Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 (18 page)

Mick picked up the letter and was reading it again. ‘How can she help her? Millie Chambers is locked up, is she not?’ He spoke without looking up from the page.

‘Yes, but she wants to help her get out.’

Rosie watched Mick put down the letter. They sat for a long moment in silence.

‘Meaning what?’ He looked up at her slowly.

Rosie swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘Er . . . Meaning she wants to help her to get out of the hospital?’

‘You mean escape.’ McGuire sat back, his hands clasped across his stomach.

‘Well. Yes.’

‘You mean help a woman sectioned under the Mental Health Act to escape psychiatric care.’

Rosie pushed her hair back.

‘It’s
not exactly helping her to escape as such, Mick. The idea is that Millie gets out of the place under her own steam. Bridget knows the hospital. She’s already spoken to Millie, and Millie has told her there are times in the day when they go out for some fresh air in the grounds. Bridget worked in the clinic for a few weeks when she was younger and said there is a way out of the place, if Millie could find it. A gate. Somewhere at the back of the building.’

McGuire shook his head. ‘And then what happens?’

Rosie shrugged. ‘Someone would be there to meet her in a car.’

‘Who?’

Rosie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Who do you think? Batman?’

‘Oh, fuck me, Rosie!’

Rosie stretched out her hands, pleading. ‘Have you got a better idea, Mick? I mean, we wouldn’t have helped her escape the confines of the grounds as such, we would just pick her up on the public road. There’s no crime in that. She wants to do it.’

‘You mean you’ve already bloody agreed to it.’

Rosie bit her lip. ‘I said I’d have to run it past you.’

‘Yeah. My arse, Gilmour.’ He stood up and walked back behind his desk. ‘Honest to Christ, some days I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I don’t know where the fuck this is going to end, Gilmour, and that’s the truth.’ He sat down and looked across at Rosie.

‘You
can deny all knowledge of it if the shit hits the fan, Mick. As it surely will.’

He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, pal. I will.’

‘So I can go ahead?’ Rosie stood up.

McGuire went into his drawer and took out a foil packet of pills he used for his ulcer. He popped one into his mouth and knocked it back with some water, then sighed. ‘Bring me the full story on Millie Chambers, Rosie. We need that. Get everything out of her. We’ll deal with the lawyers when the time comes.’

Game on. Rosie was glad she’d decided not to tell McGuire that the cops were looking for her because of the attack on Mitch. No point in giving him anything else to irritate his ulcer.

Chapter Eighteen

Millie had
been lying awake in her room, gazing out of the window at the darkness, desperate for the morning light to spread across the sky. She hated night time, always had. Especially the dead of night, just before dawn, when she used to lie in bed suffocated by her anxieties, dreading the day ahead while wishing to be out of the blackness. It was one of the reasons she’d started drinking so much at night, hoping she could pass out till the morning, but she never did.

Last night was different, though. Her sleeplessness wasn’t the usual dread, but it had worsened over the past few days when they’d been talking about the schedule for her electric-shock treatment. Millie had raged and bawled her eyes out until she’d finally collapsed from exhaustion when the psychologist and nurse tried to convince her it was for the best. They’d said it would change her outlook. So why had the NHS stopped using it routinely? she’d
questioned furiously. They hadn’t bothered to answer that. They didn’t have to. They were holding her prisoner. The decision was made.

She’d demanded to see her husband, but was told that Colin had insisted in letting them get on with the treatment. He would see her after the first few sessions, once she was showing signs of improvement. Damn them.

But last night Millie hadn’t been crying or lying terrified in bed. She had a plan, and nothing was going to stand in her way. For the past two days, since Bridget had phoned her and told her the agreement she’d made with Scottish reporter Rosie Gilmour, Millie had had a new lease of life. She knew if she got caught, she’d be locked up with even more stringent security measures, but she was determined that wouldn’t happen. She’d never felt more driven in her life. It was exhilarating, as though she were standing at the top of a rollercoaster waiting to take the plunge, a heady mixture of nerves and excitement. She’d been flushing her medication down the toilet over the past two days, and none of the staff had noticed. In fact, she had been flushing at least half of it away ever since she’d got there, once she’d realized what they were doing.

When she’d first arrived, distraught, strung out and traumatized, she had been glad of the painkillers and sleeping pills. They took the edge off the alcohol cravings. But the medication was making her groggy and listless, and if she was going to survive this, she couldn’t do it in a
drug-induced stupor. Now she was ready. Over the past couple of days, when they’d let her and some of the other patients outside for their daily dose of fresh air, Millie had been slipping around the back of the building. Yesterday, she had found the gate Bridget had told her about.

*

It was just after lunch, and as she sipped her tea at the table by the window, Millie relished the sun streaming down on the sea of daffodils splashed across the lawn. Daffodils were the first sign of spring and they had always to her been a sign of hope. They were the first flowers that Colin had given her when he’d arrived at her digs, carrying a bunch behind his back, a lifetime ago. And now here she was, planning her escape from the loony-bin she’d been cast into by the man she had once loved more than life itself. ‘Don’t go there,’ she told herself. ‘That chapter is over and done with.’ Now her life would be about truth, not for her but for that poor weeping girl, Bella, and for the abandoned children.

Millie checked the pocket of her coat again. She had to leave with only the clothes she was wearing. Her little suitcase stood in the corner to be left behind, like all the other trappings of her life. If she walked out of here now and was successful, she would leave everything behind. The truth was, she hadn’t even agonized about it. It had been over for so long, but she hadn’t realized it. She had clung to the hope that the misery would end, and Colin would again
become the man he was when she had met him. How deluded she had been.

A knock on the door brought Millie out of her reverie, and a young nurse stuck her head in. ‘Time for a bit of exercise and fresh air, Millie. Are you up for that? It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Of course,’ Millie answered, as cheerily as she could. She stood up and took her coat off the hook behind her bathroom door. ‘I can’t wait to get out there.’

‘Good for you,’ the nurse said. ‘You’re in good spirits today, Millie. Great to see you like this.’

‘Yes,’ Millie said. ‘It’s the sight of the daffodils. I do so love the spring, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. My favourite time of the year.’

The door opened wide. Millie pulled on her coat and walked, a little slowly, out of the room into the long, polished corridor. She was wearing her flat shoes and could hear them squeaking on the tiles as she walked past the nurses’ station. She had to make this work. As she went towards the door, she saw some other patients in the corridor. She hadn’t spoken to any of them: she hadn’t wanted to be drawn into conversation about their lives and how they’d got there. But she did give a friendly smile to anyone who looked in her direction. Most of the patients were very tranquil as they moved outside, blinking in the sunlight, but their faces were pale and drawn, with glazed eyes from constant mood-altering medication. Millie wondered what
they made of her. As she did most days, she had put on some make-up and tried to hide the dark shadows that had become a part of her life in recent months. She felt good inside. That was all that mattered. She walked towards the big oak tree to the left of the building, stopping as though to look at the greenery.

‘It’s Millie, isn’t it?

The voice from behind startled her, and she turned sharply. She gave a weak smile, hoping it signalled that she wanted to be alone. The last thing she needed right now was a friend.

‘Yes,’ she said.

The older woman smiled back at her, her papery skin wrinkled. Her snow-white hair was wispy and unkempt and gave her an eccentric look. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

Millie looked at her, but didn’t answer. She changed direction and walked away from the side of the building in an attempt to steer the other woman away from where she was really headed. She was conscious of the time.

‘What are you in for?’ the woman asked.

Millie gave her a bewildered look but said nothing.

‘Drink? Drugs? You punch someone?’ The old woman gave her a mischievous look.

Millie shook her head and smiled. ‘For a bit of a rest. Things got difficult.’

‘Drinker,’ the woman said, with a tone of accusation. ‘Knew it as soon as I saw you.’

‘Thanks
for that,’ Millie said. She let out a sigh. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to take in a bit of sunshine and enjoy the plants and trees. I quite like my own company.’ She took a step back.

The old woman folded her arms and shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ She took a step towards her. ‘But if I were you,’ she whispered, ‘I’d get the fuck out of here.’

Then she burst out laughing, a loud, cackling guffaw, as though someone had flipped a switch in her head. Millie walked quickly away, but could feel her heart beating faster. She could hear the woman laughing hysterically behind her and was afraid to turn back. But she was heading in the wrong direction. She glanced around her, then took the path along the front again and walked briskly, as though she was trying to exercise. At the far end of the building she slowed down and turned.

People were still milling around, walking in the grounds as they did every day. Millie was slipping away from them. She went around the back of the building, eyes darting everywhere in case a car or delivery van came up to the tradesmen’s entrance. But there was nothing. She walked to the very back of the building and saw the gate. She’d already checked it and knew it was locked with a padlock the size of her hand. She would have to climb over, and she would have to be quick. She didn’t have a watch on, but by her reckoning she’d been out ten or fifteen minutes and they only got twenty-five in total.

She
looked over her shoulder, then at the gate, praying that Bridget would be on the road at the other side. Her heart was pounding. The tension was almost like it had been when she’d stood on that hotel roof in Madrid, but that time she had come to kill herself. Now she was about to reclaim her life. Sweat trickled down her back as she put her foot onto the first rung of the iron gate. It was old with pointed spars. She began to climb. She hadn’t climbed a gate or a tree since she was a teenager, and it was harder than she’d anticipated. Her foot slipped on the iron rung and she almost lost a shoe. ‘Shit,’ she murmured. ‘Keep calm.’

She was at the top, and all she had to do was negotiate how to get over it without tearing herself to pieces. She lifted one leg over carefully, feeling for a foothold. So far, so good. Then the next. She was over. She was barely breathing as she looked down and thought of jumping, but it was nearly ten feet high and she was afraid she’d break her ankle. At last she found her footing. One more move and she was low enough to jump. She slipped and fell to the ground, her knee bashing on the grass. Pain seared through her. She pushed it away and stood up.

The road was across a verge and through a clump of trees. She could see it. She struggled to her feet, in agony as she bent and pulled herself through the undergrowth. Then she was on the country road, on a straight, with a bend at the rise of the hill. But no car. Where was it? ‘My
God,’ she heard herself say. ‘They’ll be looking for me in the next ten minutes.’ Her mouth was dry with panic. She looked back at the gate, then at the road ahead, and thought of sprinting away.

Then suddenly, racing round the bend, a car was coming towards her. Please let it be Bridget. She kept her head down just in case. The car screeched to a halt, and the driver’s window lowered. But she could see Bridget waving from the passenger seat.

‘Millie!’

‘Oh, Bridget! Thank God!’

‘Quick, get in. We must hurry.’

The back door was pushed open and Millie limped and stumbled across the narrow road, then flung herself into the car. A young woman with dark hair and startling blue eyes greeted her. ‘Hello, Millie. I’m Rosie Gilmour. What a pleasure to meet you.’

Millie’s face lit up with a smile, but tears of relief spilled out of her eyes.

Chapter Nineteen

It had
taken them nearly six hours to get just across the Scottish border, where Rosie had booked them into a small hotel. It was owned by a former detective inspector from Glasgow, whom she had known since her early days on the
Post
when part of her job was to build up police contacts and cultivate mutual trust. It wasn’t every friendly cop you could do that with, but she had made a good connection with Bertie Shaw. He’d moved down to the Met in his thirties and at one stage worked with the Royal Protection Squad, but they had kept in touch. He’d taken early retirement a few years ago to live the life he’d been promising his wife as soon as he’d plucked up the courage to take the leap into the unknown. The old country-house gamble had paid off, and the hotel was more of a hideaway for a discerning traveller than a mass-tourism venue, which suited Bertie and his wife, who loved to cook. It wasn’t the first time Rosie had stashed someone there: the
Post
had
smuggled people out of the High Court after a major case, and on one occasion a prisoner who’d been freed after serving two years for murder, when he was acquitted on appeal.

Bertie was old school and knew his stuff when it came to complete discretion. He could also handle himself, as Rosie had found out when a couple found not guilty of murdering their landlord, who were giving their exclusive to the
Post
, got drunk and, to everyone’s horror, the man pulled a gun. Bertie had stepped in and sorted him out in no uncertain terms.