Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (3 page)

‘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 giving two other men and one of the model girls a packet also. But, to be honest, that is the kind of thing I see here all the time at parties. Always the drug dealers.’

‘I don’t suppose they gave their names when they were allowed in.’

‘No. Señor Bates said they didn’t have to, that they were with him.’

‘Have you seen them around the hotel since?’

‘No. They went away later. After Bella fall from the roof it was all panic. Everyone shocked. People left the party and began to go from the hotel. Many police were arriving.’

‘And you didn’t see the two guys at all?’

‘Yes. I saw them go down the fire escape.’ He paused. ‘But other people did that too. I think maybe people who had been taking cocaine wanted to get out because police would be asking all the guests some questions. That’s just my opinion.’

‘Can you remember anything about these men that would stand out?’

José nodded. ‘The one who gave the packets. He had
very blond hair. Like the bleached hair. Very short hair, and a small beard.’ He drew a goatee on his face with his hands.

‘Great. What about the other guy?’

‘He has a small scar under his eye. Like here. Almost like a small hole.’ He pointed to his cheek.

‘Listen, José. Is there any CCTV of the hotel that I could maybe get access to?’

He puffed a sigh. ‘That is too difficult. I think. So much CCTV, the whole day and night every day. Would take a long time to go through it. But I think anyway the police have come and taken everything.’

Rosie nodded. ‘Okay. It was a long shot.’

José knocked back his brandy and finished his coffee. He looked at his watch. ‘Rosie, I have to go. I am meeting my wife close to here. Do you mind?’

Rosie went into her bag and brought out two fifty-euro notes. She slipped them across the table to him and he took them, sliding them under his hand. ‘Not at all. Thanks for your help. Tomorrow when you get the name of the lady, we’ll sort things out. You understand?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘But it’s really important to me that you only talk to me.’

‘Of course.’ He looked a little wounded. ‘I am not a false person. I will see you in the foyer tomorrow. I start at eight.’ He stood up. ‘I am very pleased to meet you Rosie. And to help. I think, I hope, from your eyes that I can trust you.’
He shook his head. ‘I am very sorry for that young girl. I have a daughter only maybe a few years younger. To die like that. Kill yourself.’

‘Perhaps she didn’t kill herself, José.’

He stared at her for a long moment and nodded slowly. ‘Maybe not.’ He turned and left.

Chapter Two

Millie
stirred as the pilot announced they were about to land at Gatwick. For a frantic moment, she couldn’t work out where she was, or if she was dreaming. She was afraid to open her eyes, the images unfolding as though she were watching someone else’s nightmare. She’d lain on the bed in the hotel, terrified to move, wide awake and waiting for the darkness to lift so that she could get out of Madrid and as far away as possible. As soon as it was light, she slipped downstairs with her case and checked out. She’d had no idea where she was going when she got into the taxi. She was wrecked from shock and lack of sleep, her body trembling because she hadn’t had a drink in several hours.

She told the driver to take her to the main Madrid Puerta de Atocha railway station, where she went to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and looked up at the departures board, wondering where to go. She wanted to get out of Madrid quickly but didn’t want to go to the airport. There
was bound to be press passing through, and she didn’t want the tabloids getting any inkling she’d been there. Barcelona seemed the easiest choice, and once the gin had steadied her nerves, she purchased a ticket and got onto the train for the long journey. When she got there, she took a taxi to the airport and bought a flight to Gatwick. She had a vague plan that she would go to Eastbourne and book into a small hotel out of the way until she could get her head around what she had witnessed.

She’d been a fugitive from the moment she’d walked out of her home in London while Colin was away on business. But she’d known then exactly what she was doing, that her trip to Madrid would be one way. But now she was still a fugitive, still running with nowhere to go, and with no desire to go back and face Colin. His people would have been discreetly looking for her for days now. Once the Spanish police began trying to trace all the guests at the Hotel Senator as part of their inquiries, she would be absent. If they contacted her home to track her down, Colin’s first priority would be to work out how he could keep this under wraps in case the press got hold of it. He’d have to find her, though. That much she knew. He couldn’t have his flaky lush of a wife being linked in any way to the death of Bella Mason, without having his story ready in case he was approached by the media.

She blinked back tears of frustration, anger and disgust as she pictured her husband. If only the media knew the
kind of bastard Colin Chambers really was. The former Tory golden boy who could outperform any opposition, whether on his feet in the House of Commons or in front of a TV camera, with his wit and acerbic put-downs, had lost his seat when Labour had swept to power three years ago. It had been nothing but a minor irritation for him, because he was now a sought-after consultant and speaker everywhere, from London to the United States, and was probably richer now than he had ever been. If only those people who hung on his every word knew that he was a wife-beater, a ruthless adulterer, who had bedded at least two of the wives of the ministers he’d sat with at the cabinet table in Number 10. Millie had concealed bruises and scars for the past twelve years that would prove what he really was. But she had more than that.

*

Millie sat on a seafront bench in Eastbourne, hypnotized by the gentle roar of the sea washing over the pebbles, recalling long, sultry summer holidays there as a child with her parents. She’d booked into a small hotel close to the pier, knowing it would be the last place Colin would look for her. She picked up a discarded copy of the
Mirror
from which a picture of Bella Mason stared out at her, the jewel-green eyes transporting her back to the hotel roof. She shuddered, recalling Bella’s face as she’d met her gaze across the crowded room. Had this girl seen something in Millie’s eyes that made her recognize the sadness? The
vulnerability of her own self? A pang of remorse niggled. Millie had turned her back on Bella; she’d been so self-centred, only concerned only with going out on the roof to take her own life. If she’d stopped, perhaps she could have in some way befriended the girl . . .

It was a ridiculous notion, given that Bella had been surrounded by an entourage whose job was to keep her under wraps until the next prearranged photo shoot. But guilt had been part of Millie’s psyche for most of her life. Guilt and lack of self-belief. Now, the newspaper headlines screamed that Bella Mason was a tragic beauty, hinting that she had killed herself and supplying tales – digging up stories of drugs and depression that the poor girl wasn’t there to deny. But the real truth, if only they knew it, was that Bella hadn’t wanted to die. Millie was the only person who could tell the world the truth, the only witness to Bella’s desperate struggle with her killers on the roof. Yet she had scurried off to save herself.

Shame engulfed her. Even though she’d been about to take her own life when it had happened, Millie’s basic instinct, when the chips were down, had been to save herself. How fucked-up was that? If Colin found out what had happened, he’d berate her that she was even a failure at suicide, a coward who had run off to protect herself. Something had been very wrong with Bella Mason: she’d clearly wanted to go to the police and report whatever was going on. Now nobody would ever know what it was. Bella’s
frantic struggle for life in her final moments made Millie see how trite and shallow her own suicide plan had been. She needed a drink.

*

Colin Chambers could hear the telephone ringing in the hallway, but he let it ring. Conchita, his Mexican housekeeper, would get it. He knew somehow it wouldn’t be Millie. Wherever the Christ she was, she’d be either too pissed or too strung out to call at this time of the morning. And even if she did, she would ring his mobile. The phone rang and rang.

‘Conchita! Telephone!’ he barked, from behind his
Daily Telegraph
. Where the hell was the bloody woman? He knew she wasn’t far away. She’d only put his breakfast in front of him twenty minutes ago, and she wouldn’t have gone out without telling him.

The phone stopped ringing as Conchita burst into the dining room, flushed and out of breath. ‘Sorry, Mr Chambers. I was downstairs in the basement putting some washing in. I didn’t hear the phone.’

Chambers looked over his reading glasses and shrugged. ‘Well, whoever it was, they’ve gone now. Can’t have been that important.’ As soon as he’d said it, the phone was ringing again. ‘Bloody hell! It’s all go this morning. Can you get that, please, Conchi?’ He watched as she went out of the door, her tight jeans hugging her pert little bottom. He sipped his coffee. He reckoned he could get into those jeans, with a bit of charm.

She
came back in, holding the cordless handset. ‘Is for you, Mr Chambers.’

‘Who is it?’ He sighed. He really didn’t like to have conversations until he was properly fed and had eased into his day.

Conchita spoke into the handset: ‘Who is calling, please?’ She frowned, confused. ‘Is a foreign accent, sir. Like maybe Spanish or Italian.’

Chambers beckoned for the phone and she handed it to him, then left the room. ‘Hello? This is Colin Chambers. Who is this, please?’ He could hear crackling on the line and some activity in the background. ‘Hello?’ he said again.

‘Oh. Hello. Am I speaking with Señor Chambers?’

‘Yes, you are. Who is this?’

‘Are you the husband of Señora Millie Chambers?’

Chambers felt his stomach twist. Millie. Something had happened to her. His mind went into overdrive. What the hell had she done? Was she in jail? He knew she wouldn’t be dead, because protocol stated that the foreign police force would contact their UK counterpart, who would come round in person and knock on the door. So she was alive. Stupid bitch had obviously fucked something up royally if the Spanish police were calling him.

‘Yes, I am.’ His voice was sharp, businesslike. He was in charge.

‘Hello, Señor. I am sorry to trouble you. My name is Juan Alonso. I am the official interpreter for the Policia Nacional in Madrid.’

‘Yes.
What’s going on?’ Chambers pictured his wife in some police station confused and pissed out of her head. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to have someone pick her up and make sure it stayed under wraps.

‘The police are investigating the death of Bella Mason, a young lady, a British model. She fell to her death from the roof of the Hotel Senator on the Gran Vía in Madrid.’

Chambers knitted his eyebrows in confusion. He vaguely remembered something on the news last night about the girl falling from a roof in Madrid. It didn’t interest him. Just another coked-out celebrity who couldn’t hack fame and fortune, he’d thought.

‘What has that to do with my wife?’ he asked, looking at his watch. He was due in the city for a meeting in the next hour. ‘Just get to the point,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Where is my wife?’

‘We are trying to contact her at this address. That is why we are phoning, Señor. She was a guest at the Hotel Senator on the night of the girl’s death. The police are trying to trace all the guests of the hotel so they can interview them as part of the investigation. Is it possible to speak with Señora Chambers to arrange an interview?’

Chambers felt a flush rise in his neck. This was all he fucking needed at a time like this. Fucking Millie, out of her head somewhere in Madrid, manages to be in the same hotel where some silly tart tripped off the roof. The press would be all over the story of the model, because that was
what sold newspapers. But the fact that a fucking Tory ex-cabinet minister’s wife was staying there at the same time took the front page to a whole new level. What a stupid cunt that woman was. If he could get his hands on her right now he’d wring her bloody neck. He was in the middle of negotiating a six-week speaking tour of America, and being in the papers for having a nutcase wife would not help seal the deal. He tried to compose himself. Thinking on his feet was, after all, his speciality.

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid my wife is not here at the moment. Didn’t anyone speak to her before she left the hotel? I mean, in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy?’

‘No. She left very early in the morning so she was already gone by the time the police were looking for her. There were more than two hundred guests in the hotel, so the police are going through them. Most of them were interviewed the same night or the next day, but now they are trying to speak to the others.’

Chambers allowed the pause while he worked out what to say.

‘Can you tell me when she will be available?’

‘Well, the problem is, my wife is travelling at the moment in Europe. She was only in Madrid briefly.’

‘Yes, Señor. For three nights at the Hotel Senator.’