by Anna Smith
Tools, Millie had thought. She’d never heard that expression before. The tools she’d used for the past twelve years were contained in a bottle of wine, champagne, gin or any other drink she could get hold of. For years nobody had noticed, because in most of the circles she moved in, the ladies lunched and drank, then topped up in the evenings with their husbands or lovers. But Millie knew she wasn’t drinking to be sociable and to enjoy herself. Alcohol deadened the pain, and by the time she’d realized it was only making things worse, it was too late. She needed it. It had taken over her life.
‘The car will be here shortly,’ Bridget said, checking the watch on the breast pocket of her uniform.
A wave of panic rushed through Millie. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said, her chest tight with emotion.
‘I know, pet, but maybe it’s for the best. These people are highly trained. You’ll be okay.’ She held Millie’s hand.
Millie nodded, unable to stop the tears. ‘Will you come and visit me?’
There was pity in Bridget’s pale blue eyes. ‘I’d love to, Millie. But it’s not really allowed. I mean, I’m not supposed to get involved with patients.’
‘But you can see I don’t want this.’
‘I know, pet. But I have to be able to take a step back professionally. I’m sure you can understand that. You’re just afraid. But you’ll be fine once you’re settled.’
Millie clenched her fists. ‘Bridget. Please, listen to me. Before they come for me I have something to tell you. I have something for you.’ She reached below her pillow and pulled out the envelope.
Bridget looked confused.
‘There’s a letter in here. Well, a statement from me.’ She handed it to her.
‘A statement?’ She was puzzled now.
‘Yes. I need to explain what happened. I have to tell someone what I saw.’
‘What do you mean, Millie? What did you see?’
‘That night. In Madrid. I saw it. Bella Mason. The girl—’
The door suddenly opened. A man and a woman came in. One was wearing a uniform, and the other a suit. They were here. Millie looked through her tears at Bridget, pleading with her eyes. Bridget slipped the envelope into the pocket of her tunic. ‘Come on now, Millie,’ she said, firm but sympathetic. ‘That’s your car to collect you.’
The uniformed woman picked up the case from the corner of the room and waited.
Millie swallowed. Her legs felt a little weak as she got off the bed, but she put up her hand to dismiss the woman in uniform who took a step towards her.
‘Do you want me to get a wheelchair?’ the woman asked.
‘No. I do not want a wheelchair. I’m not an invalid.’
Millie attempted to hold herself upright, raising her chin defiantly. She could do this. She had to. She fought back her tears. She took a few faltering steps, the pain still in her hip, but she managed it. Bridget helped her on with her coat, as the other two waited outside in the doorway. As she stood opposite Bridget, Millie put her arms around her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Then, when Bridget hugged her back, Millie whispered in her ear, ‘Please help me. Please, Bridget. I have nobody. I’m not mentally ill, just so unhappy.’
The nurse released her, and kept her face friendly but without emotion. Millie nodded, biting her lip. There was nothing more she could do. She walked down the corridor, the Cuban heels of her leather ankle boots clicking on the tiles. She took it slowly, aware that some of the staff were watching her from behind the nurses’ station. She didn’t look in their direction but straight ahead, walking as though she were going to the gallows, because that was how she felt.
Outside, the driver in his grey chauffeur’s uniform held open the back door of the black Jaguar. She nodded at him and slipped inside. She sank into the black leather seat and gazed out of the window at the first signs of spring: the crows’ nests high up in the tall poplar trees, the sun breaking through the clouds. The tears came to her eyes and she let them spill onto her cheeks. She had never felt so helpless and so alone.
*
Bridget Casey opened the front door of her flat and put her heavy shopping bags on the hall floor. She was soaked after trudging from the bus stop and glad to get out of the downpour. She stood for a moment, exhausted, and leaned against the front door, enjoying the warmth of her house. Again, the image came to her of Millie Chambers walking down the corridor in the hospital towards the front door. She had held her head high, a beautiful but broken woman, trying to be proud amid the humiliation of being sectioned as a basket case. It was a horrible, degrading thing to happen to a human being, but in a lot of cases, it was the only way to stop someone harming themselves or others. Normally, nothing like that would get under her skin, and rich, privileged women like Millie Chambers were pretty low on her sympathy radar. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman, the pleading in her eyes. What had been so wrong in her life that she had shattered like a piece of fine porcelain? Bridget wondered.
She had heard the conversation between the husband and the hospital’s psychiatrist about Millie being bipolar or suffering from some form of schizophrenia. She’d recognized Colin Chambers all right. A big-shot. Handsome and quite charming, glad-handing all the staff when he’d breezed in the other day. But Bridget had stood outside Millie’s door yesterday and heard him tear a strip off his poor wife once the doctor had left. That wasn’t right. Not in her condition. Whatever else this big snob was in his high-profile life, he was a cowardly abuser. A pure bastard.
Bridget picked up her shopping and went into the kitchen, then put it away in the fridge and the cupboards. She took a ready meal out of the freezer and shoved it into the microwave, then went into the living room and switched on the lights and the television. She sat down, opened her bag and took out the white envelope. She laid it on the coffee table, unsure whether to open it or not. She shouldn’t even have taken it from Millie. It was bad enough that she’d been thinking about the poor woman all day, but she couldn’t get involved like this. If anyone in the hospital found out she’d taken a letter from a patient she’d be in trouble. She picked it up. She should rip it up now and be done with it. But Millie had said she’d seen something in Madrid. She’d mentioned the name of the model who’d killed herself . . . Bridget sighed. Maybe Millie was mentally ill, delusional and as raving mad as they were saying. She sat back, the envelope in her hand.
The microwave pinged. She stood up and went into the kitchen, tossing the letter into the bin as she passed it.
After she had eaten, Bridget sat flicking through the TV channels from soap to soap, not really watching them but just staring, almost catatonic she was so tired. She’d been working since eight that morning and could rarely stay awake beyond nine thirty. She yawned, then got up to go and run a bath. It would help her sleep. It had been a pretty hellish day.
As she watched the tub fill with water, she thought again of Millie Chambers. She’d be in that private clinic by now, probably all cried out and desperately alone, no doubt sedated and locked into some pristine room. It rankled with her. Something wasn’t right about it. She took off her clothes, put on her towelling robe and went down to the kitchen. She took out the envelope from the bin, slid it open and began to read.
Chapter Ten
Rosie had woken up with TJ holding her tight, whispering that everything was okay, that she was just having a dream. She opened her eyes, and he was looking at her. He wiped away her tears. Her throat tightened, partly with sadness from the dream, but also because she was glad he was there. So many times, when she’d woken herself screaming or crying like this, she’d longed for him to fill the crushing emptiness that overwhelmed her.
‘Still with the nightmares, then, Gilmour?’ TJ said, as she lay back on the pillow. ‘Do they happen as much?’
Rosie sighed, staring at the ceiling. She’d been embarrassed the first time she’d slept with TJ and had woken up crying. He was the only person she’d ever told about her childhood and how she’d
been waking up with these traumas for most of her life. ‘Not as often. A lot of it depends on what’s going on in my life, mostly at work. If I’m under pressure, scared or upset, it seems to lie dormant until I go to sleep. Then it all joins together to create some drama stretching back to that day with my mother – when I saw her.’
‘I dreamed about you sometimes when I was in New York,’ TJ said, propping himself up on his elbow.
‘Yeah?’ Rosie gave him a sideways glance. ‘Nightmares, no doubt.’
‘Nah. Mostly they were erotic. In fact, I think I feel another one coming on now.’ He pulled her on top of him.
They made love with hunger, losing themselves, as though it were for the last time. Then Rosie’s mobile rang on the bedside table.
‘Aw, fuck, Rosie! Leave it!’ TJ said, breathless, as he clutched her hair. ‘Please, leave it.’
For a second, Rosie felt her body slacken against him, the urge to answer the phone crashing through her. But, this time, she let it ring.
Afterwards, she lay in TJ’s arms, exhausted.
‘Come on, Gilmour. I know you’re dying to get on your mobile. Don’t pretend you’re relaxing in the afterglow.’ He nuzzled her neck. ‘I’m impressed you stayed till the end, though.’
Rosie smiled, reaching over and propping herself up on the pillow, then checked her phone. A missed call from McGuire, and it wasn’t even eight yet. ‘It’s my editor. I have to call him.’ She sat up, swinging her feet to the floor, and pushed the call-return key as she walked naked to the bedroom door.
‘I’ll do some breakfast.’ TJ yawned.
*
McGuire tossed the Mirror onto his desk. ‘Get a load of this, Gilmour! Out of the fucking blue!’
Rosie picked up the paper, the front page headline screaming, ‘TORY WIFE HIT BY CAR’. And beneath it a strapline, ‘FORMER MINISTER’S WIFE IN HOSPITAL’.
‘Christ! That changes things a bit,’ Rosie said, as she read through the story.
‘Sure does. Sit down, Rosie, we need to work out how we move on what we’ve got.’
Rosie sat on the sofa, still reading. ‘There’s a line in here from some witness saying Millie seemed a bit confused moments before she stepped off the pavement.’
‘Or pissed. Or hungover.’ McGuire picked up his mug of coffee and came out from behind his desk to sit opposite her. ‘How much did we get from Pettigrew in Westminster re the state of the Chambers marriage and all that kind of shit?’
‘Well, he’s still digging away. The signs are that she’s a bit of a lush, highly strung is what he’s been told, but also very popular. A real beauty in her day, as we know from the pictures.’
Rosie had been delighted that José had once again come up trumps, sending her a picture yesterday of Millie Chambers in the foyer at the Hotel Senator in Madrid.
‘There’s no mention in the story of why she was in Eastbourne,’ McGuire said. ‘And nothing about Madrid.’
‘Well, our picture and information put her in Madrid just a day or so before this car accident. But, more importantly, we can place her in the same hotel the night Bella died. I’d say we’ve no option now but to start moving on that. You never know what might come out.’
‘Agreed. The statement here from her prick of a husband is just the usual waffle. He says Millie had gone to Eastbourne for a little break, that it’s one of her favourite coastal retreats, she having spent holidays there as kid. Bullshit!’
‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘Well, the smart money is on them having a punch-up and she buggers off to Madrid, then to Eastbourne.’
‘Do you think she got off her mark smartish in Madrid after Bella took the dive?’
‘Absolutely. She’d have to. Otherwise it would be all over the papers that she was there.’
‘Well, it’s going to be all over this paper tomorrow,’ McGuire said. ‘Right. Here’s what I want. I’m using the pictures of her in the hotel, and saying we have proof that she stayed there. And also that she was one of the last people to see Bella alive. Fuck it! I might even use the fact that she was pished in the afternoon in the hotel cocktail bar – just to noise up Chambers.’
‘Yeah, but we shouldn’t mention anything yet about her being there when Bella was in tears at the hotel. Everyone will follow our story, so let’s have something exclusive again for tomorrow.’
‘Okay. Great. Get back to Pettigrew and find out what the lobby gossip is on her being in the crash and in Eastbourne. I can hear the sound of Tory arseholes clanging shut.’
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it, Mick. But, listen, I got some great stuff from the alleged brother yesterday. I think he’s telling the truth. We need to go through his interview.’
McGuire consulted his watch. ‘Okay. After conference. But go and get something down on your screen about Millie in Madrid for tomorrow’s paper. The Sun thinks they had an exclusive today, but tomorrow we’ll show them all just what a fucking exclusive is.’
Rosie stood up. ‘I can’t wait to hear what Chambers says when I phone him for a quote.’
McGuire grinned. ‘Yeah, but that won’t be until I’m about to start the fucking presses. He won’t be getting any time to prepare a load of fanny for a statement.’
She left the office with a spring in her step.
*
Rosie waited in her car for Dan outside the doctor’s surgery in Hyndland. She was surprised he’d turned up, knowing how unreliable junkies could be. She’d made the arrangement with her GP friend Simon. It wasn’t a request he had every day, but as one of Rosie’s oldest mates, he’d agreed to see Dan.
She watched as Dan came out of the surgery, zipping up his jacket. He waved a prescription at her as he approached the car, and sat down on the passenger seat. ‘He says I’ve got a touch of pneumonia.’
‘Pneumonia?’ Rosie said. ‘Jesus, Dan. You’re going to have to do something about your health here, pal. You’ll need to make some changes, starting right now.’
Dan was staring out of the windscreen. ‘He gave me antibiotics and said I’ve got to rest . . . But where the fuck am I going to rest? I don’t even have a bed.’
Rosie said nothing, but her mind was already doing overtime, and she could nearly hear McGuire shouting.
‘I’ll talk to the editor about putting you up somewhere for a few days.’ She started the engine. ‘But your biggest problem is the drugs, Dan. I can’t put you into a hotel or decent accommodation if you’re going to be out of your box on smack all the time, bringing people back and stuff. It just won’t work. What did the doc say about the heroin?’
Dan sighed. ‘He said I need to go on a programme. He looked at my arms – I told him I don’t inject – and he took some blood for tests. He asked me if I’d go on a methadone programme.’
‘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. W
on’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.’
