Rosie’s mobile rang as she and Matt stepped through the doors at Heathrow Airport. It was Mickey Kavanagh. She’d given her private-eye contact Millie Chambers’ name and address before she’d left on the early flight from Madrid.

  ‘Are you sitting down, Rosie?’

  ‘Hi, Mickey. I’m just off the flight. I was going to phone you as soon as I got moving. Have you got something exciting to tell me already?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you bet I have.’

  ‘Well, go on, then. Spill.’ Rosie stopped in her tracks and signalled to Matt not to hail a taxi yet.

  ‘Millie Chambers,’ Mickey said. ‘Did the name not ring any bells, Rosie?’

  Rosie thought for a moment. She could tell from his triumphant tone that it should have. But when José the concierge had slipped her the piece of paper with the name and a London address scrawled on it, plus a photocopy of the credit card, she had squirrelled it away in her pocket in case anyone spotted it.

  ‘Nope. Not at all, Mickey. Can’t say it did.’

  ‘Well. You’ll have heard of Colin Chambers, won’t you?’

  Rosie’s jaw dropped. ‘Colin Chambers the ex-Tory cabinet minister? The pretentious git with the face you’d never get tired of slapping?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh, Mickey?’

  ‘Nope. Millie Chambers is his wife.’

  ‘Fuck me!’

  ‘All in good time, sweetheart.’

  ‘Are you telling me Colin Chambers’ wife has been floating around Madrid for days on her own, three sheets to the wind?’

  ‘Without seeing a picture of her in the hotel, I can’t be a hundred per cent certain that it was her, but the credit-card details check out to Colin Chambers’ address in Notting Hill. So unless someone has stolen his wife’s card and fucked off to Madrid, we can be sure as shit that it’s her.’

  ‘Holy Christ, Mickey! This is a whole new ball game.’ Rosie knew McGuire would be doing cartwheels when she told him. She felt like doing one herself.

  ‘Do you think you’ve got this to yourself, Rosie? If you have, then it’s some fucking result.’

  Rosie pictured José’s smile as he helped her to the taxi with her bag. She’d slipped two more fifty-euro notes into his coat pocket. ‘I hope so. My source seems like a good guy.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fax you a picture of Millie Chambers, a recent one, and if you can get your man in Madrid to ID her, you’re laughing.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll be at my hotel in about twenty minutes, and will call you with the number.’ She
paused. ‘Mickey, I’m very grateful for this, but is there any chance a man of your means could get the lowdown on Chambers’ marriage? And anything else on the wife?’

  Rosie knew that ex-cop Kavanagh had contacts from the streets to the secret service. She’d never asked him how he dug anything out, but he always managed to surprise her.

  ‘Already doing it, pet. I have to go. Phone me with that hotel number.’ He hung up.

  Rosie turned to Matt. ‘The Bella Mason story just got a whole lot better. Millie Chambers, the woman in the bar I told you about? She’s Colin Chambers’ wife – the Tory former cabinet minister.’

  ‘Is he the prick with slicked-back hair who looks like a Wall Street broker?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’

  *

  In the hotel bedroom, Rosie kicked off her shoes and opened the curtains to gaze down at the bustle around the Embankment and the pleasure boats gliding up the River Thames, the sun bursting through the clouds. She took her mobile out of her bag and lay back on the bed, punching in McGuire’s phone number.

  ‘Gilmour. You’ve arrived!’

  ‘I have, Mick.’

  ‘Listen. I don’t propose to keep you in London forever on this, but this morning’s news said that a statement is coming from Bella Mason’s PR people.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that too much. I’ve got some great news for you.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear it, because all the papers, including ours, have the same old shite this morning. More pics of Bella in all sorts of sultry poses. A few weeping celebs claiming she was their best friend. All crap. If they were so close to her, how come she ended up so miserable she took a dive off the fucking roof of a hotel?’

  Rosie could tell he was on a rant, and she was bursting to give him her line. ‘Mick. Listen. I got a break with a friendly concierge at the hotel this morning. I’d already given him a few quid last night when he told me there was some Brit woman in the hotel bar hours before Bella died. Apparently she saw Bella alone and crying.’

  ‘I like the sound of that. Have you found her?’

  ‘I only found out last night! But it gets better. Guess who she is!’

  ‘Come on, Gilmour. Don’t keep me hanging around.’

  ‘She’s Millie Chambers – the wife of Colin Chambers.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Fuck me!’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Who told us this?’

  ‘I got the name from the concierge. Then I gave it to my private detective contact in London. Her name didn’t register with me. She was never really in the spotlight.’

  ‘Are you seriously telling me Colin Chambers’ wife was in the same hotel as Bella Mason?’

  ‘Yes. I am. And she was pished. Drunk for three nights running, according to my source.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Gilmour! I can’t believe this! Have we got it to ourselves?’

  ‘I think so. Hope so. I paid the concierge.’

  ‘Well, get back onto him and tell him to keep his trap shut, and there’ll be a lot more where that came from.’

  ‘I will. I have to get him to ID a picture of Millie Chambers, just to make sure, though. But it was her name on the credit card, and the address is Colin Chambers’ place in Notting Hill.’

  ‘Fucking belter!’

  ‘What do you think, Mick? This is so hot, I’m not sure we should break it just yet. Maybe see if we can track the wife down.’

  ‘She’s not still in Madrid, I presume?’

  ‘Not at the hotel anyway. She checked out at six in the morning after the tragedy. She could be back home by now.’

  ‘I don’t want to hit Chambers’ door just yet, though I’m tempted to tell him that his wife might have been one of the last people to see Bella Mason alive, just to fuck up his day.’

  ‘Me too. But my pal down here is trying to find out a bit about the Chambers marriage. He’ll dig up something.’

  ‘Great. And give our esteemed political editor Pettigrew a ring at Westminster. He’ll know a bit of background about the Chamberses – how they lived and stuff. Privileged fucker, silver spoon and all that. I wonder what his wife was doing staggering around Madrid on her own.’

  ‘Maybe she has a secret lover. Or they might have had a row . . . I could get dizzy with all the possibilities.’

  ‘Yep. But let’s play it close to our chests for the next twenty-four hours and see if we get away with it. I’ll shoot myself if this appears anywhere else tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not even going there, Mick. I’m sure it won’t.’

  ‘Okay. Get back to your concierge and tell him he’ll get a few hundred quid pronto. Make an arrangement. Just keep him quiet.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Call me in the afternoon.’ He hung up.

  *

  Rosie sent the faxed picture of Millie Chambers to José, and told him more money was coming his way. He seemed to be enjoying the intrigue and excitement, and promised he wouldn’t speak to another reporter. In truth, she’d have felt better if she’d had her old Spanish ex-cop, private eye contact and amigo Javier to hoof it up from the Costa del Sol to keep José sweet. They worked together a lot in Spain and he’d have been ideal on a job like this, but when she’d phoned him, he was on a lucrative spying mission in Havana for a rich Spanish industrialist. His wife had told him she had gone to Cuba for a four-day cleansing session at a spa, when she was actually there with a twenty-five-year-old stud, who was taking better care of her between the sheets than her husband did. So she had to keep José on-side herself. It was working so far. He told her the police were still in the hotel interviewing people for their investigation and asked Rosie to send the photograph to a friend’s office near the hotel.

  Half an hour later, when she called him back, she heard the delight in his voice as he announced, ‘It is the same woman I saw in the hotel. No mistake. I am certain.’

  Rosie wasn’t the only one whose day was made.

  She decided to relax for a while before she called McGuire with the good news, and lay on the bed, scrolling through a list of missed calls. Her gut did a familiar flip when she saw one was from TJ. She smiled, leaning back on the pillows and closing her eyes, as she recalled the heart-stopping moment when he’d turned up out of the blue.

  *

  It had been two months since she’d walked into the cafe in Glasgow and there he was, sitting sipping coffee as if the last year and a half had never happened. The sight of him had nearly knocked her off her feet, and for a long moment the two of them had just stood there, staring at each other, their eyes fixed as though if they blinked for a second they would both disappear. Even after everything they’d been through together, they seemed afraid to take a step towards each other. Rosie had hung back, fighting off the urge to throw her arms around him, afraid he would reject her, telling her they could only be friends. Eventually he’d stepped forward. ‘Come here to me, Gilmour. Let me hug the bones of you.’

  She’d fallen into his embrace, the familiar arms around her, pulling her close to him and holding her tight. Then he’d kissed her softly on the lips. It was warm and tender, not the confident kiss of old, but slightly hesitant. She looked into his grey eyes as he pulled back, and before she could stop herself, she reached up and brushed her fingers against his cheek. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, TJ. Jesus! I nearly passed out when I saw you.’ She paused. ‘When did you get back?’ She was gripped with dread that he’d returned with a wife or lover. If he’d been intent on coming back for her, surely he would have got in touch, instead of this chance meeting in a cafe. She quickly regained her composure and chastised herself. She was doing this crap again, falling to pieces like a lovestruck teenager, and they hadn’t even talked yet.

  ‘I got back two weeks ago.’ TJ motioned her to sit at his table.

  ‘Oh.’ Rosie barely heard herself say it.

  TJ gazed at her
without speaking, and she was conscious of him scanning her face. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.

  ‘I missed you, Rosie,’ he finally said.

  Rosie tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She hadn’t expected to feel like this.

  ‘Me too,’ she managed. ‘I missed you . . . too much, TJ.’ She bit her lip. ‘But . . . but why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What’s that all about?’ She was trying to keep her emotions in check.

  TJ waved to the waiter and Rosie ordered a coffee. What she really needed was a stiff drink.

  He leaned forward, his hands stretching across the table, their fingers almost touching, but not quite. ‘I just wanted to slip back into Glasgow and have some time out to think. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Not really, if I’m honest.’ She looked away from him briefly, then straight into his eyes. ‘When were you going to let me know you were here? Were you ever going to tell me? Or just wait until we bumped into each other . . . like we’re acquaintances?’

  Rosie felt her voice trail off and she had to bite back tears. Christ! This was the last thing she ever thought she’d do in all the times she’d dreamed of this moment. She swallowed as the waiter put down her coffee. Then she felt TJ’s hand on hers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. Really. I should have contacted you.’ He took a breath. ‘I . . . I just . . . For the past few months, I’ve been trying to go over in my head what happened to us. How can two people with so much . . . so much stuff going on inside for each other just let things slip through their fingers?’

  ‘You’re the one who went away, TJ. And stayed away.’ Rosie put up her hand. ‘Sorry. That’s not fair. Look I don’t want to fight with you. I . . . I just . . . Jesus, TJ! I’m so glad to see you.’ Rosie felt tears in her eyes and brushed them away. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a long week, and now this.’ She smiled. ‘It’s all too much.’