Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7

by Anna Smith

  James gazed at the football shirt, and she wondered how many more innocent young lives and dreams had been shattered because nobody thought they were important enough to matter.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Mervyn Bates clicked his small suitcase shut, his hands trembling. ‘Calm down,’ he told himself. ‘You’ll be out of here in half an hour. Out and away, too far away for anyone to come looking for you. They wouldn’t know where to start.’ He had always had a contingency plan. He called it his nuclear survival plan, in the event of the walls ever closing in on him. He hadn’t expected to put the wheels in motion from a hotel in bloody Glasgow, but today he had to. After the visit from that head-case reporter and her disturbingly accurate accusations, he knew the game was finally up. He’d have to disappear, and quick. If he’d needed any more convincing, the visit from Larry Sutton had left him in no doubt. It wasn’t just his reputation that was about to be destroyed, he would be dead meat if he stayed another night in this city.

  He’d decided not even to risk going to the airport, and had got his PA in London to book him on the overnight sleeper to Euston. He’d told her just to shut up and book it, and not to ask bloody questions when she expressed surprise that he wanted a train, not the morning flight. Then he’d asked her to reserve the Eurostar to Paris, from where he would fly to Thailand in the evening. He knew the place well. He had friends there of a kindred spirit and he could quietly disappear. He was loaded with money and could live out the rest of his life with nobody to ask questions about his sexual desires or preferences for young kids. Mervyn Bates didn’t even ask himself the question that the bitch reporter had put to him: had he raped Bella Mason? That was in the past. He hadn’t felt bad about it then and he didn’t now. He was moving on with his life, and nobody was going to drag him down.

  He finished the remains of a bottle of mineral water, looked at his watch and stepped out of the hotel bedroom. He walked along the corridor and went down in the lift to the foyer. He glanced furtively around the place, busy with some kind of function, then slipped through the throng and out of the automatic doors into the driving rain. There was no taxi at the door, and he was about to turn and go back in when he felt something in his back. Even though nobody had ever stuck a gun in his back, he knew exactly what it was.

  ‘Let’s go, Merv. Don’t make a fuss.’

  Bates felt his whole body go limp as he recognized Ricky’s voice. The gun was pushed harder into his back and urged him in the direction of a car a few yards along from the entrance. Ricky opened the back door, and he got in without protest. As they drove out of the car park, Bates opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then he croaked, ‘Ricky. Listen, mate. This is crazy.’

  ‘It’s just business, Merv.’

  ‘Ricky,’ he could hear his voice shaking, ‘you’re a smart guy. You don’t have to do this. I can make you a rich young man. The two of you. You know that. Just please take me to the station and let me go. You tell Larry you missed me, and by tomorrow afternoon there’ll be a hundred grand in your bank account.’

  He saw Ricky glance at the driver, a small smirk on his face, and wondered if he was getting through. This pair of Neanderthals could be bought, no doubt about it. All they knew was money. They could barely string a sentence together. But they didn’t answer.

  ‘Ricky,’ Bates said, leaning forward so his head was between the two of them. ‘No way is Larry paying you more than a hundred grand. You’re just dog shit to him. He’ll be giving you a few quid to get rid of me, but ask yourself, what’s the point? Take my money and you can just fuck off abroad somewhere . . . I mean—’

  By the time he saw the fist coming from the front seat, he was already dazed and slumping back, his nose cracking and opening up, blood gushing.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Ricky! Aw, Jesus, man! There’s blood everywhere.’

  ‘Shut up, Merv.’

  He was barely conscious, wiping the blood away as vomit rose in the back of his throat. The car turned away from the city centre. He had no idea where they were going. This was his first time in Glasgow since the days he used to come up for charity work, when he’d first spotted Bella Mason. After he’d taken her away, he’d never come back.

  The car pulled off the main road and into a layby next to the river. This was not good. The driver stopped. Ricky got out and opened the back door. He didn’t speak, just leaned in with his big arms and dragged Bates out. His legs buckled so Ricky and the driver pulled him to his feet. He was dizzy with panic. They were going to beat the shit out of him and probably leave him for dead. But, no. The driver had a rope. They turned him around roughly and pushed him face down onto the car bonnet, then pulled his head back and stuck gaffer tape over his mouth. He couldn’t breathe through his nose for the blood and he started gagging. He was beginning to pass out. He felt his hands being tied behind his back, and then the rope go around his ankles. Now he was being dragged along the cobblestones towards a ledge, and he could hear the flow of the river. They held him over the water and all he could see was the inky blackness.

  A mobile rang and they stopped, leaving him dangling over the edge. Ricky took it out of his pocket. ‘Yep. Sure, boss.’

  Bates felt the mobile being pressed against his ear, and he could hear the voice of Larry Sutton.

  ‘This is what should happen to all the cunts like you, Merv. Every last one of them. But I can’t do them all, even though I’ve done a few. You’re a bastard, Merv, and you’ll rot in Hell. This is for Bella Mason. I hope you can see her face as you drown, you evil, twisted fucker.’

  The words were ringing in his ear as Ricky pulled the phone away from him and they started to ease him, feet first, over the side. Bates found himself wondering if he would float, or maybe even be found. He felt piss run down his legs, puked and choked. Still they said nothing. He heard a big splash in the water and wondered what it was. Then there was a sudden, fierce tugging at the rope. He realized that something very heavy was attached to him as he hit the water and disappeared.

  *

  Colin Chambers sat in his study, behind his desk, the ice melting in his large malt whisky. He poured himself more. He had been on the phone to his assistant and had signed the necessary papers releasing Millie from the hospital, with the final say going to the Harley Street psychiatrist, whom he knew would go along with his wishes. He opened his drawer and took out some photographs of Millie and himself when they were young and in Madrid, sitting in pavement cafes, laughing and drinking. Millie was carefree and eager then, and the sound of her laughter could make him forget everything else.

  Where had it gone wrong? Was it his greed for power once he’d become an MP, determined to make it to the top? Or was it Millie and her failure to produce their child? It wasn’t her fault, but he needed someone to blame, and he had never forgiven her.

  He was a bastard, but Millie had become a liability with her drunken episodes. He had stopped loving her. Now she was reduced to threatening him. That reporter was some piece of work coming in and shouting him down in his club. But she wouldn’t have done that unless she had something solid. He knew how these things worked. There had already been a call put to his secretary asking if he had a comment for the story in the Post about those bloody dossiers. He could never answer that. There was no answer.

  It had seemed the right thing to do at the time, and it hadn’t been his decision alone. He had spoken to the Prime Minister, but he could never admit that, even now. You couldn’t spread the blame. It had been his decision. He could have said no. What about all those children? They were so remote from him, troubled kids from housing estates and children’s homes. It was a different world. He couldn’t have people like them bringing down the government with their accusations. Perhaps he should have been braver – but he just hadn’t cared enough.

  He pushed his hand into the back of the drawer and fumbled until he felt the velvet cover and the hardness inside it. He pulled out the revolver and methodically unwrapped it, th
en opened the barrel and checked it was loaded, though he knew it would be. His father’s old army revolver. He picked up the photograph of Millie and himself in Madrid and looked at it one last time, then put the gun to his head.

  The shot echoed around the empty house as the photograph slipped out of Colin’s hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rosie stirred in TJ’s arms at the sound of the mobile ringing. She eased herself away from him, not wanting to wake him.

  ‘Don’t be creeping about now, Gilmour. I’m awake. It’s not even eight o’clock. Who’s phoning at this time? . . . As if I didn’t know.’

  Rosie turned her head towards him, as he lay, one eye open and his lips moving to a smile. She ran a hand down his cheekbone, and traced the line of his lips as she put the phone to her ear.

  ‘Hey, Rosie! Sorry if I woke you, but I thought you’d want to know this.’

  It was Mickey Kavanagh, his first-thing-in-the-morning gravelly twenty-a-day voice.

  ‘No problem, Mickey. What’s up?’

  ‘Colin Chambers shot himself last night.’

  ‘Christ! Really?’

  ‘Yep. The cops won’t be putting it out this morning officially, but my mate in the Branch called me, as I’d been talking to him re your stuff in the past few days. So your little chat at the Garrick must have struck the right chord.’

  Even though a dead Colin Chambers was much easier for her than a live one, Rosie couldn’t help the pang of guilt. ‘Cheers, mate, for telling me I drove a man to suicide.’

  ‘Fuck him, Rosie. He drove himself to suicide. You just helped him over the last hurdle.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. I feel better now,’ Rosie said sarcastically. ‘Christ, Mick. Can’t believe he did that. What a cowardly bastard.’

  ‘Typical of his type. Falling on his sword as he finally realized his number was up. He would never have admitted it, Rosie. Make no mistake about it, if he thought there was any way he could trash your allegations, he would have done it. But he knew he was done up like a kipper. He’d been hiding behind this all his life. Good fucking riddance is what I say, and so should you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rosie said half-heartedly. ‘You’re right. It’s one bastard off the face of the earth. Listen, Mickey, I’d better go and phone my editor. We’ll want to run with our piece full-on now.’

  ‘Sure. That’s why I phoned you, darling. Give me a shout if you need me. And give yourself a pat on the back. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rosie said, as he hung up.

  She sank back on the pillows as TJ’s hand stretched over and caressed her stomach.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Colin Chambers shot himself last night.’

  TJ let out a low whistle. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The world can do with a lot fewer of those bastards.’ He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  ‘I have to phone the editor.’ She punched in McGuire’s number.

  ‘Gilmour. What’s up at this time of the morning?’

  ‘Mick. It’s Colin Chambers. He shot himself last night. He’s dead.’

  There was a long moment of silence, then McGuire spoke. ‘What a fucking result, Rosie!’

  ‘I thought you’d say that.’

  ‘But it is, though. You can’t libel the dead, so now we’ve got him and the Chief Constable at the time, who’s been dead for years. We can more or less trample all over the fuckers, as long as we don’t accuse the whole of the UK police force.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s definitely a result.’

  Silence.

  ‘Gilmour, I hope you’re not going to start all that guilt shite on me. I know what you’re like. I bet you’re already agonizing because you gave him it straight at your meeting in the Garrick. Am I right?’

  ‘Well, a bit. I can’t pretend I’m happy to have assisted someone in ending their life, Mick.’

  ‘What about the bloody lives that were ruined by his actions? What about them? Robbed of their innocence and their voice. Come on, Gilmour. Don’t give me your crap. Get down to the office pronto and let’s get about this, all fucking guns blazing. Are we clear?’

  ‘Sure. Of course. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m just feeling a bit guilty for my part in it.’

  ‘Fuck that. We’ll have a historic splash and couple of spreads tomorrow, and Colin Chambers will be rotting in Hell where he belongs. Now piss off and let me get my breakfast.’

  Rosie thought about it for a moment. ‘Yeah. You’re right, Mick. We should be celebrating.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He hung up.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Millie sat in her room, staring at Sky News as though she were watching the story of someone else’s life unravel. But it was her life they were dissecting, hers and Colin’s. Well, mostly it was Colin’s. It was his picture that flashed up with the breaking news tag that the former Tory Home Secretary had been found dead of gunshot wounds in the study of his London home. There were no suspicious circumstances, the police had said, as they usually did when they didn’t want to say outright that a person had taken their own life. But Millie knew that all the newspapers would be saying it loud and clear tomorrow morning. There was no revelation, no speculation as to what could have driven her husband to take his own life, just the breaking news that he’d been found dead by his housekeeper when she’d arrived that morning.

  Earlier, when Millie’s door had been gently opened and her psychiatrist had appeared, accompanied by a nurse and the hospital manager, Millie had immediately wondered what was going on. She’d assumed this was the day they were going to give her ECT, and part of her had resigned herself to it. She knew that Rosie Gilmour wouldn’t abandon her, especially after the flowers and the cryptic note had been delivered, but she had no control over when the ECT would happen. Time was running out. But then, from their expressions as they’d stood over her bed, Millie had sensed grim news.

  When the psychiatrist had pulled a chair up at her bedside and told her calmly that her husband had been found dead in their home, and that it appeared he had taken his own life, Millie had looked at him, but said nothing. She felt nothing. Not sadness, not anger, not even any sense of loss. She didn’t flinch. So much so that the psychiatrist had asked her if she fully understood what he had told her. She nodded. Then, after a few moments, she had asked how he had done it. There was a gun at the scene, the police had said. And a note for her. Somewhere inside a part of her that had been dead for a long time, she felt an odd comfort that, in his final moments, he had acknowledged her, after all these years.

  After a few moments of silence, but for the sound of feet shuffling and awkward clearing of throats, the psychiatrist had told her the next part. She was free to leave the hospital. The section order under the Mental Health Act had been lifted because her husband had signed a paper saying he was willing to withdraw his agreement to it, and the medical evidence that the psychiatrist had found over the past few weeks suggested that she was fit to be released back into the community. Millie hadn’t reacted to this either, but inside she was smiling.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ was all she said, and the manager told her he would arrange for a car to take her to wherever she wanted to go.

  *

  Two hours later, Millie stood on the steps outside her front door where a young WPC stood guard and gave her a sympathetic smile of recognition. The officer asked if she would be all right to go inside alone, and Millie nodded. She stepped aside as Millie slipped her key into the lock and pushed open the door. She could hear the whirr of cameras behind her, and had been told to expect them by the hospital manager as she’d been preparing to leave the hospital. She’d seen them crowded together from the top of the road, when the car had turned down towards the house. Dozens of them, and a TV crew. She didn’t care. They can photograph me all they like, she thought. Nothing can hurt me any more.

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The light from the stained-glass window on the high ceiling sent a cobalt sheen to the
white walls of the hallway and she stood for a moment, transfixed by the shaft of colour. Then she walked across the oak floor and pushed open the study door. Cigar smoke lingered in the air, and she could imagine Colin sitting on his leather chair beside the fire with a whisky in his hand. So many nights she’d longed to join him and talk things out, but they’d become so distant that it had seemed impossible. She stood gazing around the room, every corner a memory, every bookshelf, photograph, school sporting trophy of Colin’s . . .

  She hadn’t seen this room sober for months. Everything had been a blur almost, between the depression and the alcoholic stupor her life had become. But now she saw it clearly. She looked across at his desk, where there was a whisky glass, almost empty, and behind it, bloodstains. Her heart lurched. She pictured Colin lying there in his blood. She steadied herself. Then she saw the cream envelope and noticed his writing: Millie. The police had informed her that they’d put it back on the desk once they’d established that Colin had committed suicide. She went across and picked it up, held it in her hands, almost reluctant to open it. Then she slit it with the paper knife she’d given him as a gift many years ago and took out the letter. It was written in fountain pen, so typical of Colin even in his final moments, such a snob and a stickler for form. She began to read:

  My darling Millie,

  I’m sorry. Where and how can I ever begin to tell you I’m sorry? I think you know it’s too late for that. It was too late long ago for me to say sorry to you for all the wrong I had done, for not understanding you in your grief over the babies. I’m so ashamed. The truth is, I’ve always been ashamed and I’m such a coward I couldn’t even face that, because I know that I singularly ruined your life as well as mine. And my shame is even greater, because I only realized this in the last couple of days when it has all come tumbling down. When the reporter came to me and told me about the dossiers and the revelations that would come out over my part in their destruction, the shame of my entire life overwhelmed me.