Kill Me Twice

Book 0: Rosie Gilmour

by Anna Smith

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A beautiful model's death uncovers an ugly conspiracy stretching all the way to Westminster in Rosie Gilmour's darkest case to date. When Scots supermodel Bella Mason plunges to her death from the roof of a glitzy Madrid hotel, everyone assumes it was suicide. Except that one person saw exactly what happened to Bella that night, and she definitely didn't jump. But Millie Chambers has no one she can tell - an alcoholic and now sectioned by her bullying politician husband, who would believe her? And that's not all Millie knows. Being close to the heart of Westminster power can lead to discovering some awful secrets... Back in Glasgow, Rosie's research into Bella's life leads to her brother. Dan is now a homeless heroin addict, but what he reveals about Bella's early life is electrifying: organised sexual abuse in care homes across Glasgow. Bella had tracked him down so that they could tell the world their story. And now she's dead. As Rosie's drive to expose the truth leads her closer to Millie and the shameful secrets she has kept for so many years, it becomes clear that what she's about to discover could prove fatal: a web of sexual abuse linking powerful figures across the nation, and the rot at the very heart of the British Establishment... 'Provocative, shocking and utterly harrowing . . . grips like a vice' Daily Record

Release date: August 25, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

Madrid, March 2000

Millie raised her glass in the direction of the barman, signalling for the same again. As she knocked back the dregs of her gin and tonic, she caught a whiff of her breath, a little stale still from last night’s booze as well as having nothing to eat. She’d forced down half a croissant at breakfast in the hotel dining room, conscious of guests eyeing her with a cross between mild disgust and pity as her hands trembled when she lifted her coffee cup to her lips. She’d encountered those furtive glances before when she’d travelled alone. People would view the middle-aged woman she had become and think she must have been a striking beauty in her day, but was now ravaged by time and, probably, drink.

To hell with them, she thought. Who were they to judge? What did they know of her life? The barman put her glass on the solid mahogany bar and slid a dish of mixed nuts across, making eye contact as though he were trying to tell her to eat something, that it was only four in the afternoon and she was on her third gin. She looked away from him, picking up her packet of Marlboro Lights and flipping it open. Three left. That should be enough.

She pushed away the nuts without looking at him, and put a cigarette between her pale pink lips. She flicked the lighter and inhaled deeply, stifling the urge to cough when the smoke hit the back of her throat and burned all the way to her lungs. She cursed the racking cough she’d woken up with for the last four days. Too much smoking and drinking, combined with walking around late at night in the chill of a Madrid evening. She’d stumbled from bar to bar, lost and hopelessly adrift. She’d always felt dwarfed by the magnificence of the buildings and architecture of the city, which held so many special memories for her, but now they seemed to underline the sheer emptiness of her life. Not for long, though. Not long now.

In the heavy silence of the gloomily lit hotel cocktail bar, she hadn’t noticed that anyone else was there. It was only when she heard the sniffing that she looked across the room and saw a blonde girl, sitting in an alcove. She was crying into a tissue, dabbing her eyes. The barman shot Millie a glance and disappeared into the back room, leaving them alone among the plush burgundy-velvet easy chairs and shiny mahogany tables. She peered across at the blonde girl as she pushed back her hair a little, and the striking high cheekbones caught her eye. She watched as the girl seemed to compose herself and light up a cigarette. Millie took a long look at this beautiful waif-like figure, her blonde hair cascading onto her shoulders, the sharp features and hollow cheeks. There was something familiar about her, but she couldn’t work out why.

The girl glanced up at her, then away, picking up her drink and downing it in one. She was crying again, sobbing now. Millie shifted on the bar stool, resisting the urge to go over and comfort her – a mother’s instinct. It had always been there, but the child part was too painful. Don’t go there, Millie told herself. There was no point now and, really, she should be past caring. But as she watched the girl sob uncontrollably, Millie got off the stool and stood, unsteadily, at the bar. She was about to move towards her when the doors opened and a horde of people bustled in.

‘Bella! There you are, my darling!’ The man leading the charge – he had dyed black hair – breezed through the bar as though he were on castors. ‘We’ve been calling your mobile, sweetie.’

The girl looked up with a start, and swiftly composed herself, blinking nervously as she eyed the approaching throng.

‘Oh, lovey. What’s the matter?’ He put up a hand to halt the army at his back, then turned to them. ‘Give us a couple of minutes, peeps.’

The gang of what looked like media and camera crews stopped in its tracks and turned to each other, lowering their voices. The man glided across to where the girl was sitting and slid into the alcove beside her. His back was to the crowd, his body shielding her. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Oh, Bella! Come on, love,’ he whispered. ‘You need to get your act together. There are dozens of press out there waiting for the fashion shoot. You should have been up at Plaza Mayor ten minutes ago. Come on! Pull yourself together, darling.’

Millie saw her nod, sniffing, and it dawned on her who she was. Bella! She was Bella Mason, the supermodel, the face that had launched a thousand products, from perfume to airlines. Her piercing green eyes gazed bewitchingly from billboards across the country. Those famous razor-sharp cheekbones and the lush blonde hair could turn any mediocre product into a bestseller. Any magazine with Bella Mason on the front cover leaped off the shelves. Yet here she was, looking like a broken, vulnerable kid, weeping in a hotel bar far from home. Millie climbed back onto her stool and watched as Bella took a deep breath and got to her feet. She painted on a dazzling smile, took the man’s arm and they strode off towards the waiting crowd.

Millie finished her drink and walked out after them. She followed, curious, as the media people walked briskly ahead of Bella, who hung back, still linking the man’s arm, until they reached Plaza Mayor, the late-afternoon sunshine throwing shadows on the buildings and cobblestones. Millie went to a cafe to watch as the media crowd set up pictures and three make-up artists fussed around Bella.

A few minutes later, as Millie sipped her coffee, Bella posed and swaggered confidently under the flashing lights and whirring cameras, as though the girl she’d been half an hour ago didn’t exist.

*

It was nearly eleven when Millie walked slowly back to the hotel. She had almost drunk herself sober, going from cafe to bar around the Latin Quarter, along streets where she and Colin had strolled a lifetime ago, so much in love, untouchable, utterly possessed by each other. She’d wanted to capture the atmosphere one last time, then wander back through the front door of the hotel that held so many cherished memories of precious weekends together. But now she was ready. She wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t sober. She just wanted all the hurt to stop.

She walked past the doorman into the massive foyer. She’d left everything in her hotel room, her small leather overnight case and passport. Her clothes hung in the wardrobe. They would find them later. She got into the lift with three tipsy men, who hit the button for the roof, not asking her which floor she wanted. She didn’t care. She was going to the roof anyway.

When the doors opened the men got out and walked along the corridor to the rooftop restaurant, where there seemed to be a party going on. Out of curiosity, Millie followed them, but stood outside the door where a flunkey was ticking off names on a guest list. Through the small window she could see white-coated waiters gliding among the revellers with trays of champagne and canapés. Flushed with drink and self-importance, the guests stood chatting and laughing. There were beautiful girls and handsome, androgynous young men, who looked as if they were straight from the pages of Vogue.

Then she saw Bella. She was exquisite in a petrol-blue gown that glittered beneath the lights. She was smiling and laughing as people approached her and air-kissed both cheeks. Millie stood for a moment, entranced by the scene, but whenever someone moved away for a fleeting moment and Bella was on her own, the frozen smile would vanish and the green eyes seemed full of hurt. For a fleeting second, Bella looked beyond the crowd towards the door, and her eyes locked with Millie’s. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then two people came up behind Millie and opened the door, holding it for her. She backed away, then went down the corridor towards the fire-exit door she had seen when she was up there yesterday, planning.

Now she opened the door and stepped onto the roof, the din of the traffic muffled, six storeys below. A chill ran through her, and she pulled her coat around herself. What difference did it make now, being cold? She opened her packet of Marlboro and lit up one last time.

Millie stood leaning against a pillar, gazing out across the city, a million lights twinkling and stretching for miles. She thought of Colin and what he would do when he heard the news. His first reaction would be how to manage it – it always was. How things looked was important to him. He would have to explain that his wife had been missing now for over five days, and he hadn’t reported it. Get out of that one, Millie mused, glad of her parting shot.

She wished she didn’t hate him so much. All of the love, the trust, had been chipped away by his countless affairs, and now she could take no more humiliation. The rejection tore at her heart. The secrets of his life as a politician and Tory cabinet minister, how things were hidden, brushed away, made her ashamed that she had been a part of it, because she was his wife. Image was everything. Nothing was sacred to him. Even if it was innocent children who suffered.

Millie flicked her cigarette away. It was over now. She just wanted peace. She took a step towards the edge of the roof and felt the cool breeze in her hair. Her story ended here. Tears began to flow down her cheeks and they felt warm against the chill. She swallowed, weeping now as she took another step towards the edge.

Suddenly, on the other side of the roof, a door burst open. She whirled round. It wasn’t the fire exit she had come through so it must lead into the function room. She could hear arguing and loud, angry voices.

‘No! You fucking listen to me, Bella.’

Millie’s ears pricked up and she stepped back behind the pillar. She could see two burly men and an older man, silver-haired, wearing glasses. He was stabbing a finger towards where Bella must be standing.

‘I can fucking ruin you, bitch. You were nothing until I found you. I own you! Don’t you forget that. You’re nobody without me!’

‘I . . . I can’t go on like this.’ She was weeping.

Millie moved forward until she could see Bella in her blue gown, wiping her eyes with her hand.

‘I need some help,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t cope. I’m going to the police. I want to tell them everything. I’ve had enough of this shit.’

Millie noticed her Scottish accent, and vaguely recalled some rags-to-riches story about the girl, who had come from nowhere to conquer the modelling world.

‘You’re fucking going nowhere. Nowhere!’ the silver-haired man barked, then turned on his heels and walked away.

Millie watched as the two burly men grabbed Bella’s arms. Startled, she struggled, but she was no match for them.

‘Leave me alone! Get your fucking hands off!’ she protested.

They said nothing, dragging her to the edge of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Millie whispered. They picked her up, and she watched in disbelief as they threw her off. Millie felt her legs buckle and she stood, barely breathing, her back to the pillar, terrified to move in case they spotted her. She stayed that way for a few seconds, listening to their footsteps fading. When she could see that the roof was deserted, she took a couple of steps towards the other edge. Even from up there, she could hear the screams of people below, and imagined Bella spreadeagled on the ground. Millie’s blood ran cold. Everything stopped, and she was suddenly completely sober.

She ran back to the fire exit, down the deserted corridor and into the lift, bashing the button for the second floor. She opened her bedroom door and slammed it behind her, locking it twice. She could hear the plaintive wail of sirens as she closed her eyes to shut out the image of Bella’s blonde hair billowing in the breeze in the second before she disappeared.

It was going to be a long day. The last time Rosie Gilmour had been up so early for a flight during the night was when Princess Diana had died, and she was on her way to Paris before the princess was even cold. Bella Mason wasn’t royalty, but in the shallow world of celebrity that engulfed the media these days, she was near as damn it. The last place you would find Rosie was anywhere near the trough of frippery that surrounded that tacky world, so when the call from the night news editor had woken her at three that morning, she’d had to think for a moment before she remembered who Bella Mason was. ‘She’s taken a swan dive off the roof of a Madrid hotel,’ he had declared, as she answered her mobile, her mind foggy from last night’s red wine. ‘Looks like suicide,’ he’d added. The taxi would pick her up in twenty minutes for the five o’clock flight to Madrid.

Matt had been next, shouting, ‘Hola,’ down the phone, as she was pulling on jeans and a sweater.

In fifteen minutes she was ready to roll, having flicked on Sky News to see the commotion outside the Hotel Senator in the centre of Madrid. Poor Bella. She’ll know all the answers now, Rosie thought, as whatever was left of her was stretchered into a blacked-out ambulance.

*

Rosie stepped out of the taxi and paid the driver as Matt hauled their bags out of the boot. She gazed up at the Hotel Senator, its sculpted white façade magnificent against the bright blue sky, and counted six storeys to the rooftop. For a second she pictured Bella tumbling through the air, and wondered what would drive a beautiful kid like that, with the world in the palm of her hand, to take her own life. If she had. Suicide seemed to stalk stars and celebrities like the Grim Reaper, and barely a year went past without some actor or rock star found hanged, or dead from a lethal combination of drink and drugs. It seemed to go with the territory.

Her mobile rang as she walked through the revolving doors into the hotel foyer. ‘Gilmour, howsit going there? Have you got the lowdown on Bella’s story yet?’

‘Yeah, right, Mick! I just got here. Give me a break. I’ve hardly woken up yet.’

Rosie knew McGuire was only winding her up, but the fact that he was on the phone so early in morning, before he was even in the office, meant Bella Mason’s death was the only show in town. She had been a massive figure alive, and the newspapers had devoured her every move. Dead, she was even bigger news.

‘Well, get some breakfast into you and let me know what the sketch is. It’s number one on every news bulletin. Bella was one of our own, Rosie. A Glasgow girl. What the fuck happened to the kid?’

‘That’s what I’d love to find out, Mick. But bear in mind that the Spanish cops will tell us bugger all as usual. The real story here is, did she fall or was she pushed? Unless there were injuries on her other than the ones she got when she hit the ground, they’ll not be able to find out if there was foul play. Are you hearing anything from the showbiz people on the features desk? What about London? Her life’s been down there for years. That might be where the real story is.’

‘I know. I’m not going to keep you in Madrid long, but we need to have a presence there for a day or so. Just dig around a bit. See if you can get a one-on-one with any of her people – though I doubt you will. But at least if we’re there we can run a big colour piece, so get to work on the writing as soon as you can. A lot of newsy stuff will come in on the wires, so I’ll have that dealt with here. See if you can get something nobody else has a sniff of.’

‘Sure. No pressure there, then! I’m on it. But we need a better picture of who she was back in Glasgow before she hit the big-time. It’s always been a bit vague. Maybe ask someone like Declan to look into it.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Gilmour. I hadn’t thought of that.’

Rosie smiled at his sarcasm. ‘No problem. I’ll call you later.’

She hung up. Typical McGuire. It wasn’t enough that the first four pages of his and every other paper would be chock-full of Bella Mason tomorrow. He wanted something different, an exclusive. Didn’t they all? she thought, as she and Matt went towards Reception, stepping over cameras and luggage from the various media crews arriving, all of them after the same exclusive.

*

The press conference had been two shades of shag-all, and a complete waste of time, Rosie told Matt, as she met up with him in the hotel bar that afternoon. The Spanish police had read a brief statement and taken a couple of questions – a pointless exercise as the stock answer to each was: ‘It is under investigation.’

‘We’re not really any further forward,’ Rosie said, as Matt studied the menu. ‘They’re having a post-mortem to determine the cause of death, but I’ll be surprised if it says anything other than “striking the ground from a great height”, or words to that effect.’ She paused and flicked at the menu in Matt’s hands. ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Of course, boss,’ he joked. ‘But I’m starving.’

Rosie waved the waiter across, and Matt ordered a burger and chips.

‘When in Spain . . .’ Rosie said, rolling her eyes. She ordered some kind of stew that sounded Spanish enough to be home-cooked.

The bar was quiet, despite the posse of press around for the Bella Mason story. Most of them would be out taking pictures or trying to chase up Bella’s publicity people, who’d been doing their best to avoid everyone. All the information seemed to be carefully orchestrated by her PR team in London. They’d put up some bloke with ridiculous dyed black hair – apparently her publicity agent – to read a brief statement, and he’d taken no questions. Rosie sipped her mineral water and tried to think outside the box. She had managed to get a guest list for the rooftop party on the night of Bella’s death from the friendly concierge, whom she’d tipped heavily when he’d brought her bag up to her room. He’d confided that he’d been on duty that night, and said he’d heard Bella had been crying in the cocktail bar earlier in the afternoon. She asked him to try to remember everything he’d seen that night, and if he’d meet her later for a drink.

Rosie heard an angry voice trying and failing to keep the volume down on whatever he was bitching about. It was the publicity manager from the press conference, and he was berating some young female who was clearly close to tears.

‘I don’t give two fucks who wants a sit-down interview, or who claims to have the inside story. It’s all crap! That’s what these parasite journalists do, for Christ’s sake. What planet are you living on, Sarah?’

‘He looks like a pantomime dame,’ Matt said. ‘Is he wearing make-up? And is that a wig he’s got on? Surely there must be better ones than that!’

Rosie watched as the pair of them went to sit in the far corner of the room. ‘I think it’s all his own creation, tons of backcombing and hairspray. He’s a weird-looking bastard,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in approaching him for an interview. He’ll probably be hysterical.’

Rumours of cocaine and depression had been whispered about Bella Mason for the past three years, but no newspaper ever had anything concrete to publish. Whoever was supplying her must be getting well paid off by her handlers because nine times out of ten a dealer, or someone further down the food chain, approached the newspapers to make a few quid by selling a celebrity down the river. Cocaine and celebrities went together like bacon and eggs. It was more or less compulsory. Rosie had never been to a showbiz party, but her colleagues on Features said the toilets were like a blizzard every time you went in.

*

Rosie waited in the cafe off the Calle Preciados pedestrian precinct, hoping the concierge would show up. He’d no doubt expect some extra cash. There was always the possibility he was a chancer, and that she wasn’t the only reporter he was passing information to, but that was the risk you took. She watched the tourists enjoying being outside in late-afternoon sunshine as she tried to get her head round what had happened. Her gut instinct told her that Madrid wasn’t where Bella’s story had its roots. It had only ended here, tragically.

The concierge was coming through the door. He raised his chin in acknowledgement when he saw her, then pointed to an empty table in the far corner. He went across and sat down. Rosie followed, taking her coffee with her.

‘Thanks for coming. I’m sorry my Spanish isn’t good enough to have a real conversation. Do you mind speaking in English? Yours is better than my Spanish . . . Er, I didn’t get your name?’ Rosie stretched her hand across the table. ‘I’m Rosie Gilmour. I work for the Post newspaper in Scotland.’

‘José.’ He shook her hand and smiled. ‘Thanks. I learn my English from talking to all the tourists.’ He frowned. ‘But please, first, Rosie, you must promise me that nobody will know I talk with you. I would lose my job, and I have a family.’

‘Don’t worry, José. That won’t happen. I promise.’

The waiter came and José ordered a black coffee and a brandy. ‘I’m finished for the evening now. I’m meeting my wife for dinner.’ He scanned the room. ‘Okay. I can tell you some things that maybe you are interested in.’ He leaned closer. ‘I told you the dead girl, Bella, was crying earlier in the afternoon, in the cocktail bar?’

‘Yes. You did. Who told you that? The barman?’

‘Sí. Yes. Pablo. He’s my friend. But he told me something else.’

Rosie raised her eyebrows in anticipation. ‘What?’

‘In the bar that time, there was another woman. Older. British woman. I see her too. She was staying in the hotel for three nights, before Bella is dead.’

Rosie’s radar pricked with all sorts of possibilities. ‘Do you know who she is? Her name? Is she still there?’

‘No. She checked out the next morning. Very early. I know her name was Chambers. But I don’t know the first name. I can get it for you. But it will be difficult.’

He looked Rosie in the eye, and she knew where he was coming from.

‘I’ll make it worth your while, José. Just a name would be fantastic. Her address, too, if you can get it.’

He nodded. ‘I will get it by the morning.’

‘Terrific. What else can you tell me about the bar that afternoon and the woman? Was she there when Bella was crying?’

‘Yes. Pablo says the British woman is, well, I don’t want to be unkind . . . but maybe a bit of an alcoholic. She had three gin and tonics in the afternoon and was a bit drunk. She was in the bar by herself, drinking. She was in there every afternoon when it was quiet, drinking alone. She looked sad, Pablo said. I sometimes see her go out in the middle of the morning, and if I was working at night, I saw her come in. She was all the time quite drunk.’

‘Okay. If you can get me some details on her I’d be grateful.’ Rosie paused, lowering her voice. ‘Now, the night it happened. You said you were on duty. Did you see anything that you think would interest me? Anything unusual?’

He shrugged. ‘Lots of cocaine, of course. In the bathrooms, in the corridors. Many people snorting it like crazy. Is normal at these things.’

‘What about Bella? Did you see her?’

He nodded. ‘I see only one thing. Some guy passing her a packet. Like the kind of packet I see people with cocaine. I see it a lot. People get a small packet from the dealer, then they go to the toilet for snorting.’

Rosie watched his face for any signs that he was making this up. He looked genuine. ‘You saw this?’

‘Yes, I tell you. But I cannot say for sure if it is a drug. It could be anything. But it was the same guy I saw earlier giving a couple of packets to someone else.’

‘Do you remember anything about him?’

‘Yes. He was big. Like a bouncer or doorman. Very strong. Like maybe he takes the steroids. You know what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ Rosie said. ‘Was he Spanish?’

‘No, no. He is British. English. I’m not sure. But not Spanish. I heard him talking. The problem is he and the other friend with him – same with the big muscles – they are not on the guest list of Señor Mervyn Bates, who was organizing the party. So when they came to the door of the rooftop restaurant, I had to tell someone to go and get him. He told me not to worry, that it had been a mistake, and that these men were with him.’

Rosie was hooked. Something was taking shape here. Whether any of it was provable, or relevant, was another story. ‘So it was one of those guys you saw giving Bella the packet?’

‘Yes.’ He looked surprised. ‘But not just Bella. I saw him gi. . .