Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7

by Anna Smith

  ‘But that will get better. You know it will.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘What about Mitch? Can he come with me? I don’t want to be on my own.’

  Rosie pondered for a moment. Mitch was more of a wide-boy, and if they were in a hotel, she could just about guarantee he would steal something. But right now she didn’t have a lot of choices. She needed this boy to function, and more than that, she wanted him to. Dan had got under her skin a little, despite her trying to keep him at arm’s length. After his stories of the children’s home, the rent-boys and the ritual abuse, she just wanted to hug him and make it better. If she left him alone now, in some hostel or sleeping rough, he’d be dead in a few days from the pneumonia. That was the only certainty. She took a step back from her emotions and changed the subject. ‘I want to show you something, Dan. A picture.’

  Dan looked bewildered. ‘Sure.’

  She went into her bag and pulled out photocopies of the CCTV pictures José had sent of the two heavies at the party on the night Bella had died. She unfolded one and placed it on the table, watching closely for any flicker from Dan. He was sickly pale as it was, but he went even whiter.

  ‘Fuck! Where did you get that?’

  Rosie didn’t flinch, but Dan was agitated, squirming in his seat.

  ‘You’ve seen this guy before? You know him?’

  Dan’s trembling hands went to his face. ‘I don’t know him. But I know who he is. He’s an evil cunt.’ He ran his hands through his hair, his body suddenly jangling. ‘Fuck’s sake! Where did you get this, Rosie? Tell me! Please!’

  Rosie didn’t answer. Instead she brought out another photocopy and unfolded the image of the squat guy who’d been with him that night. Dan shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, wringing his hands. ‘Aw fuck! Do you know these fuckers? Where was this picture taken?’

  Rosie sensed a meltdown coming, and she had to keep a lid on it while they were in a public place. She leaned across and took hold of his wrist. ‘Dan. I need you to calm down. Please! You need to be calm in here. You never know who’s sitting in the place. Okay? Now, take a breath, son.’

  Dan’s lip was quivering. ‘Okay, I’ll try. Just tell me.’

  Rosie waited two beats, still holding his arm. ‘This was taken at the Hotel Senator the night Bella died. These two guys were at the after-show party.’

  Dan had already started to crumple before she finished her sentence, as though he knew what was coming. He began to weep into his hands. ‘Oh, Christ, no! They killed Bella. I know it. If they were there that night, Bella didn’t jump off that roof, I fucking know it. These evil bastards pushed her.’ He sobbed, as Rosie squeezed his hand. ‘They killed my sister. Oh, Rosie! I’m a dead man now.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Bridget sat in the park, enjoying the peace of mid-afternoon, now that the lunchtime joggers had gone back to work and the young mothers with pushchairs had headed off. The place was deserted, the only sounds the crows and the magpies fighting over a paper bag that had held a takeaway, ripping out the leftover food. She couldn’t get Millie’s letter out of her mind. She’d been glad when her shift had finished at two – she’d been awake half the night and had gone through her day on automatic pilot. She reached into her bag and took out the letter. She’d read it so many times, she could just about recite it by heart.

  But she opened it again and began reading.

  My name is Millie Chambers, and I am the wife of Colin Chambers, the former Conservative Home Secretary. I am of sound mind as I write this, though there are those who would tell you, and me, that I am not. But believe me, I am.

  I write this statement as I am waiting to go into a private clinic to be treated as a mentally ill patient, even though I know I am not mentally ill. I am distraught, hurt that my husband has had me sectioned against my will. But I am not broken and I will not be silenced.

  I want to describe here what happened at the Hotel Senator, in Madrid, the night Bella Mason died. I know what happened, because I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. Not the eyes of a mentally ill woman, but a woman who had all her faculties.

  The fact is, I had come to Madrid to end my own life. If that qualifies me for being mentally ill, then so be it. But I can assure whoever is reading this, that I am not insane. My plan to take my life that night was born of hopelessness, desperation to escape the pain and misery of what has passed for my life in recent years.

  First, I want to state categorically that I saw Bella Mason being murdered. I saw her thrown off the roof of the hotel by two burly men, whom I could identify if this statement is taken seriously, as I pray it is. I have nothing left but my honesty. They have stripped me of my dignity.

  I was staying at the hotel for three nights, and there is proof of this as I booked with my credit card. On the third night, my plan was to end my life. Without going into the details of how I felt, suffice to say that the decision had been made and I was at peace with where I was and what I was about to do.

  I stepped onto the roof for my final moments and stood in the shadows of a pillar, walking slowly to the edge. I stood there, smoking my last cigarette. I was crying, I suppose, because it had come to this.

  Then I heard a commotion, and I saw Bella Mason come out onto the roof with three men. One of the men was arguing with her, an older man, telling her he owned her and that he could do what he liked with her. I distinctly heard Bella say she was going to the police, she’d had enough. I stepped back into the shadows, terrified of what was happening. I didn’t see the older man disappear, but all I know is that when I peered out from the spot where I stood, I saw these two men wrestling with Bella. She was protesting and struggling, but she was no match for them. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my own suicide plan now completely irrelevant. I watched, panic-stricken, contemplating screaming, but too terrified to move. I regret now that I did nothing. In fact, I’m ashamed. Then I saw the men drag Bella to the edge and throw her off the roof. That is what I saw. Please believe me. I am that young girl’s only witness in this world.

  No matter how many times Bridget read it, the words that described Bella being dragged and thrown off the roof made her stomach knot. What if it were true? Sure, it was written with the level of detail and accuracy of someone who was indeed of sound mind, but she was well aware that even someone with a mental illness could produce prose of astonishing accuracy. But what if it were true? Millie had been so desperate that morning, so troubled and pleading . . . The letter could be the ranting of a madwoman, but it could also have been penned by someone who wanted the truth to come out. There was another page to the letter, and although Bridget had also read that several times, it didn’t have the same impact as the details about Bella Mason. She read the last page again.

  And now to turn to the lies and secrets of my husband. I have long since known he was a philanderer and an adulterer. As questioning him resulted in beatings and bruising, I stopped arguing with him about it some years ago. My suffering is not important here, but the suffering of innocent children is.

  As Home Secretary, my husband was responsible for dealing with complaints and reports that came from the police and the Crown Prosecution Service of a sensitive nature that might impact on government. Around 1993, although I cannot be accurate about the dates – I believe it was in the late summer or early autumn – I was privy to a conversation with my husband and the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police. The CC had been invited to dinner at our house. Over the evening, various subjects were discussed, and I heard them discussing the reports on the CC’s desk about a number of allegations relating to a sex-abuse ring, involving children, young people and senior figures some ten or fifteen years previously. I distinctly recall the words ‘being procured from children’s homes’. I obviously would never comment to him on these matters, but my understanding was that my husband was to look into these allegations. There were some names mentioned of senior political figures – one was a Tory activist and fundraiser by the name of G
eoffrey Myers, and also the Liberal Democrat MP David Simpson. Both are now deceased. Celebrities were also mentioned, and I distinctly remember the name Mervyn Bates, who is some kind of showbusiness impresario and agent. I didn’t hear much more about it, but did mention it to my husband later that night when everyone left, and he told me to stay out of his business and to keep my mouth shut about what I heard. I thought this reaction was a little absurd and over the top. I only wanted to tell him I was glad that he was investigating and I hoped the abusers would be brought to justice.

  Weeks later, I overheard a phone call from my husband, who was in his study, talking to the Chief Constable. I heard the words, and I repeat them here, ‘Well, just shred the fucking things, or make them disappear. That’s what we’ve done here.’

  I also heard him say, that he would not allow the allegations of ‘some lowlife underclass vagabonds to bring down the government, or in fact to taint it in any way’. That was what he said.

  I confronted him about this later that evening, and he slapped me in the face. I have never mentioned it again until this day. I do now simply because someone has to ask the questions that remain unanswered. Nobody is going to tell the truth about Bella Mason, because nobody knows what happened that night, except me. I have no idea how much authenticity there was in the police investigation, the statements and complaints from people regarding child abuse, but their voices too will never be heard.

  Bridget sighed as she folded the letter carefully and slid it back into the envelope, then into her bag. She looked over her shoulder and shuddered. She was in possession of something that could be the poisonous bile of a sick woman, or indeed could be an explosive scandal that would shake the corridors of power.

  The watery sun was giving way to a pale grey sky and the fading light gave the park an eerie feel. The guttural caw of the crows made her skin crawl, and she quickened her step towards the gates. As she strolled towards her house, she considered her options. If she was the kind of woman who was capable of blackmail, she could have found a way to let Colin Chambers know that she had this letter, and threaten him with it. She considered for a few moments how much a man like him would pay for it. A lot, she decided. Enough to get her out of the crumbling NHS and to let her fade quietly away into the background of a foreign land. She could reinvent herself somewhere like Spain or the Greek islands where she loved to spend her summer holidays. But Bridget wasn’t that kind of woman, though she had to admit that a tiny part of her wished she was. No. She would go home and make her dinner, watch her soaps on telly, and a decision would come to her. The good Lord would see to that. He had always guided her path through life.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Have you found that little junkie fucker yet?’ Larry Sutton’s Cockney voice barked down the phone. He was a great believer in putting the frighteners on with the opening line. No pissing around with small talk or howsit-going-mate. Just get to the fucking point – smartish.

  ‘Not yet, boss. Sorry. No joy. Not a fucking sniff.’

  Larry could hear the jitters in Big Ricky’s voice, and that made him even angrier. Six foot two and built like Goliath, but didn’t have the balls to fight his corner. He’d have respected him more if Ricky’d given him a sharp answer back, even though he’d still have got his face wasted for his cheek when Larry saw him.

  ‘Well, you’re fucking lucky you’re up in fucking Glasgow and not down here standing in front of me, else I might rip that fucking bleached-blond barnet right off of your fucking head. What the fuck have you been doing up there? How hard can it be to find a fucking heroin addict in Glasgow? The place is crawling with them, innit? If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be so fucking rich.’

  He stopped his rant to hear just how shit Ricky’s excuse was. Larry liked the sound of his own East End twang, and he loved to ram it home to the Jocks that they were nothing but a bunch of lowlife sheep-shaggers.

  ‘He’s nowhere to be seen, Larry. Me and Pete have been putting down markers all over the shop. But nothing’s happening.’

  ‘But you’re a fucking Glasgow ned, Ricky. I thought you knew every lowlife cunt up there.’

  ‘Well, to be fair, boss, I’ve been down in the Smoke for a while. Okay, I know the lads we work with at the top of the supply chain up here, but nobody deals with the junkies first-hand. They’re usually lying in their own shit in some fucking smack den.’

  ‘But he’s been living in Glasgow for months, I’ve been told.’

  ‘I know, I know. And I’m everywhere looking for him. One guy in a house in Ruchazie said he saw somebody called Dan in a hostel in the East End a few months ago. I’ve got a few feelers out, thrown some money around, but nothing’s come back to me yet.’

  ‘Well, somebody’d better get back to you soon, because if I have to send some other fucker up there to do your job, you’ll be in the shit, my son. Are you fucking hearing me?’

  ‘Yeah, boss. I hear you. Me and Pete are chasing down every fucking shithole we can find, but this little bastard seems to have disappeared. Maybe he’s dead. He might have overdosed or something, happens all the time. You never see it in the papers or anything. They just shovel them into a body-bag and get rid of it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I really don’t need to hear the story of a life in the day of some junked-up prick. I want Dan Mason, and I want him pronto. So don’t call me back until you’ve got something good to tell me.’ He paused. ‘I’m giving you two more days. Now fuck off.’

  Larry hung up and tossed the handset across the table, then sat back in his leather office chair, swinging his feet onto his desk. ‘Fucking lowlife bastard,’ he muttered. It had been over a week now since he’d disposed of that coked-up nut-job Bella Mason. Well, his hands were completely clean, and they would remain that way if the heat ever came to his door. But it had been his hit, all right, and he was quite proud of the way his boys had sorted it, even if the bird’s untimely death did continue to grab the headlines in the shitty papers. The suicide of a young model at one of the biggest events in the fashion world hadn’t been his suggestion, but he had to hand it to that creepy bastard Mervyn Bates for having the nous to inject a bit of theatre into the contract. Taking a swan dive off the hotel roof in Madrid was pretty inspired, even if it had involved a bit of legwork and forward planning to pull it off. Big Ricky and that gorilla mate of his Pete had done well. In and out like a couple of ghosts they were, down the fire escape and out of the way, while stunned people were trying to work out if they were imagining the corpse splattered on the ground in front of them. By the time the ambulances and cops arrived, Ricky and Pete were already out of Madrid and on the motorway north for France.

  The newspapers, predictably, had all sorts of conspiracy theories. Did she fall or was she pushed, the usual crap. But the vultures on the tabloids were satisfied that Bella had done herself in, thanks to sly old Merv drip-feeding his sources that Bella had had a huge coke problem for the last couple of years, which he’d been trying to keep a lid on while getting her to clean up her act. Give it another couple of weeks and she’d be history, if she wasn’t already. But there was a catch. Merv had told him over lunch last week that the job wasn’t over. Bella had a secret brother, a heroin addict, somewhere in Glasgow. He had to be found and disposed of, too, because he knew too much. Fucking hell! Knew too much of what? Larry had asked. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Merv told him. ‘Just get rid of him. You never know how much he knows about Bella, the coke and who was the supplier not just to her but to all the models.’ Maybe Bella had told the brother everything. It was a loose end, Merv had said, and it needed sorting.

  Merv had handed over the attaché case containing the remains of the seventy grand they’d agreed to get rid of Bella. It was a decent pay-off, much more than an ordinary hit, but then again this little production was no ordinary hit. Find the boy, Larry was told, and there’s another twenty big ones coming your way. It wasn’t that Larry needed the money, though in this game you could never have enough. But he h
ad to agree with Merv. He didn’t like loose ends. Larry was the coke supplier for Merv and his girls, had been for years, and some little slack-mouthed junkie could end up making trouble.

  *

  Rosie was grateful that Dan was more composed now, even if it was down to the heroin he’d just smoked. If McGuire knew what she was up to, it would put him right off the edge. But it was nine at night, and she didn’t want to disturb him at the backbench when he’d be putting the paper to bed.

  After Dan’s meltdown in the cafe, Rosie knew, more than ever, that she had to hold onto him – whatever it took. She had to get everything out of him. It was pissing down outside, and she couldn’t risk leaving him on his own in that state. She’d got Dan to phone Mitch to meet them, and when she’d picked Mitch up she had to drive the pair of them to a tenement nearby to get a couple of tenner bags of heroin. Not only that, but she had to give them the money for it. She’d never admit this to McGuire, but she knew he wouldn’t question her too closely. Deep down he really didn’t want to know. She’d then taken them to a cheap hotel owned by a Pakistani guy, who wouldn’t ask questions as long as he was getting paid an extra wedge. She’d used the place before, and to call it a hotel was stretching the truth, but at least Dan wouldn’t be sleeping rough. In one of her usual rush-of-blood-to-the-head moments, she considered taking them to her flat for the night, but that was wrong on so many levels. Tomorrow she’d speak to the editor about renting a flat for a couple of weeks till this was all over.

  Rosie boiled the kettle in the small, damp room, and switched on the electric fire to take the chill out of the place. It was clean enough, but with damp, furry patches high up in the corners and a threadbare tartan fitted carpet that might once have looked plush. Dan sat by the fire, warming his hands. Rosie ripped up the pizza she’d collected on the way there and handed each lad a slice, even though food was not high on their agenda. She needed to get more out of Dan tonight, because he could go to pieces any day now. She didn’t have much time. She sipped her tea and pulled her chair closer to the fire.