by Anna Smith
‘Years?’ Millie raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s supposed to be a clinic for people to rest. People who’ve had a breakdown come here for some therapy.’
The woman nodded.
‘Yes, that too. But it depends on who you are. If you’ve got enough money, you can stick anyone in here for keeps. And they can do what they like with you once you’ve been sectioned – like me.’ She gave Millie a whimsical look. ‘That’s what’s happened to you, I’d say. I know who you are. I watched the news. You’re the Tory wife. They were all talking about you when you came in. And when you did a runner . . .’ she cackled and broke into a chesty cough ‘. . . the place was in uproar. It was brilliant!’ Then her face became serious. ‘I’m sorry they caught you. But that’s it now. It’s not like the movies, you know. You’re not Papillon. You can’t keep escaping. Eventually you’ll realize you’re stuck here.’
Millie sighed. ‘I know. Do you have any family?’
She shook her head. ‘None that will admit to it.’
‘Why are you here?’
She shrugged. ‘I kept trying to do myself in.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I wasn’t very good at it. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ she said, with a slightly mad glint in her eye.
‘Why? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but why did you want to kill yourself? Sorry. If it’s too difficult, please forgive me – forget I asked.’
The woman looked through her, the grey eyes a little glazed. ‘They took my baby away. A very long time ago. That’s what caused it. The shrinks in here told me that, as if I didn’t bloody know.’
‘My God, how awful! What happened?’
The woman pinched the thin skin on the back of her hands. ‘Scandal. I was only fifteen. My parents were stinking rich, respected upper middle-class and all that stuff. Like your Tory toff husband. But I was the rebel daughter. All the schools and the money they spent on me, the life they had planned for me – probably the husband they’d find for me – I ruined it for them. Fell for a local boy at the fairground one summer.’ She shook her head. ‘Thought it was true love. But of course it was just for that one summer. I never saw him again, but he left a baby in my belly.’
‘Oh,’ Millie said.
‘Yes. Bit of a shock. Anyway, that was swiftly covered up and the baby was snatched away from me the moment the little thing popped its head out.’ She swallowed and her face tightened. ‘I screamed so much for so long that I couldn’t speak for days. Then I just stopped speaking. That was it. They shut me away. I was damaged, stained. Soiled goods. Nobody would want me.’
‘But where are your family?’
‘My parents are dead now, obviously, but they just kept putting me in various institutions. You see, the problem is, I stole a baby. Only for half an hour. I was fifteen. I just wanted a baby to hold. Christ! My heart was broken, and nobody could see that.’ Suddenly tears rolled down her cheeks.
Millie could do nothing but sit and watch and fight back her own tears, the longing for her own child, the memory coming back of how her body wouldn’t allow her to carry a baby longer than three months. She reached across and touched the woman’s thin arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She nodded and wiped her tears with hands.
‘Are they not able to help you here? I mean with counselling and the things you need?’
‘They tried. They gave me a lot of that ECT, and maybe it helped for a while, but I don’t think so. My head’s a bit frazzled with it. They do nothing now, just give me food, lock my door at night and put up with me. It’s like a posh prison. It is a posh prison, actually. I’ll never get out. All my family money is in trust, and they just fork out the fees every month, probably by standing order. That’s what I am. A standing order. Nobody comes to see me. They’ve forgotten about me.’
‘Do you want to go out?’
‘I don’t know any more. Maybe.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Millie said.
‘What about you?’ The woman asked. ‘You going to escape again, Papillon?’ Once more the wicked smile.
‘No. My husband has had me sectioned. I run, they’ll get me again.’
The woman nodded. ‘They’re all sectioned in here. But it’s a con.’
Millie looked at her, and wondered if she could chance confiding in her.
‘Do you think you’d be able to do something for me?’
The woman shrugged.
‘If I can. Don’t know.’
‘They lock my door at night so I can’t go anywhere, and I don’t think they’ll let me use the phone. I think they were tracing my calls from here, so I can’t risk it anyway. But I need to get in touch with someone – a friend who cares about me. Could you help me with that?’
The woman gazed at her for a long moment. Then she stood up and stared blankly out of the window. ‘The daffodils are lovely, aren’t they? I remember we used to plant them in our gardens at school. I was so happy then . . .’ She trailed off, looking as though she were in another world.
Millie’s heart sank. How stupid to ask someone who’d been locked up for years if they could help. The woman walked out of the room, and Millie felt hopeless.
A few minutes later, the woman reappeared, put her hand into her pocket and brought out a pen with a small notepad.
‘Give me the name of the person you want me to contact. And tell me the message.’
Millie looked up at her. Her expression was stern and determined. Millie scribbled down Bridget’s home and mobile phone numbers.
‘Thank you. Please just tell her where I am.’
The woman took the pad, stuck it into her pocket and walked away without a word. Millie stared after her, wondering if she was part of a game the old woman was playing, not knowing if she would hand it over to the nurses, make the call or flush it down the toilet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rosie was in her office, off the editorial floor, so she could put together the piece from last night’s interview with Millie and Dan.
‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie! I thought you were coming straight to my office when you got back. Look at the state of you.’ McGuire had come in without her noticing.
Rosie sat back and grimaced. Her swollen eye was still almost closed and her head was thumping, partly from lack of sleep, partly the build-up of tension. Her cracked rib sent a searing pain through her when she took a breath. McGuire looked at her in disbelief.
‘What the fuck’s going on? Right. We need to get you up to A & E.’
Rosie raised her hand, and took a shallow breath., trying not to strain herself.
‘No, Mick. Honestly, I’m fine. I’ve already seen a doctor. I told you, he came to Bertie’s hotel before I left and had a good look. He said I’ve got a cracked rib, but there’s nothing you can do for it except wait till it gets better.’ She tried to straighten, but was conscious that her face showed the pain. ‘It catches my breath a bit. Once I get this piece over, I’m going home for a hot bath and a rest. It’ll be a lot better in the morning.’ She looked up at him. ‘I thought I’d come in here first and rattle out the story before I saw you. It’s good stuff.’
McGuire stood with his hands in his pockets and was silent for a moment. Then he ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well, that’s what I came to tell you about. The lawyers are seriously bricking it over Millie Chambers and the child-abuse cover-up claims.’
‘Christ, Mick! They haven’t seen the bloody copy.’ She was indignant. ‘Even you haven’t seen it!’
‘I know. I’m sure it’ll be brilliant. But you know the score, Rosie.’
Rosie shifted in her seat, trying to make herself comfortable. ‘Yeah. I know. Claiming it and proving it are two different things.’
‘Read me your intro.’ McGuire planked himself onto the chair opposite her, his feet on the desk, his hands in his pockets.
Rosie glanced at her screen and read aloud: ‘A former Tory cabinet minister covered up a police investigation into a child-abuse ring involving se
nior public figures . . .’
McGuire pursed his lips. ‘That’s just a bit nuclear.’
‘It’s what the claim is, Mick, and it’s not being made lightly. What are the lawyers saying?’
‘I spoke to Hanlon last night, and McKay did a conference call with the two senior partners this morning. They’re both of the view that, without more evidence, we’ll get our arses sued and we’ll lose in court . . . big-time. Hanlon agrees it’s a bit risky.’ He folded his arms. ‘Can we tone it down a bit? Get a form of words that hints at something?’
‘Hints at what, though? Like being a little bit raped? Listen, it’s not going to work unless we tell it like it is.’
‘We need to get some more evidence.’
‘Some of it is nearly twenty years ago, Mick.’ Rosie had already considered this, and knew it was almost impossible to track down either a victim or an officer who had investigated the crimes. But she wanted to see Millie’s story on the screen first and to hear if the lawyers looked like they were on board. Only one person she knew could perhaps dig something up. Mickey Kavanagh. ‘I can make a call to a good mate of mine who worked at the Met for a while. The crimes will all be before his time, I suppose, but he has a lot of contacts.’
McGuire nodded, but he didn’t seem very impressed, and Rosie had the sinking feeling that he was throwing in the towel already.
‘Okay. Give him a shout. But, remember, we’ve already got two belters of stories waiting to go, Dan’s, and Millie’s witness to the murder. We can hang onto the investigation for a bit.’
Rosie looked him in the eye. ‘But you’re not giving up on it?’
‘Of course not, Gilmour. But you know yourself – we need more evidence. Anything that can say, first, such an investigation took place, and second, we’ve tracked down any officers or victims. That’s paramount.’
‘Millie said the files were destroyed.’
McGuire stood up. ‘Of course they were. That’s what guilty fuckers in positions of power do, and that’s why we have to make sure they don’t get away with it. Now, make your call to your mate, and get home to bed. This story will still be here in the morning.’
‘I won’t let it go away, Mick.’
‘I know you won’t.’ He winked, then left the room.
Rosie picked up her mobile and punched in Mickey Kavanagh’s number. He answered after five rings.
‘Mickey. How are things down in the Smoke?’
‘All human life is here, my lovely,’ he replied. ‘And some of it, if I had anything to do with it, would not be.’
Rosie enjoyed Kavanagh’s outlook on life. ‘You doing something unpleasant?’
‘You could say that, Rosie. Been doing a bit of undercover work, as usual, and digging up a few complete bastards for the plods. Honestly, I sometimes wonder what’s happened to the modern plod. Some of them couldn’t find their arse in the dark.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, how the hell are you? We need to get a night out and you can tell me your stories. I’m still surprised the diamond smugglers or the Taliban haven’t got you yet. You were lucky to get out of Pakistan a couple of months ago – but then you never listen to me.’
‘I do listen to you. In fact, I’m phoning again to pick your detective brains re: that model death in Madrid. It’s growing arms and legs. Is that okay?’
‘Fire away. If I can help, I will.’
‘Colin Chambers.’ Rosie said.
‘Arsehole,’ Kavanagh replied.
‘John Garvey, former Chief Constable of the Met.’
‘Arsehole,’ Kavanagh said. ‘I was only here the last couple of years before he retired, but I’ve heard a few things about him. So what is this? Word association? I can say “arsehole” to loads of people.’
‘I’m working on a mega-story. Not just about Millie and the hotel in Madrid. Bigger than that.’
‘With Chambers and Garvey at the heart of it? Yeah. In your dreams, Rosie.’
‘I seriously am, and I need your help. By the way, why do you say Chambers is an arsehole, and the other guy?’
‘Well, Garvey was a crook by all accounts, and lined his own pockets all his life. He croaked it five years ago, and most of the guys who turned up at his funeral were there just to make sure.’
‘Okay. What about Chambers?’
‘As Home Secretary, he was the guy who ordered inquiries into Met officers after the riots and stuff. But he turned a blind eye to rogue cops beating people up and officers that were plain racist who should have been out the door. He’s a wanker. And a powerful one.’
‘Interesting. Listen, Mick. I’ve got good information that Garvey covered up a child-sexual-abuse investigation because it came too close for comfort to a lot of establishment figures.’
‘You mean they were involved?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never heard of that. When was it?’
‘Might have been twenty years ago.’
‘Before my time. But what did Garvey do? Please tell me he was a pervert.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. But he covered up the investigation at the behest of Colin Chambers, who was then Home Secretary.’
Silence.
‘Christ, Rosie! If that’s anything like true, you’ll never get it in any paper in a month of fucking Sundays. Who’s telling you this? You got victims?’
‘Well, no. Chambers’ wife is telling me.’
Silence.
‘Fuck me! His wife? The flaky woman who was hit by a car in Eastbourne a few weeks ago? She’s a bit of a pisshead, is she not?’
‘Well, there is that.’
‘So how does she know?’
‘She claims the Chief Constable was a dinner guest on a few occasions and she overheard the conversation about this investigation and was horrified. Weeks later she overheard her husband telling him on the phone to shred the files.’
‘She heard that? How did she know it was him and not his imaginary friend he was on the phone to, though?’
‘She said she took the call from Garvey and passed it to her husband.’
‘And she’s going public to say this?’
‘Yep. Er . . . if I can find her.’
‘What do you mean, if you can find her? Have you spoken to her?’
‘Long story, Mickey, but yes. I had her with me for a couple of days while she spilled all the beans, and then she was kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’
‘Yeah. I’ll tell you later when I get a chance. But is there anyone at all down there who would throw the slightest bit of light on this? I realize that some of the officers may be retired or dead, and I don’t even know how many worked on it. All I have is her claim. And a young guy who says he was aware of kids being taken from the children’s home where he was, but that was in Glasgow. He was abused, but doesn’t know if it was an organized thing.’
‘Did he go to the cops?’
‘Yes, he did. When he was about fifteen. But he became a bit of a drifter after that.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I have him somewhere safe – I hope.’ She paused. ‘He’s a heroin addict.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Rosie! You don’t half keep some strange company.’
‘Not just any heroin addict, though, Mickey. He’s Bella Mason’s secret brother.’
‘You mean the model who jumped from the building in Madrid? That Bella Mason?’
‘That Bella Mason. Yes. And he says after they were split up as kids, she lived down south and knew about the organized abuse.’
‘Christ almighty!’
Rosie could hear a landline telephone ringing in the background.
‘I need to go, Rosie, but leave it with me. I’ll see what I can find. But it’s a tough one. I’ve never even had a sniff of anything like that and, as you know, I’ve got mates everywhere. Nobody has ever mentioned a thing about child abuse.’
‘Okay. I understand, but I’d be very grateful if you could just put a couple of calls in for me.’
‘I know.’
‘You always know, but you keep doing it. Just be careful.’
He hung up.
*
Bridget had been awake since six after a restless night, her mind flooded with dark scenarios of Millie. They could just get rid of her, but she consoled herself that things like that only happened in the movies. Colin Chambers was a powerful man, but he couldn’t afford to harm his wife, she decided, especially after the story in the newspapers about her being hit by a car, and Rosie Gilmour’s story that she’d been in the hotel when Bella Mason died. He’d be scrutinized too closely to do anything, especially if what Millie had said about the child-abuse investigation was true. Colin Chambers had too much to hide to do away with Millie.
She finished her coffee and looked at the clock. She still had ten minutes before she had to leave for the bus to work. Her stomach tightened a little at the thought of going back after disappearing for a few days. She’d phoned in sick, but when she’d called yesterday after arriving home to say she’d be returning to work this morning, one of her friends had asked if everything was all right. Then the nurse said the hospital manager had been asking if anyone had had a proper chat with Millie Chambers while she was there.
Suddenly the shrill ring of her house phone in the hall startled her as she was about to leave. She went through and picked it up, but didn’t speak. There was silence at the other end of the line, but Bridget could hear breathing.
‘Is that Bridget?’ The voice was thin, an older woman’s.
‘Who’s this, please?’
‘I need to speak to Bridget. Is that you?’
‘But who is this?’ Bridget protested, edgy.
‘I have a very important message from Millie Chambers for Bridget. I don’t have much time.’
Bridget stalled for two seconds. ‘Yes. I’m Bridget.’
‘Millie Chambers told me to phone you to let you know that she’s in the Dawson Institute. She said to tell you they took her back.’
