Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7

by Anna Smith

  ‘So Dan, can you tell me more about these two guys in the picture? Who are they and how did you meet them? I can see they scare you. Do they work for someone?’ She took her tape recorder out of her pocket. ‘Listen. I’m going to tape what you’re saying here, because in due course when we use your interview, I want to get it right. Are you okay with that?’

  Dan nodded. ‘But if you’re going to put something in the paper right away, I need to get the fuck out of Glasgow and far away. I’m telling you, those guys will be looking for me.’

  Rosie nodded patiently. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort that. Who are they?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell you.’ Dan tore off a corner of pizza and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Rosie waited. Mitch sat on the floor, his back resting against the sofa, staring blankly at the fake flames dancing on the electric fire.

  ‘The big guy with the bleached hair, he’s Ricky, and the other one is Pete. They’re coke dealers who live in London. But they’re from Glasgow. They work for some East End geezer down in London – a big-shot. His name is Larry something.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t remember, but it’ll come back to me. Larry is an evil bastard, loaded with money, a big coke dealer. I mean big-time. He supplies most of the coke up here. Heroin too. Nearly everything from Spain and places like that comes to him first.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Rosie was surprised at how well informed Dan seemed to be. He was a nobody, a skinny heroin addict who at twenty-one was probably in the twilight of his life because junkies like him, ravaged by drugs and disease, rarely saw their thirtieth birthday.

  ‘Bella told me,’ Dan said. ‘That Larry prick was at a function one time in London, and I was there with Bella. Well, I wasn’t with her, because nobody knew I was her brother. But I was at it too. It was a couple of years ago. I wasn’t as into heroin as I am now, just using it now and again. Anyway, for this party thing, Bella had got me spruced up.’ A half-smile played on his lips at the recollection, and he glanced at Mitch. ‘New jeans and stuff, and a dead expensive shirt. I looked all right that night.’

  ‘So this Larry guy was there?’

  ‘Aye. Like I said, he’s a big coke dealer. Bella was doing coke then, but not as much as she did recently. She admitted it to me when we were back staying in her hotel room that night – we were both wasted drunk. We talked about the old days, the home and stuff, and we were both greetin’.’ Dan gazed at the fire. ‘She said that Larry . . . Oh, I remember his name now – Larry Sutton. Aye. She said that Larry was the coke supplier for all the models who used. And they all did, to keep themselves skinny. Everyone was a cokehead in the fashion business. Larry supplied them all through that prick Mervyn. Big Mervyn Bates, her manager I told you about. He organized the coke for Bella and other girls. He’s the real bastard. He’s the one who took Bella away from me.’

  Rosie watched as his mouth tightened and the muscle in his jaw twitched.

  ‘What do you mean, Dan, he took Bella away?’

  ‘From the home. From the children’s home. Bella was thirteen, but she looked older. She was beautiful. Tall and thin, with these great green eyes. Everybody fancied her.’ He smiled. ‘And she fancied herself too. She said she was going to be a model. Any time someone asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up, Bella said she was going to be famous – a famous model.’ He shook his head. ‘And she was. She was famous all right.’

  ‘So how did Mervyn Bates get involved?’

  ‘He’s an agent or something. I’m not sure. He’s like the guy who pushes the models to the right agencies, and he gets a cut of the money. He became Bella’s manager.’

  ‘What, when she was thirteen?’

  ‘No. Well, I don’t know. But it was him who arranged for Bella to be moved out of the home and live with foster parents. He said she was a special kid and could go far in the world, but that she needed to get out of the home. I was there when he said that. I remember it.’ He paused. ‘I don’t even know how he came to be around the home anyway. Maybe somebody got in touch with him and told him there was this beautiful young girl there. Who knows? I think they were all in on the pervert thing that was going on. Bastards.’

  ‘You were there when he said Bella had to get out of the home?’

  Dan nodded sadly. ‘Yeah. Then it seemed to happen quite quickly. It was only about two months later that Bella was taken away.’

  ‘But what about you? Could they not take her brother?’

  ‘They only wanted one child. I don’t know who the fuck they were. They took her down to England. It was Mervyn who set it up, but I’ll bet they were all part of the whole fucking paedo thing that had been going on.’

  ‘Did you ever meet the people?’

  ‘No. Bella didn’t even want to go. She was crying every day and causing fights, and saying she wasn’t going without me. But they just took her one night when we were all sleeping. When I went into the canteen in the morning, she wasn’t there. I took a flaky and started shouting and smashing things. They dragged me away.’ He sniffed back tears. ‘I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to my sister. She was all I fucking had in the world. Everything that was done was about the paedos getting what they wanted. Bastards!’ Dan buried his head in his hands.

  Mitch patted his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate. You’re all right. You’ll be all right.’

  ‘I won’t, Mitch,’ he sobbed. ‘I’ll never be all right. Not after all that stuff. Fuck! I was only eight years old when the first greasy bastard got his hands on me. And I know Bella was only ten the first time they took us on the bus to that flat.’

  Rosie waited until he stopped crying. ‘Dan, do you want to talk about that just now? It’s up to you. We can stop if you want. Take a break and do it in the morning.’

  He wiped his nose on his sleeve, composed himself.

  ‘Aye. I want to talk. You said we were getting the police, didn’t you? I want to go to the cops with this and tell them everything, like I did before. When I was fifteen and still in Glasgow, I got arrested for shoplifting and then got done again for smashing a window and stealing jewellery. I told the cops then about the abuse, but I don’t think they believed me. I tried to get some of the other people I knew from the home, but they’d all gone their own ways and it was hopeless. I did meet one guy, Tony, a year later, and he also went to the cops. I know that for sure. He made a complaint.’

  ‘What was his second name?’

  ‘Tony Calvetti.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘No. Don’t know what happened to him. I only bumped into him by chance in one of the hostels here about eighteen months ago. That was when he told me he’d reported it to the cops. It was when he’d been arrested for assault. I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘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 lit
tle 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.’