by Anna Smith
‘Aye. Course,’ Mitch said, looking at Dan. ‘We know what you mean. We wouldn’t fuck you up, Rosie. I’ll look after my wee buddy here. We’ll be the happy couple.’ He put a playful arm around Dan and gave him a squeeze. ‘Won’t we, darlin’?’
‘Aye, right.’ Dan shrugged him off. ‘I hope we’ve got separate beds.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Rosie grinned at Matt, who was trying to keep his face straight.
She turned around and looked out of the windscreen. Despite all of the crap, the messed-up lives and the fact that this pair of smackheads only looked towards their next hit, there was something in their demeanour of excited young boys going on holiday. She felt a little surge of affection for them both. Of course, like most drug addicts, they would probably steal the eye out of your head for a fix, but that wasn’t how it was meant to be when they’d started out. It was all about their start in life, the chances they had, the environment, the crap they’d found themselves knee deep in as soon as they were old enough to be aware of it. They might choose to be shoplifting or selling their bodies for sex, but making the choice not to do so had never been possible.
Matt drove towards Finnieston and a new block of flats that had been recently converted from an office.
‘Here we are, guys.’ Rosie pointed. ‘You’re on the top floor. It’s brand-new, so let’s keep it that way.’
Matt parked and they all piled out.
‘Come on. I’ll show you where it is. Now, I need you to stay in until I get back. I have to go somewhere tonight, but I’ll be up tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dan said. ‘We’ll be all right.’
‘Is there a telly?’ Mitch asked.
Rosie looked at Matt, whose tongue was in his cheek, and she knew they were both thinking that the telly might be sold before they were even at Glasgow Airport. She hoped not.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosie lowered the window of the hire car and relished a lungful of sea air as they drove along the Eastbourne promenade. ‘I could nearly get giddy on that, it feels so good. I wish we were on a wee holiday.’
Gulls screamed and swooped overhead, and the sun setting on the horizon made a dramatic skyline of the ancient white pier, its leggy boardwalk stretching out to sea.
‘Yeah, me too, Rosie. This is not as mental as some of the last holidays I’ve been on with you. We’ve been here fifteen minutes and nobody’s shot at us yet.’
Rosie laughed, conjuring up an image of their trip to Pakistan, being chased and shot at by the Taliban as they raced through the Swat valley. ‘Don’t worry. This will be a breeze, pal. The worst thing that can happen to us here is that this nurse is a screaming lunatic and we look like a couple of tits back in the editor’s office.’
‘Well, to be fair,’ Matt joked, ‘I only take the pictures. I just do what I’m told by you, boss.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Rosie rolled up her window as they approached a road sign. ‘It says Pevensey there. You got that? Can’t be very far now.’
Matt followed the direction of the sign and Rosie sat back, hoping against hope that Bridget was genuine. McGuire had looked at her in disbelief when she’d come back into his office straight after Bridget’s phone call, but he knew how these things worked. He knew they couldn’t risk not acting on the information. It was a case of either running it to the ground to prove the letter was a figment of the nurse’s imagination or discovering they’d had the phone call that all reporters and editors dream of. While she’d been discussing it, Declan had phoned her to tell her that a nurse with the name of Bridget Casey did work at the Eastbourne hospital. It still didn’t prove the letter was genuine, or that the woman she was going to meet was actually that nurse, but McGuire had accepted that even though she was up to her eyes in this investigation, she had to go all the way to Eastbourne to find out.
Rosie flicked back through her notebook and checked the address as they drove into the street. She’d decided to meet the woman in her home to get a better picture of who she was.
The end terrace house looked bright and welcoming from the outside, with neat borders around the mono-blocked pathway leading up to the front door. A perfectly clipped hedge either side of the gate gave the place a level of privacy that others in the cul-de-sac didn’t have, with their open gardens and small driveways. Rosie pushed the bell. She glanced at Matt, then peered into the stained-glass window on the white door. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said.
‘Does it look like they’re carrying an axe?’
‘Shut up, you. Get your game face on.’
Matt put on his ‘understanding’ expression.
The door opened just a little.
‘Bridget?’ Rosie asked. ‘I called about twenty minutes ago?’
‘Is that you, Rosie? I was in the shower.’
‘Yeah. Rosie Gilmour, and this is Matt. He’s a photographer. We work together a lot.’
‘Oh, I can’t have my picture taken.’
‘Don’t worry, Bridget. He’s not here for you.’
The door opened a bit more and Bridget stood before them, a little flushed about the face and neck. She looked about fifty, a bit overweight, and neatly dressed in trousers and a baggy top. When she smiled, Rosie noticed the blue of her eyes and the warmth in her face. She hoped her gut instinct, that she was a good woman eager to help, was right.
‘Come on in,’ Bridget said, stepping back.
Rosie glanced at Matt, who gestured with his arm for her to go first. They stepped into the carpeted hallway and walked behind Bridget towards the kitchen. She could hear the TV from the living room on her left off the hallway and glanced through the open door as she passed. It looked like any home – not her own, though, which was almost permanently messy, with clothes and shoes strewn all over the place.
‘Lovely house,’ Rosie said, as they went into the kitchen. ‘Have you lived here long?’ A bit of small-talk to ease your way, she thought.
Bridget picked up the kettle and held it under the tap. ‘Well, as you probably gathered, I’m Irish.’ She smiled again, and her eyes became half-moons, with laughter creases at the sides. ‘I’ve been here since I came over to train as a nurse in my twenties, and that wasn’t yesterday, but I’ve never lost my accent.’
Rosie smiled. ‘It’s a great accent. Nice area you live in too, with the sea and the town nearby.’ Enough with the small talk, Rosie was thinking.
‘Yes,’ Bridget said. ‘I love it.’ She paused and there was a little awkward moment. ‘Now. Cup of tea? Then we can sit down.’
Rosie was relieved she was getting straight to the point. Bridget motioned them to sit down, then disappeared into the living room and came back with a white envelope in her hand. She pulled up a chair and they all sat at the table, the house quiet, except for the gentle hiss of the kettle.
‘Now.’ Bridget touched her neck lightly with her fingers as though she could feel the colour rising in it. ‘I want you to bear in mind, Rosie, that what I’m about to do here I have not done lightly. I have given this a great deal of thought, agonized over the implications for me if it ever gets out that I passed on this information.’ She glanced from Rosie to Matt. ‘I’d lose my job on the spot after thirty years of an unblemished career. But, worse than that, I could be end up embroiled in this and, who knows, maybe the police would get involved. I don’t want any part of that. I don’t want to be questioned by police, or anyone else. I’m only doing this because I feel heart sorry for that poor woman.’
She stood up as the boiling kettle clicked off. The envelope lay on the table, and Bridget brought over cups, milk and sugar, then poured water into the teapot. She carried it across, sat down and poured the tea, sighing and shaking her head. ‘She really was a poor soul when she came in that day after the accident.’
‘She’d been hit by a car in Eastbourne, hadn’t she?’ Rosie asked, even though she already knew.
‘Yes, but once she came round, it was clear that she had a lot of other issues.’ She low
ered her voice. ‘She’s got an alcohol problem, and I’m sure she knows that, though she never said anything to me. Maybe it all goes together, but she was awful sad. Crying all the time.’
Rosie nodded sympathetically. ‘Did you see her husband, Colin Chambers? I mean, did you know who Millie was when she came in injured?’
‘Yes, I did see him, but, no, I didn’t know who she was.’ Bridget shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have known her from Adam. I vaguely recognized him when he arrived. But I’ll tell you this, Rosie. He’s a right snob, underneath his breezy attitude. Millie looked crushed when he came into her room. I’d been talking to her a little before it. She was mostly crying, and I assumed it was the delayed shock from the accident, but when he came in, he dismissed me, like I was a servant.’
‘Did you hear anything between them? Any conversation?’ Rosie asked.
‘Not straightaway, as I had other duties on the ward, but at one point I went past and he was really laying into her, calling her a drunk and this and that. Terrible way to talk to anyone, never mind your wife.’
Rosie nodded slowly, wishing she would get to the nitty-gritty. ‘So when did she begin to confide in you, give you the letter?’
‘Well, that didn’t happen until the morning they were coming to take her to the psychiatric hospital, the private clinic the husband had arranged for her. I’d heard her crying, sobbing actually, and I went in and brought her a cup of tea while she was waiting for the car. She looked so lonely, so forlorn, sitting there, her little case all packed.’ Bridget shook her head. ‘It was as though they were just packing her off somewhere because she was an embarrassment. Don’t get me wrong, I think she could do with a bit of counselling, or help with her drinking problem, but I’d say most of her problems stem from that gobshite of a husband – if you’ll pardon the French.’
Rosie was impressed by how quickly Bridget could go from being delicate, polite middle-aged woman talk to Dublin pub-speak.
‘Well, he’s got a reputation for being a bit of a bully.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘So had she’d actually written this letter in the hospital?’
‘She’d just finished it when I came in with the tea, and we didn’t have a lot of time. Suddenly she grabbed my wrist and said she had a letter there and wanted me to have it. She gave it to me there and then, and for a second I didn’t know what to do. I just looked at her, but then she burst into tears. What could I do? She looked so abandoned, so desperate. I took the letter and put it inside my uniform. A few seconds later the door opened and it was the people to take her away.’ Bridget sipped her tea. ‘Poor woman was crying her eyes out. I gave her a hug and she held me so tight I was nearly crying myself.’
‘What a shame.’
‘I know. Just shows you that you don’t know what goes on in these highfalutin’ places. Anyhow, the letter. When I finally opened it, which wasn’t until I came home that night, and even then I was reluctant, I nearly died when I read it.’ She slid her thumb across the seal and opened the envelope. ‘At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, and thought maybe Millie had lost her mind – the things she was claiming in the letter . . . Afterwards, when I went to bed I couldn’t get her out of my head all night. Then in the morning when I was watching TV, this . . . your front page story suddenly came up, that she was in the hotel the night the model died. I nearly had to be brought round when I saw it. Millie was telling the truth. She must have been. I was so taken aback, but I knew I had to do something to help.’
Bridget handed the letter to Rosie, who began to read it. She glanced up at Matt. ‘This is unbelievable!’ She read it to the end, then again, more slowly, trying to take in the part about the documents and the child-abuse ring. It was dynamite. Even if Millie Chambers was mentally ill and had made it up, it was still an incredible accusation to make against a government minister and a police chief, that they had colluded to stifle a police investigation into child sex abuse. It wasn’t that far-fetched, as Rosie’s own experience, with her exposé on the children’s home in Glasgow a couple of years ago, had told her. But could it really have been more widespread?
‘So, you called Millie in hospital?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes. I decided it was my duty to do something about this, and to be honest, at that point I didn’t care what happened to me. My heart and my gut were telling me not to allow the woman to be abused in this way, because that was what it was – abuse. Millie was a witness to a murder and that has to come out. If it wasn’t for me seeing your story on the television that morning, I might have thought differently, but that confirmed it for me. I had to take action. I phoned Millie. They said she couldn’t have visitors, but they put a phone at her bedside so I could talk with her. The poor woman was crying her eyes out, pleading with me to help her. She even said they’re going to fry her brain with ECT electric-shock therapy.’
‘Jesus!’ Rosie screwed up her eyes, glancing at Matt. ‘Do they still do that? I thought they stopped it years ago.’
‘Yes, on the NHS they did, but this is a private clinic. They can pretty much do what they want in those places, and Millie doesn’t have a say because she was sectioned.’
‘How awful! Is there any way she can get out even into the grounds?’ Rosie’s rush of blood mentality was already thinking about going in there and rescuing her. She caught Matt reading her mind and rolling his eyes.
‘I don’t know. I suppose she’ll get outside for some fresh air. But they might have started the therapy now, so she’ll be locked up if they have. God knows what’s happened to her.’
They sat in silence, the sun streaming through the kitchen window to highlight the yellows and the greens of the walls and tall plants. They had to do something to get to Millie. The letter was explosive, especially because it had her signature. But she knew the lawyers would be all over it: although the signature could be authenticated with the credit card from the Madrid hotel, they would still insist that allegations like these needed a face-to-face.
‘There has to be a way to get to her,’ Rosie said.
‘What do you mean? Go in and see her?’
Rosie sighed. ‘Well, yes. But . . .’
‘You mean to get her out of there?’
Rosie felt a little embarrassed, and Matt, arms folded, was shaking his head. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘But that would be breaking the law! She’s been sectioned under the Mental Health Act, so it’s illegal for her to leave, and obviously illegal for anyone to aid and abet that.’
‘I know, I know,’ Rosie conceded, her heart sinking a little.
They sat in awkward silence.
Then Bridget pushed her chair back. ‘But, tell you what, I’m game if you are!’
From the corner of her eye, Rosie could see Matt puffing his cheeks and blowing out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Then let’s talk about it,’ she said.
Chapter Sixteen
Larry Sutton was raging. Mervyn fucking Bates! How in the name of fuck could he have known him for ten years and not twigged he was a nonce? Granted, Bates had only been on the edge of his radar most of the time, in the way that these rich showbiz cunts were. Larry knew pricks like Bates would never willingly associate with a gangster like him, someone he’d view as a lowlife thug. But he wouldn’t be the first former public-schoolboy to call on guys like him when he needed a bit of muscle or someone taken out of the equation. And it happened more than people probably imagined. Rich, privileged wankers didn’t do their own dirty work. Never had. They always turned to the great unwashed to pick up the pieces if they fucked up and some big problem needed sorting.
Not that it was ever an issue for Larry, the way he worked. His empire in the corner of east London had been built on terror and violence, and everyone knew Larry Sutton didn’t shrink from a challenge. He wouldn’t flinch if he was approached to do a hit on someone – anyone. Obviously, if it was some bastard’s grandmother, he’d draw the line. But basically he was up for hire, if the p
rice was right.
He’d only met that cokehead model Bella Mason once at a party. Sure, his troops supplied coke to her and the other girls Bates had on his books, but Larry didn’t want to know the nitty-gritty of their stupid lives. Fuck that. Bates paid the money up front and supplied the coke. Supply and demand, Larry told his troops. It was just like any other business, from the chip shop to the grocery store. But this information changed everything. He reflected on his meeting yesterday.
*
Larry had very little patience with that polecat Marty Brown at the best of times. He was like a fucking fishwife, with his gossip and stories, and half the time you could take anything he told you with a big pinch of salt. But when he’d called yesterday to ask for a meet, saying he had some very big information to impart about Merv Bates, Larry reluctantly agreed to see him. You never knew what it might be.
They’d met in one of Marty’s bars in Bethnal Green, and as they’d sat in the empty back room in the late-afternoon gloom, Marty had poured him a whisky. ‘Larry,’ he’d said. ‘That Mervyn Bates. I’ve been told something about him.’
‘Yeah? What?’ Larry didn’t want to spend all day on this, but given that he’d just bumped off one of the world’s biggest models at the behest of Bates, he felt he had to listen. He knew how the grapevine worked, and suspected that perhaps Matty had got wind that Larry was behind the death of the model, that maybe it was a hit and he’d been asked to do it. But if he did suspect that, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to mention it at this table. Nobody would ever mention it, not if they wanted to see their next birthday. But somebody like Marty, even though he was a bit of a tit sometimes, was useful and picked things up on the quiet.