Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (2 page)

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.

Chapter One

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.’