Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 Read online

  TJ ruffled her hair and gave her a mischievous smile – the old TJ, digging her, goading her. ‘Don’t start weeping all over me, Gilmour. We haven’t even had a drink yet. Listen, let’s not pick everything apart or analyse the shit out of things. Finish that coffee and we’ll go for a decent drink. I want to hear your patter.’

  He brushed a tear from her cheek with the palm of his hand. Rosie drank some coffee and put the cup down. She saw the grey flecks in his hair, a little more than she remembered from a year ago. He was back. She stood up.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  *

  That was how it had happened. Rosie was back in, hook, line and sinker. TJ was back in her heart, and she was back in his bed, or him in hers, depending on how their evenings panned out. They hadn’t put their relationship on any firm footing, but it never had been. He was just there physically, rather than the ache she’d had inside, wondering if he’d ever come back. They hadn’t discussed how they’d lived their lives in the past eighteen months, and Rosie was glad he hadn’t questioned her. They had made no plans, and while that suited Rosie, paranoia niggled: maybe he didn’t want commitment. She knew she was being ridiculous because she was the one who had always stepped back from throwing her lot in with his. And even now she wasn’t sure. What they had was here and now, but his return confirmed what she knew in her heart: that she had never really let him go.

  She was about to call TJ when her mobile rang, and Declan’s name came up on her screen. He was the rising star at the Post, keen as mustard and smart, too. He sat opposite her in the office and had become her sidekick as she watched him grow in stature. ‘Declan. Howsit going?’

  ‘Good, Rosie. Paper’s full of Bella Mason, so I’ve been pitching in on that, pulling out birth certificates and any school records. It’s hard, though. Doesn’t seem to be a lot of history on her here . . . But I’ve just had a call from some guy. He’s a junkie – that much I’m sure of. I could hardly make out a word of it, but he said something about Bella having a brother.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing anything about a brother in cuttings, do you?’

  ‘No. But this guy is saying he knows him and can find him.’

  ‘Is he asking for money?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he give you a phone number?’

  ‘Yeah. His mobile. Says he lives in a hostel some nights.’

  ‘Christ! Sounds like a real operator!’ Rosie sighed. ‘Well. We can’t just patch him. You never know, maybe Bella did have a brother. Did he give you a name?’

  ‘No. He said he would when we met.’

  Rosie was silent while she processed this. Her gut had told her that Bella’s early background might throw something up. A long-lost brother would be sensational. She was going to get nothing in London, and once she’d established that the wife of Colin Chambers wasn’t there, she didn’t see much point in hanging around.

  She looked at her watch. ‘Okay, Declan. Thanks. I’ll speak to McGuire when he comes out of conference. I’ll be heading up to Glasgow tonight, so if you give me this dopehead’s mobile, I’ll call him and keep him sweet. What’s his name?’

  ‘Only gave a first name. Mitch.’ Declan told her the number and Rosie wrote it down.

  Chapter Four

  Millie felt sleepy, sitting next to the fire in the pub off the seafront in Eastbourne. She’d surprised herself by how quickly she’d polished off the steak pie, as she rarely finished a meal, these days, and was conscious that she’d lost weight. Every time she sat down to eat, she felt nauseous after a few bites. The depression that had stalked her for the past fifteen years was creeping back, challenging her, as every morning she woke up unable to lift the blackness. She’d toyed with the idea of talking to Colin about it, but whenever they’d sat in the stony silence of their dining room, the atmosphere had been so thick with tension and resentment that she couldn’t even begin. She would push the food around her plate, then make an excuse to have an early night. Colin had snidely remarked that she managed to finish her wine, but never her food.

  He’d grown to despise her, even before this latest episode. He’d told her he was tired of her mood swings, that she was old and dragging him down. He was living a different life now without her, rejuvenated, travelling on lecture tours and acting as a consultant on the board of at least two companies. He probably had a young mistress tucked away somewhere. But she knew he would never divorce her. Image was everything. He’d lost his seat at the last election but he liked to be seen as a devoted husband. It kept everything neat and scandal-free – especially for the more conservative Americans on some of the squeaky-clean Bible-belt tours he’d done. Millie had accompanied him on a couple of them, smiling at all the right moments, but she’d hated it and later blamed it for making her drinking worse, and one night she’d told him so. She’d received a hard slap for those kinds of protests. But the next day he had been all smiles. If only they knew what he was. But they never would.

  The bar was quiet, except for one couple and an older, distinguished-looking man sitting at the bar just a few feet away, reading the Telegraph. The barman had a copy of the Sun and was chatting to the couple about Bella Mason. Millie listened to their theories and kept her eyes on the magazine she was pretending to read so that she wouldn’t look as lonely as she felt. She was conscious of the older man stealing little glances at her. He was silver-haired and well dressed, his camel coat folded over the stool next to him. He sipped a whisky and smiled when Millie looked up. She finished her drink and signalled for the bill. The last thing she needed was to be drawn into conversation. The barman came across to her and handed her a slip of paper, then went into the office to answer the phone.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink? For the road?’ the older man asked.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Millie said. ‘That’s kind of you, but I must be off.’

  ‘Not from around here, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Millie shook her head.

  He looked beyond her and scratched his chin. ‘I feel I know your face from somewhere. Do you come here on holiday?’

  Millie half smiled. ‘Not for a very long time.’

  ‘That’s a Scottish accent, isn’t it?’

  Christ, Millie thought. What a nosy bastard. ‘Yes. But I left Scotland a very long time ago.’

  ‘You live in London, then? Brighton?’

  Millie felt the colour rising in her neck. ‘You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’ She gave him a look that was a clear putdown. But it seemed to bounce off him.

  ‘Just curious. A beautiful woman all alone in a place like Eastbourne. I just wondered, that’s all.’ He began to get off the stool. ‘Would you like some company?’

  Jesus wept! What do I have to do here? Millie thought. Tell him to take a flying fuck? In her day, she would have been capable of that and more, but these days she felt vulnerable, weak, so lacking in self-confidence. Colin had knocked it out of her years ago. She was relieved to see the barman coming out of the office so that she could pay him. She handed him the cash and his eyes lit up when she told him to keep the change. She just wanted to get out of there, fast. She stood up and pulled on her coat, conscious that the man was watching her. She had to walk past him on the way to the door, so she put on her best frosty smile.

  ‘I’m Michael, by the way.’ He stretched out a hand, almost blocking her way. ‘Born and bred here, but spent a lot of time in London working. I’m retired now. Not much to do, these days. Sorry if I was asking too many questions.’

  ‘Not at all. I have to go now. Have a lovely evening. Goodnight.’

  *

  Millie woke up in a pool of sweat, and could feel her whole body trembling. She’d ended up in another pub last night and downed three large gin and tonics before staggering back to her hotel, where she had sat up in the bar drinking until the barman yawned and told her he was calling it a night. At least he hadn’t asked any questions, and had just kept pouring her drinks. In his job, he’d probab
ly seen it all before. He didn’t seem remotely interested in her, unlike that nutter in the other bar with his twenty questions. Even the thought of him made her nervous, the way he was probing, trying to find out more about her. She’d always been uncomfortable with over-familiarity, but these days she was much worse.

  She sat on the side of the bed, trying to work out where she could go from here. Anxiety gnawed at her. She was running out of options. It was only a matter of time before Colin put a stop on her credit card. He wouldn’t let this go on indefinitely because, sooner or later, people would start asking where she was. He’d allowed her to go off on another of what he called her ‘depressive episodes’ to let off steam before, but always made sure she’d have no financial means to keep it up. He knew she would come back when she ran out of money. That was why he had kept her monthly allowance at a frugal minimum. He’d told her she couldn’t be trusted.

  She looked at her watch on the bedside table. It was nearly eleven. She stood up, head pounding, and opened the bedroom curtains. The sun streamed in, almost blinding her. She took a deep breath. She’d go out for a long walk to clear her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about Bella Mason and her struggle with the brutes who had murdered her. She could still see them in her mind, the bleached blond and the shorter, squat dark-haired man. When she’d been bladdered last night it had all seemed so straightforward. She would go to the police and tell them what she had seen. But now the very idea terrified her. She knew that as soon she told them who she was they would contact Colin. She went into the bathroom and drank a glass of cold water, holding the tumbler with both of her trembling hands. Then she turned on the shower and stepped in. She had to be strong.

  *

  Millie had walked for nearly an hour, stopping briefly to buy a bacon roll and a cup of tea in a cafe, eating the roll quickly in case anyone spoke to her. She was fine when she was on the move, the sea breeze in her face and the sun warming the day. But she was still jittery inside. She walked the length of the promenade, then back into the town, now busy with lunchtime business and cars. She stopped at a news vendor and saw the front page of several newspapers declaring that Bella Mason had been a drug addict. ‘Coke Binge Led to Bella’s Suicide’, said one headline.

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ she nearly said aloud. How could they just make that up? She felt a little light-headed.

  ‘Hello there! We meet again!’

  Millie jumped when he touched her arm and for a second she had no idea who he was. Then the penny dropped. She felt nauseous. She glared at him.

  ‘You don’t remember? In the pub last night? Michael?’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere. I’ve been racking my brains all morning. I’m glad I bumped into you . . . I know who you—’

  Millie heard distantly what he was saying. She felt unsteady on her feet and took a step away from him. Fear and panic swept over her and she could feel a full-blown anxiety attack coming on.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’ She heard herself whimper.

  ‘Are you all right? You don’t look at all well.’

  He came towards her and she backed away, then turned, panicking, and stepped into the road. She heard him shout, ‘Wait!’ But it was too late. She felt the thud of the car on her hip and suddenly she was flying through the air. For a second she thought she was dreaming. Then she hit the ground. Something cracked, and everything went black.

  *

  Colin Chambers came out of the meeting at the Connaught Hotel and into the afternoon sunshine with a spring in his step. It couldn’t have gone better. The Yanks were a pushover for a bit of clipped English class, and he had given it all the gravitas he could muster. The six-week tour was more or less agreed. His fee was five grand a day plus expenses – he knew they would put him up in the most lavish hotels, where he could avail himself of high-class hookers as well as fine cuisine. His mobile rang in his pocket: Pete, his assistant, who managed all his mail and calls and put newspapers in touch for quotes.

  ‘Morning, Pete. I’ve a missed call from you.’

  ‘I was trying to get hold of you. Are you out of your meeting?’

  ‘Yes I am. And very well it went, too.’

  ‘Good. Er . . . I’m afraid I’ve got some rather bad news, sir. It’s Millie.’

  Something reached inside his gut and twisted it. But it was more fear of a scandal than concern for his wife. ‘Oh, Christ! What has she done now?’

  ‘She’s in hospital.’

  ‘What? Is she all right? What’s happened?’ He felt a sting of sweat under his arms.

  ‘She was hit by a car, sir. Crossing the road.’

  ‘Where?’ He pictured her in Madrid, drunk in the afternoon.

  ‘In Eastbourne.’

  ‘Eastbourne? What the fuck is she doing in Eastbourne? When . . . Where is she?’ He had to get on top of this immediately and smother it. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘A head injury, cuts and bruises, a damaged hip, but she’s not in any danger.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Which hospital?’

  ‘Eastbourne District General.’

  ‘Okay, leave it with me. I’ll be back in the office in twenty minutes. We’ll have to work something out. Any idea what happened?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Best if we speak when you come in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well. They’ve had to sedate her. She’s been a bit hysterical.’

  ‘Fuck me! Bloody woman’s been hysterical for years. I’ve had fucking enough of this, Pete. Enough! I’m on my way. Don’t answer any media calls. You know the drill.’

  Chapter Five

  Rosie was on her second mug of tea in the greasy spoon off Glasgow Green, her heart sinking further by the minute. It was eleven in the morning, and she had to admit it was the wrong time of day to have arranged a meet with a junkie. At this hour, most heroin addicts would be wrecked, barely able to stumble to the city centre for a spot of shoplifting to pay for their next fix. Junkies didn’t have the luxury of a surplus of heroin to inject or smoke when they woke up. They went from fix to fix, their entire day spent trying to get their next hit sorted. So she’d been surprised when Mitch, the guy claiming to know Bella Mason’s brother, had asked her to meet him at this time.

  Rosie watched the door. The old Italian guy, who was slapping fish into a bucket of white batter and firing up the fryer, watched her. So did the waitress. She hated this side of the city: its grim shop fronts and bars were the kind of places you didn’t wander into in the dark. Through the grimy windows she could see an emaciated half-naked girl on a street corner, leaning against a wall, eyeing up the passing cars hopefully for business. Down here where cars cruised, looking for the cheapest of thrills, a couple of hand-jobs would be enough for her next tenner bag.

  Rosie let out a long sigh. The sight of these kids depressed the hell out of her. No hopes or dreams, just the cold light of day to face every morning, when they woke up in whatever stinking junkie den they’d passed out in. They must know that one day they wouldn’t wake up. Mitch had told her he was staying in the hostel around the corner, and that they turfed them out at half ten. So, unless he’d been thrown out last night, he should have got here by now.

  She was about to call the waitress for the bill when the door opened. A tall figure came in, his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes making him look like a ghost. He looked haunted, desperate. This had to be him. Rosie coughed and made eye contact as he scanned the room. He bounced across to her on rubbery junkie legs.

  ‘Mitch?’

  ‘Aye. Rosie?’ He glanced over his shoulder.

  She motioned him to sit down.

  ‘Awright, man? Sorry I’m late.’ He sniffed. ‘I was rattlin’ when I woke up, had to get a wee toot. Sorry.’

  ‘No problem, Mitch. I was just enjoying my tea.’

  Rosie smiled, studying his face to get a handle on his age. It was always hard to tell with junkies, ravaged from y
ears of living the way they did. He looked about thirty-five, but he was probably ten years younger. His eyelids were heavy and his pupils like two pinheads. He’d had a recent hit. Christ, Rosie thought. He looks like he could fall asleep on me.

  ‘So,’ she began. ‘You want something to eat? How about a bacon roll.’

  ‘Nah!’ He puffed. ‘No lumpy stuff. Can I get a Coca-Cola iced drink? They do good ones in here. Big dollop of ice cream, man. Just what I need.’

  She knew all about a junkie’s craving for sweet things. She beckoned the waitress and ordered.

  ‘Oh, and a chocolate biscuit too. One of them Orange Clubs,’ Mitch ventured. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Sure, Mitch. Let’s push the boat right out.’

  Rosie hoped he had something interesting to say – and soon, because he smelt like he hadn’t had a bath in a month. He wiped his nose with the back of his shiny jacket cuff. ‘You staying in the hostel, then?’ she asked, thinking she might as well start somewhere.

  ‘Aye. So far anyway, till they kick me out.’ He sniffed. ‘That’s where I saw Dan.’ He looked into Rosie’s eyes. ‘That’s his name. The boy I told you about. He’s Bella Mason’s brother.’ He shrugged. ‘Or so he says. Could be fuckin’ lying, but I don’t think so.’

  Rosie’s stomach tightened.

  ‘Did you get a second name?’

  ‘Eh?’ He seemed surprised. ‘Mason. Same as hers.’ His drink arrived and he took a long suck from a straw, then started spooning the ice cream into his mouth. ‘Fuckin’ magic this!’

  ‘Have you met him a few times or just once? What I mean, Mitch, is that I want you to tell me when you met. Everything you know.’

  ‘Am I getting paid, by the way?’ He wiped his mouth.

  Rosie locked eyes with him and said nothing for a long moment. ‘You’ll get paid. Sure. But only if you can take me to him. I want to meet him.’ She hated telling a junkie they’d get weighed in with cash, because it could mean there was no end to how they’d embellish a story to up the ante.

  He looked a little crestfallen. ‘But I’m here now. I mean, I’ve got work to do, man. I could be out earning instead of sitting here.’