Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (8 page)

He pushed Dan’s head down. Dan took him in his mouth, closing his eyes tight as he worked. At least it wouldn’t take long. He could hear the punter’s breath come in short gasps as he muttered and cursed, then shouted, ‘Fuck!’ as Dan brought him to a shuddering climax. Dan opened the passenger door, spat on the ground, then wiped his mouth with a tissue from a box on the dashboard.

They sat in silence while the punter sorted himself and Dan stared out of the windscreen at the garbage swirling in the wind. He could hear the rustle of notes as the punter switched on the engine. Dan’s eyes lit up when he handed him three tenners. ‘Get yourself a jumper or something, son. You’ll freeze to death.’

Dan had to bite his lip to stop himself crying at this simple act of kindness. In spite of all the shit, there was time for kindness. Then suspicion flooded him. ‘I don’t do anything else. Just the blow-job. Okay?’

The punter nodded. ‘Fine by me. You want to be dropped where I picked you up?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

They
drove back to the city centre in silence. Dan got out of the car and looked back in at the punter.

‘See you later, son. Take care of yourself.’

Dan closed the door and walked quickly towards the cafe where he knew he could get a burger and a tenner bag of heroin from the guy on the till.

*

Dan was woken by someone shaking him. He opened one eye. ‘Fuck me, Mitch! I was asleep!’

‘I know, man. Sorry. But I’ve been looking for you for four fucking days. I thought you’d topped yourself.’

Dan sniffed, his eyes focusing in the dark. He took a breath, but it hurt his chest and he started to cough.

‘Fuck’s sake, man. You got some kind of lurgy? You sound like my da before he died of fucking emphysema.’

Dan stopped coughing and took a short breath. ‘Don’t know. Think I’ve got some kind of infection.’

‘You need to go to a doctor.’

Dan sat up. ‘Aye, fine. Can you just phone my doctor and ask him to do a house call?’ He shook his head, sweating but freezing. ‘I don’t have a doctor. I don’t even have a fucking address, man.’

Mitch lay down close to him, pulling his own blanket over him. ‘Well, we need to see the doctor tomorrow. We’ll go up to the hospital.’

‘I was coughing blood this morning,’ Dan said matter-of-factly.

‘Fuck
me, man! I hope I don’t catch anything from you.’ Mitch sniggered and snuggled in. ‘Come on. Back to sleep.’

*

From the park bench in Glasgow Green, Dan and Mitch watched the customers come and go into the People’s Palace, an elegant city landmark straddling the line between the prosperous city centre and the run-down East End. They’d attempted to go into the cafe in the Palace’s Victorian glasshouse for breakfast an hour ago, but were turned away at the door by a receptionist who could tell a mile off they were a couple of junkies. They’d bounced away with a one- finger salute, and headed for the cafe off London Road that served the best Coca-Cola iced drinks. They’d smoked some heroin in one of the boarded-up squats in the Calton, after Mitch had returned triumphant from Argyle Street with a padded jacket he’d shoplifted for Dan.

‘It’s nice this,’ Dan said, admiringly running his hand down the sleeve. He zipped it up to the neck and sat back, his face upturned to the sun. ‘Feels really warm.’

‘No worries, Dan. I don’t want you peggin’ out on me.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Listen, mate. I’ve got something I want to talk about.’

Dan turned to him, blinking one eye against the glare of the sun. ‘Aye? What?’

‘It’s about your sister. Bella.’

Dan said nothing for a while and they sat in silence. Then he looked at Mitch. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do
you really think somebody might have shoved her off that roof in Madrid? Like, murdered her?’

Dan sighed. He put a hand into his jacket pocket, took out a cigarette, lit it, and coughed as he inhaled. He spat on the ground.

Mitch leaned forward. ‘There’s fucking blood in that, man!’

Dan sniffed and composed himself, taking another draw. ‘I know. Fucking hurts too.’ He took a few shallow breaths, then turned to Mitch. ‘Aye. I do think somebody killed Bella.’ He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘But listen, Mitch. Nobody knows she was my sister. That’s how it was, how it had to be between us.’

‘How come?’

‘It just did, right? Bella . . . I didn’t see her for twelve years. She was already famous when she found me. I was a fucked-up wreck, a junkie. That’s why.’

Dan could still picture the moment he’d seen Bella after they’d been apart since he was nine years old. The image gave him a physical pain in his heart. He stared straight ahead.

‘Listen, mate. I want to tell you something. Er . . . I don’t want you to get mad at me. It was after that day when you saw the paper and collapsed and stuff. I was really shocked. And, well, I talked to somebody.’

Dan shifted his body to face him. ‘What? You fucking told somebody? Fuck me! Who?’

After
a few beats, Mitch answered: ‘A reporter. From the
Post.
’

It took a few seconds to sink in. Then he leaned back, looking up at the sky.

‘Aw, for fuck’s sake, man! You spoke to a reporter? Are you fucking kidding me? What if the papers find me? That can’t happen. It’s too dangerous.’

Mitch was confused. ‘What do you mean, too dangerous?’

‘Just is.’ He shook his head. ‘Listen, Mitch. There’s a lot more to this. It’s . . . It’s just . . . Aw, man, I don’t know what to say now in case you go running to the fucking papers.’

‘Maybe it’s you who should go to the papers, Dan. Go to the cops, if you’re scared. Tell them why.’ He paused. ‘Why are you scared, anyway?’

Dan shook his head and flicked his cigarette away. The last time he and Bella had met, she’d picked him up in a taxi and taken him to the hotel she was staying at, made him have a shower and given him a new set of clothes, including the new jacket that some other homeless fucker was now wearing. Then she’d made him eat some soup. He remembered her crying as he was leaving, hugging him close. He could still smell her perfume, feel the softness of her hair on his cheek. They’d talked for hours and she’d told him everything. It was the first time
they had ever spoken about the abuse that had happened when they were children, the nights when they were taken away, the strangers who came in and took them from their beds. Not just them, but others too. Bella had said she couldn’t cope with it any more, that she had been taking cocaine to get through her demanding work schedule, but also, because she was crying for days on end. They’d talked about going to the police then. And look what had happened.

‘I can’t tell you. I can’t talk about it. Just leave it.’

‘Why don’t you at least meet the reporter? She’s quite a nice bird.’

‘You’ve fucking met her?’

‘Aye. I’m sorry. I was trying to help.’

‘Yeah, Mitch. Trying to get some fucking money out of her. Don’t try to hump me, man. You’re supposed to be my mate. I thought you were my friend. You . . . You’re all I’ve got.’

Dan put his head into his hands. He jerked away when Mitch’s arm went round his shoulders, but Mitch persisted. Eventually he turned and sobbed into his chest.

‘Come on, man. I’m sorry. I
am
your friend. But listen, something’s wrong. I can feel it. Something’s wrong inside your head.’

‘I’m scared, Mitch. I just want to die so I can be with Bella.’

‘No,
you don’t, mate. I won’t let you die. I’ll look after you. I promise.’

They sat hugging each other, and Mitch gently stroked the back of Dan’s head, as the midday sun warmed the chilly Glasgow morning, filling it with promise.

Chapter Eight

Rosie stood
by McGuire’s desk along with Bob, the picture editor, all three of them watching his screen, eagerly waiting for the pictures to drop. José, the concierge in Madrid, had proved to be a belter of a contact, going about his task like a detective, picking up any information at the Hotel Senator that he thought would be useful to her. The four hundred euro the editor’s office had arranged to wire him was no doubt the driving force, but Rosie was more than impressed by his enthusiasm. He’d called her this morning to say his friend on the night shift had gone through the spare copy of the CCTV and found pictures of the two men he’d described to her, who had arrived at the party that night. One had given Bella a wrap of what he believed to be cocaine.

The pictures dropped onto the screen one by one. First, the muscled guy with the bleached-blond hair, then his squat mate with the brick-shithouse frame. A third opened, and
Rosie’s eyes popped. It wasn’t the greatest shot in terms of clarity, but Bella Mason, in her blue gown, was clearly identifiable, and it looked as though she was being handed something.

‘Can you pull that up, Bob?’ Mick said. ‘Make it less grainy?’

‘I should be able to enhance it a bit. The more we home in on it, the less clear it is, but the geeks downstairs understand these things. I’ll see what we can do.’

‘Are these two gorillas the blokes he was talking about, who turned up and weren’t on the guest list?’

The editor was addressing Rosie, but didn’t take his eyes off the screen as Bob zoomed in on the faces.

‘Yep. That’s how he described them. In fact the pictures so far show exactly what José described when I talked to him that day, before he’d even seen the CCTV. So he’s spot on with his information.’

‘I might have to give the guy a job,’ McGuire quipped. ‘He’s shit hot.’ He sat back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘Of course, using these at this time will be a problem because the cops have taken the CCTV as part of their investigation, so it’s evidence.’

‘Yeah,’ Rosie said. ‘Evidence in a
Spanish
investigation. We need to speak to the lawyers and get the lowdown on how much we can use in this country. But even if we don’t use the pictures, we can still tell the story, say it was from insiders who cannot be named but who witnessed everything. From what I see here, I can get a colour piece out of
Bella’s final moments. Not suggesting anything untoward, just that these are the last pictures of her alive.’

‘Great! I fucking love it when this happens, Gilmour. Tell your man I’m very pleased with him. And get Tom Hanlon on the phone.’

Tom was the
Post
’s hotshot lawyer, whom Rosie regularly wrestled to the floor when she was fighting to get her more explosive stories into the paper.

‘But, Mick,’ Rosie said, ‘We have to work out the impact of using this story at this point. It’s a fantastic line and leaves the rest of the media in our wake, but I don’t want to blow it too early. There might be even better ones to come, maybe even more pictures. I have to talk to José later. He’s keeping his ear to the ground on the police investigation. If anyone can pick up a line, it’s him.’

McGuire nodded at the picture editor, signalling that he wanted to talk to Rosie alone. Bob left the room, saying he’d have a look at what he could do with the images.

Rosie’s mobile rang on McGuire’s desk and she picked it up. It was Mitch.

‘I have to take this, Mick.’ She walked away from McGuire’s desk towards the window and put the phone to her ear. ‘Mitch? You there? It’s Rosie.’

Silence.

Christ! Rosie thought. He’ll be spaced out somewhere. ‘Mitch. Are you there? Talk to me.’

‘Rosie. Aye. It’s me, Mitch.’

She
was relieved to hear his voice, even if it was thick and slurring. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Aye, man. No’ bad. Listen, Rosie. Can you come and meet us?’

A little punch of excitement in her gut. He had said ‘us’. ‘You found Dan?’

‘Aye. I got him. He’s not very well and stuff. But he’s all right. I told him about you.’

‘Sure. Just tell me where and I’ll come right now. Do you want me to pick you up?’

Rosie didn’t want to hear the details of what Mitch had told Dan and how he’d managed to get him to agree to see her. She wanted to be off the phone and out to meet them.

‘Aye, well, maybe you could come and get us. It’s pishing rain and we’d need to walk to the town.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Down in the Barrowfield.’

Rosie grimaced. Barrowfield, a run-down clutch of council houses, was deepest heroin territory. It wasn’t the kind of place you just wandered into. Delivery men had stopped going there months ago, and GPs refused to do house calls, fearing for their safety. Rosie pushed away the memory of her last visit: she’d had to climb out of a bedroom window and make a run for it through the back gardens after some nutcase had held her prisoner, with a slavering Rottweiler watching her every move.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘What’s the address?’

She
could hear mumbling in the background. Mitch probably didn’t even know what bloody house he was in.

‘Number thirty-six. Text me when you’re nearly here.’

‘Okay. I’ll be there shortly. Is Dan with you?’

‘Aye. He’s standing right here. By the way, if anybody asks, you’re my cousin, right?’

‘Fine. See you in fifteen minutes. Wait for me.’

‘Aye, right. We’re waiting.’

The line went dead.

Rosie took a long breath and let it out slowly, then turned to McGuire, who was staring at her, intrigued. ‘Mick,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Aw, fuck! I hate it when you say that, Gilmour. What’s happened?’

‘Probably the biggest story we’ve seen in a very long time – if it turns out to be true.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I went to see this guy the other day. He’d phoned in. A junkie. He said he had information about Bella, and wanted to meet.’

‘How much dosh did you have to part with?’

‘Nothing,’ Rosie lied. ‘Just listen. It gets better. I met this guy – his name’s Mitch – in a cafe off London Road. The usual suspect, junked-up, skinny as a rat, but he only goes and tells me that Bella Mason has a brother.’

McGuire leaped to his feet as though he’d been stung. ‘Yeah, right! A brother?’

‘So
this guy says. The brother’s a junkie too. Homeless and living rough here. His name is Dan Mason.’

‘Christ almighty, Rosie! Who was that on the phone?’