Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (13 page)

‘Was he a heroin addict?’

‘Aye. Injected.’

Rosie wrote down the name in her pad. With a name like that he could be traced, if he was still alive.

She
listened, furiously taking notes as Dan described in as much detail as he could remember the places, the areas and the people. He said some of them had English accents, were posh. One was an actor, but he was only young at the time. Bella had told him that politicians were involved, and that some were quite high up. But that was years later, long after Bella had been taken away, when she had tracked him down and they were reunited for the first time in ten years. Bella seemed to know more about the sexual abuse than him because the foster parents she was taken to were in London, and a lot of things happened there. So Merv was still very much part of her life. It was he who pushed her into the modelling game and got her the big contract so that she was already successful by the time she was sixteen.

He stopped and they all sat in silence. Outside they could hear a drunken argument and a bottle smashed on the pavement. The rain battered off the window. It didn’t get much more depressing than this, Rosie thought. Then Dan went into the pocket of his jacket, pulled something out. It was like a little sackcloth purse. He took something out from inside and held it so that Rosie could see it. She hoped her jaw hadn’t dropped. It was a recent photograph of Dan standing with Bella, their arms around each other, smiling for the camera. Dan was gleaming and happy, not as skinny as he was now, and Bella stunning and chic, in a white polo-neck sweater. They looked like twins.

‘Christ,
Dan. That’s astonishing. The likeness between you. Who took the picture?’

‘The concierge at the hotel – that Devonshire Gardens place in the West End. He was up collecting Bella’s bags before she was leaving and she asked him to take a photo. Good, isn’t it? She was so beautiful.’

Chapter Thirteen

From
the kitchen, Bridget’s ears pricked up as she heard the name Millie Chambers on the breakfast-television news. She dashed through to the living room in time to see the TV host holding up a copy of a tabloid newspaper’s front page: TOP TORY WIFE IN MODEL SUICIDE HOTEL. She turned up the volume and stood closer to the television, concentrating.

The presenter was holding up the
Post
newspaper, which claimed they had proof that Millie Chambers, the wife of former Tory Home Secretary, Colin Chambers, had been a guest in the Madrid hotel on the night Bella Mason had fallen to her death from the rooftop during a post-fashion-show party. The Spanish police had confirmed it, and even had a grainy picture of Millie in the hotel foyer. Bridget strained her eyes. It was definitely her.

‘Jesus protect us!’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s true! What Millie said in her letter was true. It wasn’t the rantings of some mad alcoholic.’

Bridget
sat down, looking at her watch, aware that she had a bus to catch in fifteen minutes and still had to walk to the stop. She had to do something, but she didn’t know what. Her mind was racing. Poor Millie. She was lying in that bloody psychiatric hospital, sectioned and unable to fight back. Now it was all crystal clear. That bastard of a husband had put her there because
he
had something to hide. Millie was a loose cannon, and the way she’d been behaving, she could blow at any time. Bridget recalled that line in the letter:
their voices will never be heard . . .

She stood up, went into the hall and picked up the bulky telephone directory. She scanned a page for the Dawson Institute, where they had taken Millie, and before she could stop herself she was dialling the number.

A voice answered.

‘Hello.’ Bridget put on her best, staff-nurse-in-control voice. ‘I’m a friend of Mrs Millie Chambers. I’m wondering if it’s possible to visit her? I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.’

There was a long pause, and Bridget held her breath.

‘Who is it, please?’

‘My name is Bridget. I’m a close friend of Millie Chambers, who I understand is a patient there at the moment. We’re friends from way back.’

‘I’m not sure if she can have visitors, but I’ll check for you. Could you call back in, say, half an hour?’

‘Of
course. That’s no problem. And if she’s not able to see me, perhaps I could talk to her on the phone.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged. But let me check first if she can see you. If you could call back later. Thanks.’

The line went dead. Bridget hurriedly pulled on her coat and hung her bag over her shoulder. She picked up her packed lunch from the kitchen worktop and was out of the door in seconds. For the first time in ages, she was filled with a sense of urgency and purpose. She checked the letter was still in her bag, then zipped it up to keep it safe. She’d photocopy it once she got to work.

*

Bridget slipped into the supplies room on the ward during her mid-morning tea break. She locked the door and used her mobile to dial the number of the Dawson Institute in Sussex.

‘Hello. I spoke to a member of staff a little while ago and was asked to phone back. I was wondering if I can visit my friend, Millie Chambers.’

Silence, then: ‘Actually, it was myself you spoke to. I’m afraid Millie is not to receive visitors at the moment, due to her treatment.’

Bridget’s heart sank. ‘Oh. I’m really sorry to hear that. Is she all right?’

‘Mrs Chambers is fine, just not able to have visitors.’

‘Would it be possible to speak to her on the phone?’

‘Yes, and I’ve arranged to have a phone brought to her
room for a few minutes. Will you hold on while I transfer you?’

Bridget tensed. This was serious. They were putting her through to Millie. She knew that, the moment she spoke to a former patient on a personal matter, she would be crossing the line. If anyone found out, she’d be finished as a nurse. She had to make the decision now. Back out and leave well alone, a voice inside her head told her. What could she achieve anyway?

‘Hello? Are you still there? Will you hold on while I transfer you?’

‘Oh. Yes. I’m here,’ Bridget heard herself saying. ‘I’d be delighted if you could put me through.’ A nervous flush rose up her neck, and she leaned back on the desk and took a deep breath. She could hear her heartbeat. ‘Calm down,’ she told herself. ‘You’re doing the right thing. Think of the letter.’ A clicking noise in the background, then the voice, thin and frail.

‘Hello? Bridget? Is that you?’

‘Millie.’ Bridget’s voice was a loud whisper, even though she was in a locked office. ‘Yes, it’s me. It’s Bridget. Can you speak right now? Are you alone?’

‘Yes. I’m alone. I can speak.’

Then a silence, and Bridget could hear her stifling sobs. ‘Millie, please. We may not have much time. I asked if I could see you but they won’t let me.’

‘I know.’ Millie sniffed. ‘No visitors. Oh, Bridget! I’m
locked in here. They’ve locked me away. Please help me.’ Her voice was barely audible.

Bridget swallowed. ‘I’ll try, Millie. I have the letter. I’ve read it. My God, Millie! You poor woman! What do you want me to do with it?’

‘I want you to expose them, Bridget. Go to the police, the press, anyone. Take my letter. I’ll die in here. Take it as my last witness statement.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Millie. You’re not going to die. I know you’re a good woman, and I’ll help you. I promise. But listen. A Scottish newspaper called the
Post
had a story on the front page today, saying you were in that hotel in Madrid where the model died. They actually had it in the newspaper. They said you were there.’

‘The
Post
had that story? How?’

‘I suppose they’re investigating the death of the model, and they maybe got lucky and found out you were a guest. That’s what it looks like. But they have a picture of you on the front page.’

‘Oh, my God! Colin will be furious. There’ll be trouble now. But you’re right. We may not have much time. Bridget . . . I wasn’t lying in the letter. I saw it. I saw them throw that girl off the roof.’

‘I believe you. I really do. But you also mentioned the children. The sexual abuse?’

‘Organized abuse of children. The complaints made, the dossiers, everything, it all disappeared, Bridget. My
husband had them on his desk, given to him by the police, as I’ve said in the letter. They disappeared. I heard him say on the phone that he shredded them.’

‘Jesus! I’m going to do something here. I’m not sure what at the moment, but please, Millie, don’t think you’ve been abandoned. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’

Silence, then more sobbing.

‘Thank you. They’re going to start some treatment in the next couple of days. I heard them talking about ECT. Christ almighty! They’re going to do ECT on me without my consent. They’re going to fry my brain, Bridget. Please don’t let them do that. Please stop it! I’m only telling the truth. I know what I saw in Madrid, and I know what I heard all those years ago. I’m not mad.’

‘I know you’re not mad, Millie. I never thought you were.’

‘They’re coming now. I can hear their footsteps. I have to get off the phone. I can’t talk any more.’

‘Can I not visit you?’

‘No. They won’t let anyone in. I haven’t even seen Colin. He’s pulling all the strings . . . But please, please, Bridget, don’t forget me. I knew I could trust you.’

‘I won’t, Millie. Don’t worry. I’ll do something about this. Just stay strong.’

*

Rosie was sitting on the sofa in McGuire’s office as he paced up and down.

‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, Gilmour. If we put two smackheads
up in a flat or a hotel room, and they thieve everything they can carry, I’ll be in all sorts of shit. Can you imagine Weaver’s face falling even further when I put that one to him?’

‘Don’t tell him, Mick. This is on a need-to-know basis, and the managing editor doesn’t need to know. Just tell him it’s a contact we have to protect. It’ll only be for a few days.’

‘Yeah, but what if they steal everything? Or get a few mates round to their new gaff. Next thing they’ll fall asleep and burn the bastard place down. Junkies. You can’t take your eyes off them.’ He turned to look at her. ‘But, knowing you, I bet you even considered putting them up in your flat.’

Rosie half smiled: he always saw through her. ‘Course not.’

‘Liar.’

‘Well, it was only for a fleeting moment. Of course I wouldn’t let them stay at my flat. But that boy Dan . . . Look, I know he’s wasted with drugs, but the point is, Mick, he’s been wasted since he was eight years old, from the first time some perv got his hands on him. He’s a genuine victim. We have to look at it that way.’ Rosie pushed her hair back as McGuire came over and sat opposite her. ‘All that aside, his story is total dynamite, and that snapshot of him and Bella together is worth a fortune. Picture editors would kill their granny for it. And we’ve got it, as well as his story.’

‘I
know, and don’t think I’m knocking what we’ve got. It’s brilliant, Gilmour, but it’s got danger stamped all over it. Especially now that he’s saying some psychos are chasing him down. How are we going to protect him if he goes out on the street? We can’t keep him locked up. Especially if he’s a heroin addict.’

‘He’ll probably stay in the flat. His mate can go out—’

Rosie stopped. She didn’t want to say that the mate could go out and score some smack for them, but the look on McGuire’s face said it all. He put his hands up.

‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right. Get Marion to sort out a one-bedroom job for them, and get the paperwork done. I’ll deal with the questions. But why do I always get this sense of impending doom when you come in here with a good story?’

‘It’s all part of the fun,’ Rosie said, and stood up.

There was a knock at the door and Declan appeared, his hand up apologetically to the editor. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Rosie, I’ve got someone on the phone saying they want to speak to you urgently. She’s says she’s got information on Millie Chambers.’

She glanced at McGuire, who spread his hands in submission. ‘I have to take this, Mick.’

She headed for the door, rushed across to her desk and picked up her phone. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m looking for Rosie Gilmour,’ a voice said.

‘Who’s this?’ Rosie asked, glancing at Declan.

‘Are
you Rosie Gilmour? I have some information about Millie Chambers. Can I speak to Rosie?’

‘Yes. This is Rosie.’

‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘I won’t tell you my name just yet, but I have some very important information. Millie has asked me to pass it on.’

Rosie felt her heart skip a beat. ‘Millie Chambers asked you to pass it on?’

‘Yes. Your name was on the front page of the story that she was in the hotel in Madrid – the night that young model was killed.’

The accent was Irish, and she sounded like an older woman. She was well spoken and to the point. She was either a fantasist who had read the paper or she was the real deal. It was hard to tell on the phone.

‘That’s correct. That was my story. Look, rather than talk on the phone, can I meet you somewhere? I’m free now, if you are?’

‘Well, I’m in the south of England so I’m quite far away. I’m in East Sussex – Eastbourne.’

Rosie knew the
Post
went into some London newsagents and at the airport, but it wasn’t generally available. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘How did you get the
Post
in Eastbourne?’

‘Well, I couldn’t find it, but I did see it on breakfast television this morning.’ She paused. ‘Listen. This is genuine. I’m no crank caller, please don’t think that.’

‘Of course I don’t think that, not for a moment. I can
come to Eastbourne, but can you tell me a little more? Do you know Millie Chambers?’

‘I do.’

‘Really? Are you a friend?’

‘Only a recent friend. But I can see how troubled the woman is. I . . . I’m a nurse. But, please, you mustn’t tell anyone that. I’m trying to help her.’

‘A nurse? Are you a nurse in the hospital where Millie is after being hit by the car?’

‘I work at that hospital, but Millie isn’t there any more. She’s been moved.’ She paused. ‘To a private psychiatric hospital. She . . . she’s been sectioned.’