Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (34 page)

Ricky nodded. ‘Yeah, boss.’

‘That reporter did the story in her paper in Scotland, but it’s all over the news now. Merv’s office said he’s disappeared.’ He smirked. ‘That much I can confirm. They seem to think he’s on the run, and the cops are supposed to be looking for him because of what’s been said in the papers. But they’ll not find him, if you boys have done your job right.’ He raised his eyebrows, waiting for their nod.

‘We have, boss. He’s not going to surface for a while, if ever.’

Larry took a breath. It was time. He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desktop. ‘You see, lads, the problem is,
this fucking model story is so high-profile now. I mean, it was a big deal when she went off the roof, and the whole world decided she’d jumped. But now, with this reporter digging stuff up, finding that fucking junkie brother before we did, his story’s all over the papers. The cops are going to be all over it.’

Larry looked from one to the other. Their faces were as blank as ever. He pushed a button on his mobile phone, sending the text to Billy.

‘Well, what I’m saying is the cops will be asking all sorts of questions. The paper said they have CCTV footage of the hotel and tomorrow they’re going to reveal the identity of the two men who were seen with her on the roof.’ He glanced at them again. ‘The paper also said there was that drunk woman on the roof, the Tory guy’s wife. She said she was there to top herself, but she saw everything. She’s going to be singing like a canary to the cops. She saw the two men.’

Larry took a breath, waiting for it to register with them. Finally it did. But as Ricky and Pete looked at each other, the door opened, and in walked Billy Brown, with a small squat henchman at his back. Ricky began to panic and shifted in his chair, moving to stand up.

‘Stay where you are, Ricky.’ Larry said. ‘Listen, boys, you know how this works. It’s just business. I need to protect the firm. I need to protect myself, because you’re going to get pulled in as soon as this hits the papers.’

‘Larry,
for fuck’s sake, man! You don’t think I’d ever grass you up?’ Ricky’s flushed face made his hair seem even more bleached. ‘No way, man. Never in my fucking life would I do that.’

He looked at his mate, who was grey.

‘Come on now, Ricky. You know the score, son. You know I can’t take that chance.’

Larry raised his eyes to Billy standing behind them and blinked his instruction.

‘B-but, Larry . . . Aw, fuck, man . . . Please, ma—’

The last word was muffled as the bullet went into the back of his neck. A second went into Pete’s. The look of disbelief was still on their faces as they slumped to the floor, blood bubbling out of the back of their heads and spreading into a pool.

Larry stood up and buttoned his coat. ‘You all right to clean up here, Billy?’

‘No worries, mate. Jake here’s a dab hand with a feather duster.’

The smile and the glint in Billy’s eye gave Larry the creeps. But he had his uses. He handed him the bag containing ten grand in used notes and walked out. ‘Close the door behind you, boys.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Rosie
sat on the sofa in McGuire’s office, watching him have two animated conversations at the same time. One was on the phone, to the
Post
’s parliamentary correspondent, Pettigrew, at Westminster, and every few seconds he shouted across to the lawyer, who was sitting beside Rosie. The managing editor, McKay, sat on a leather easy chair, wearing his usual funereal expression. But McGuire’s bullishness made Rosie feel sure there would be only one winner here. He finally hung up and stood at his desk.

‘Officially, the government are not saying much at all, only that they’ll take the allegations seriously and act accordingly. But Pettigrew says the jungle drums are beating all over Westminster. Of course, those crimes happened on the Tory government’s watch, so our current upholders of all that is just in the current Labour government will be happy to give them a good kicking, while thanking Christ it wasn’t them in charge.’

‘It
probably happened on their watch too, Mick. This isn’t a one-off. Organized sexual abuse will have been going on for a very long time. So much of it was swept under the carpet, as if it was just the way things were back in the day. But they can’t get away with it.’

‘But the dossiers,’ the managing editor chipped in, ‘or alleged dossiers, because, remember, if we’re asked in court whether we’ve seen them we’ll have to say no. Do we actually have proof? Millie Chambers didn’t see them either. She’s making allegations arising from a conversation she says she heard between her husband and the then Chief Constable of the Met. And you can bank on her getting torn to shreds if she stands in a witness box, given that she’s a self-confessed piss-artist. And, of course, she’s also a woman scorned.’

There was a stony silence for a few seconds, then Hanlon spoke.

‘But who’s going to take the
Post
to court? Not Colin Chambers or the Chief Constable, who have snuffed it – as you know, you can’t libel the dead. I’m satisfied we’re safe enough with this the way Rosie has written it. She hasn’t implicated any other government minister or police officer, or even any public figure. Plus Rosie has the victim’s account, and he’s happy to be identified. The detective who gave her the name doesn’t want to be involved, but once the story hits the paper, you can guarantee more people will come forward . . . victims as well as police.’

‘Totally
agree, with you, Tommy. People who were afraid or too ashamed until now will take heart from our victim’s story. We can’t lose.’

‘You don’t think we should hold fire, Mick, till Rosie gets an identified cop talking.’

‘No way,’ McGuire said, indignant. ‘For Christ’s sake! We’ve got Colin Chambers blowing his brains out in his home. We’ve got his wife telling us her tale of woe, with her own suicide bid, and we’ve got her on tape talking about the abuse allegations. For fuck’s sake! We’ve even got Chambers’ confession, or as good as, on his suicide note. What more do we need?’

McGuire’s phone rang again, and he answered it. He rolled his eyes at Rosie as he listened for a couple of minutes. Rosie looked him, and he gave her a ‘don’t worry’ look. As he hung up, he said, ‘That was the MD. The Tory Party chairman has been onto him, asking about the level of accusations and if we have solid proof. What a wanker!’

‘Exactly,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s just shitting himself in case any other names come out. I’m prepared to bet that our story will flush out a few once it hits the streets tomorrow.’

‘Well, let’s hope so, Gilmour. But even if it doesn’t, we’re sound enough on this. Right, Tommy?’

‘I’m cool with it, Mick. I’ve seen the layout and the copy. Go for it.’

McGuire
went behind his desk. The meeting was over. ‘Okay, guys. Thanks for coming in. I’ve got a paper to put out, and it’s going to be a belter.’

Everyone stood up and the managing editor left the room, saying nothing. Hanlon and Rosie followed him.

‘You need me to stay around, Mick?’ she asked.

‘No. Just keep your phone on in case there are any developments. Have a few drinks and relax, Gilmour. This is what it’s all about.’

*

Larry Sutton sat on the terrace of his villa high on the hills overlooking Marbella. He sipped his malt whisky, swirled the ice and relished the taste in the back of his throat. It had been a tough couple of days, and he had the feeling it was going to get a lot tougher. If that bitch reporter had everything she said she had, the cops would be all over him once her paper came out tomorrow. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke circle up into the blackness, the rustle of the palm trees in the breeze the only sound.

He hadn’t taken pleasure in getting rid of Ricky and Pete, but that was how these things went. He couldn’t rely on them to keep their mouths shut if it was true there were CCTV photos of them and the testimony of this Tory fucker’s wife. He was fairly sure Ricky wouldn’t have buckled, but his mate might have, so he’d had to get rid of both to be on the safe side. It didn’t feel good. No doubt, the cops
would come looking for him, but they’d need real proof, and he wasn’t going to sit around London, making it easy for them. There was nothing to connect them, and Billy would see to it that Ricky and Pete were unrecognizable in the burned-out car.

But the knowledge that he’d done away with Mervyn Bates was a different matter: he raised a glass to his old friend. ‘We’re working our way through them, Spider, one by one. Here’s to you, mate.’

Chapter Forty

The
Catholic church in Eastbourne was busier than Rosie had expected, full of people ready to sing some of the old hymns she’d grow up with and belted out at primary school. Bridget’s light oak coffin was on a pedestal at the front, and Rosie ushered Dan into a pew. He’d asked her to take him to the funeral: he wanted to pay his respects because Bridget had been kind to him.

As the priest approached the altar and the congregation rose to their feet, Rosie heard the click of high heels in the aisle. She turned to see Millie Chambers, dressed in figure-hugging black, looking like a fading film star. She smiled and slipped into the pew beside Rosie and Dan. She reached across and squeezed Rosie’s hand, then put a comforting arm around Dan. It was a touching picture of two lonely people who had lost so much of who they were, but were finding themselves again day by day.

After
the service Millie invited them to come in her chauffeur-driven car to a nearby seafront hotel, where they sat, surrounded by old people, drinking tea in the conservatory overlooking the pebble beach.

‘Poor Bridget,’ Millie said. ‘I feel so responsible. I
am
responsible. If I hadn’t involved her by asking her to take the letter, she would be at work today on the ward, doing something she loved. But I got her roped into my own bloody story. I feel awful. Maybe some things are best left alone.’

Rosie knew it was the truth, and guilt was gnawing at her. ‘There’s no point in us all feeling bad, Millie, because it happened. Now we have to live with it,’ she said. ‘Bridget felt she was doing the right thing, taking your letter and acting on it. Look what she’s achieved! She’s helped expose all these wrongs – the children who were brutalized and abused. It’s all over the media since our story this morning, and if some good comes of it, then Bridget’s death won’t have been for nothing. I’m proud of her.’

‘She was kind,’ Dan said, ‘someone I could have relied on when I felt alone.’

Millie put down her cup and turned to him. ‘But you’re not alone, Dan. You’re a lovely young man, with so much ahead of you, despite all the terrible things that have happened. Please don’t ever feel alone. I’m in London, and I’ll help you any way I can. I’ll always be here for you, because you, as well as Bridget, did a very brave thing by coming forward.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘So, please, don’t be a stranger. Come and visit me. In fact, you should move out of Glasgow – it’s dragging you down. Come to London – or anywhere else you won’t be surrounded by the people who would pull you back into drugs.’

Dan nodded. ‘That’s what my drugs counsellor says. I need to get away.’

‘Well,’ Rosie said, ‘we’re going to the lawyer this afternoon – Bella’s lawyer – and he’ll put you right about your sister’s estate. I know it’s hard for you to take in right now, but you won’t have to worry about money.’

Dan sighed. ‘I don’t really care about the money. I’d give it all back to have one more day with her. Me and Mitch are hoping to get a flat together, once things are sorted out. We can help each other stay clean.’

‘Stay in touch with me, though,’ Millie said. ‘We can be friends for each other.’

He smiled. ‘I hope so.’

*

Rosie had left Dan at the flat in Finnieston with Mitch. She’d arranged with the owner for him to rent it for six months. It would be a good test to see if he could manage his own affairs, especially with his new-found wealth. At the lawyer’s in London earlier, he had been surprisingly unmoved when the lawyer told him the extent of Bella Mason’s wealth. With the various sponsorships and other deals, she had accrued a fortune of three and a half
million pounds. Some of it was tied up in investments, on the advice of Mervyn Bates, but Bella was the sole signatory and it was her money. So now it was Dan’s. Three and a half million.

‘What am I going to do with all that money?’ he asked, bewildered.

‘You live the life Bella wanted for you, the one they took away from her,’ Rosie told him.

He couldn’t wait to get back and celebrate with Mitch. Life was going to be so different, and it was a lot to take in.

*

It was nine in the evening, and Rosie had left the office and was driving back to her flat when her mobile rang. She hoped it wasn’t McGuire. Everyone was chasing her story, and it was the number-one item on all the TV news bulletins. She’d already passed on the information about the Dawson Institute in Sussex, where Millie had claimed people were locked up for years, although there was very little wrong with them. The
Post
’s sister paper in London would investigate it. Time for her to stand back and take a breather. She was going out for the dinner with TJ that she’d put off twice in the last couple of weeks. She needed to feel some of his security and love around her.

She picked up the phone. It was Don. She’d arranged to meet him tomorrow to pass on the full dossier of her investigation. He’d turn most of it over to Scotland Yard, but it would be a feather in his cap to be the one to pass it on.

‘Rosie,
where are you?’

‘On my way home, Don. Been a long day. I’m seeing you tomorrow. What’s up?’

She heard him clearing his throat, and a too-long pause before he spoke.

‘Rosie, er, listen. It’s that wee heroin-addict mate of Dan Mason’s. Mitch? The guy who got the beating?’

‘Yeah. What is it?’

‘Rosie, I hate to break this to you, but Mitch has been found dead. Overdose. In a flat in the Calton.’

Rosie stopped the car and her stomach sank.

‘Aw, Christ, Don. Are you sure? I saw him a few hours ago.’