Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (11 page)

‘Have you thought about that before?’

‘Aye.
Bella talked about it, and she was saying something about getting me into a clinic. A private place. That was the last time I saw her.’

‘You have to
want
to chuck it, Dan. That’s the most important thing.’

‘Fucking right I
want
to chuck it.’ He wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘See, every time I wake up, Rosie, it’s the first thing I think of, because I know if I don’t get sorted with some smack soon – just a wee smoke – I’ll be rattling. It’s a shite feeling, being sick and having a pain in your gut because you just need it. I want to stop, but the smack makes life a bit easier. When I get some, I just sink away and nothing hurts me any more. I forget a lot of the crap, all that stuff I told you about. The heroin turns the volume down on it all. Know what I mean?’

Rosie nodded and said nothing. She turned the car around and headed back towards the city centre. They picked up his prescription at a chemist on Byres Road and went into a cafe nearby. Once they’d ordered some food and drinks, she went outside to phone McGuire. There was no answer on his private line, but she got Marion, his secretary, on the main number.

‘He’s at a board meeting upstairs, Rosie. Won’t be out till after seven he says. Can I pass on a message?’

‘No. I’ll call him back later, Marion.’

Rosie stood outside for a moment while she made a
decision, then went back into the cafe. She sat down and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Right, Dan. Listen to me for a moment. Can you do that?’

‘Aye.’

‘I want to talk to the editor about getting you into a flat or a hotel while we work on this investigation together. It’s no good me trying to dig you out every day, not knowing where you’re staying or if you’re sleeping rough. You understand that? How do you feel about getting into somewhere, especially as you’re ill? You need to be some place warm and you need rest with that pneumonia. It’s not the kind of thing you can just shrug off.’

‘I know. I’ve no money.’ He looked at the table. ‘And I need smack. I can’t function without it.’

‘What did the doctor actually say about the methadone programme?’

‘That he’d phone you and talk about it.’

Rosie nodded. ‘If I get you into a hotel or put you up somewhere, I don’t want to be getting any phone calls that you’ve buggered off and taken everything that isn’t nailed down.’

He glanced up at her and looked away. ‘I’m not a born thief. It’s just the way things are, these days.’

‘I don’t care, Dan. If I stick my neck out for you, I need to be able to trust you. Are we clear about that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You need to do this for Bella. It’s what she would have
wanted. She’d be proud of what you’re doing right now, that you’re going to talk to the police as soon as we can get you straightened out. But most of this has to come from you. You must know that you can make your life different.’

She watched as he bit back tears. ‘I want to get better. I want to do the right thing. But I’m so fucked up inside if I don’t have the heroin.’

‘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 Geoffrey 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.