Dead Alone (9 page)

Ray spun a pencil through his fingers. Tarek listened to it click against Ray’s thick gold ring. Tarek couldn’t look at Ray’s hands without wondering whose neck they had been around. He’d done his homework on Raymond Giles. His name was associated with the death of at least two women who worked in his clubs. Hostesses. Prostitutes. Whatever the nomenclature, like
associates and hoods, Tarek was sure Ray was involved. You only had to look into the eyes. And the way he kissed that cross, like a man desperate to keep his demons at bay. It was typical, wasn’t it, that a crook like St Giles should be superstitious. Tarek believed it was because only the truly evil believed in hell, like only the truly good believed in God. Everyone else floated in between, dipping in and out when it suited them.

The shanty office was gradually being heated by light bulb, Tarek’s hard work and Ray’s nervous energy. They were attempting to put an unscheduled programme through in three days. Ray was trying to keep the guest under wraps, but Tarek was beginning to get savvy. The more he knew, the more danger he was in, but the more in control he felt.

Alistair entered the room without knocking, as usual. He didn’t walk, he slunk, watching Ray with large eyes that made him look as if he’d spent his childhood in the dark. Tarek wondered if Ray had found him inside, in the nick, doing bird. He had an imprisoned look about him, a mixture of fear and arrogance. It would explain their rather peculiar relationship.

Ray asked Tarek to go and fetch coffee when Alistair came through the door. Another custom that Tarek was getting around. If he ran to the coffee machine he could programme it and return to the open window to listen. Nine times out of ten, Ray didn’t even drink the stuff.

‘Coffee,’ barked Ray. ‘It’s going to be an all-nighter.’

Tarek started running.

Jessie sat astride her bike and watched P. J. Dean approach. He wore a grey woolly hat pulled down to his eyebrows. His jacket collar was turned up and, although it wasn’t too cold, he had wrapped a scarf around his jawline. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and he walked with a slight hunch. He glanced briefly at Jessie then away to the other side of the bridge.

‘P.J.?’ Jessie called, removing her helmet.

He stepped back. ‘Sorry, you’ve got the –’

‘It’s me. DI Driver.’

He scratched his stubble and peered at her. ‘Course it is. Sorry, you look a little different.’ Jessie swung her leg off the bike and they moved to the railings. ‘I love the bike. Triumph?’

‘Virago.’

‘Had it long?’

‘Five years, but don’t get me started. I have a tendency to become a petrol-head if encouraged.’

‘I used to nick bikes in Manchester, race them around the streets and dump them where they ran out of petrol. We couldn’t afford more petrol and we were too young to think of selling them on.’

‘How young?’

‘Ten.’ He paused. ‘I got lucky, I guess.’

‘Very.’ Jessie knew what happened to kids like that. If they were fortunate, someone they looked up to guided them away from the inevitable. For most of them it was glue, petty theft, young offenders’ units, hard drugs, real crime and then prison. Prison made them into absent fathers and the whole sorry tale would begin again.

‘Why did you want to meet here?’ asked Jessie.

‘I love the bridges. I love the view. I’m not a big fan of water, but I don’t seem to mind it from up here. I come here at night, when I know I won’t be mobbed.’

‘That constant, is it?’

He nodded. ‘I know I can’t complain. I’m the lucky one, right? But once in a while it would be nice to sit in a coffee shop, chat to a mate, have a laugh and not have to wonder who is watching and what your mate’s motive is.’ He leant on the freshly painted green-and-gold balustrade. A River Police launch honked from somewhere up river. Netting bodies. Night after night.

‘What was Verity’s motive?’

‘The worst, I’m afraid. But I didn’t kill her, Detective Inspector.’

‘You seem remarkably sanguine about your wife’s death.’

He shrugged. ‘I knew a long time ago that she wasn’t going to make it. The drink was going to kill her.’

‘Drink didn’t kill her.’

He turned and stared at her, then looked back at the water. ‘You’d better tell me.’

‘We don’t know exactly how your wife died, but we do know that at some point her body was submerged in industrial-strength sulphuric acid until only her bones remained. We can only hope that she was not alive when this happened.’ Jessie watched P. J. Dean take in the information. He didn’t move for a few minutes. He stood, hunched over the railings, staring at the water as it buffeted the bridge’s foundations. The eyelashes on his upper lid almost touched his cheek when he looked down.

‘They say drowning is the nicest way to die. Do you think that is true?’ he said quietly.

‘No,’ said Jessie.

‘No. Nor me.’

‘Did you hear what I said, about Verity?’

He turned to face her. ‘Nothing would surprise me. We are capable of such terrible things. Children are forced to drink bleach, they are raped and sodomised, cut up and burnt, starved and tortured, and that’s just in this wealthy middle-class country of ours. So, no, nothing would surprise me.’

‘Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Verity, get rid of her?’

‘Well, she didn’t have a lot of friends, but off the top of my head I don’t know anyone who would dip her in acid. Then again, people like that don’t wear signs.’

‘How would you describe Bernie and Verity’s relationship?’

P.J. sighed. ‘Exhausted. Verity exhausted us all. You can’t help a person unless they want to help themselves. The first rule of the addict. It didn’t matter that she had two great kids who worshipped her, it didn’t matter that I loved her, it didn’t matter that she had everything money could buy. It can go two ways, either you hate them for not changing or you hate yourself for not being good enough for them to want to change.’

‘Is that why you let her go out, even though you knew she’d get into trouble?’

‘We couldn’t stop her. How do you stop someone who is hellbent on self-destruction?’

‘We are going to have to question everyone in the household, find out everyone’s movements.’

‘Give me a couple of days, I need to tell the boys that their mother isn’t coming home this time. Paul asked me which hospital she was in. Isn’t that depressing? You think you can hide these things from kids, but you can’t. Do you have family – brothers and sisters?’

‘Three older brothers.’

He smiled knowingly. ‘It wasn’t enough at home, you had to take on the oldest bastion of the dominant male?’

Jessie took a step away from him. ‘I have wanted to be a murder investigator since a headless woman was found in a field near my parents’ house. That was twenty years ago. They still don’t know who she was, how she died, or who killed her. My choice of career had nothing to do with my brothers;
it had everything to do with that woman in the field. And one day, I’ll solve that case. Meanwhile, I’m going to find out who killed your wife, how, where and why, and I shall stop at nothing until I do, because the only person who’s important in this is Verity, despite the person you say she had become. The only right left to a murder victim is to have their murderer caught. I’ll give you till the morning. Then I’m coming to question everyone, and that includes Craig.’

‘Craig? Why him?’

‘Why did you empty your pool?’

P.J. frowned. ‘I didn’t know it was empty.’

‘You have a pool that you don’t even know is empty?’

‘I told you, I’m not a fan of water. It’s probably being cleaned.’

‘Who used it, then?’

‘An amazing thing about Verity, it didn’t matter how shit she felt, she’d still do a hundred lengths. Even when she was drunk, she’d swim, up and down, up and down. That kind of vanity is hideous.’

He really hated his wife. ‘Mr Dean, do not under any circumstances speak to the press, leave the country, or be seen out on the town with some model.’

He started to protest.

‘There are only two reasons why you wouldn’t help me find your wife’s murderer: you did it, or you want to protect the person who did. The
moment I come up against any obstacles, any PR bullshit, or prima donna antics, that is what I will think. Do we understand each other?’

‘My name is P.J.’

‘Do we understand each other?’

He nodded once.

She put the helmet back on and returned to the bike. Comments about her brothers hit a nerve. She may have spent her life keeping up with them, but not in her career. Her career was all hers, she was in it alone because she alone wanted to be in it. She had no contemporaries on the inside and no one she could completely confide in on the outside. She was in this for the victims and the families who needed to know why. P. J. Dean turned his back on her and began to walk away. And when there was no grief-stricken family, she was in this for the dead alone.

P.J. quickly merged with the night gloom. He had discovered a way he could move through the world as an ordinary man. It was simple. All he had to do was dress like an ordinary man, walk like an ordinary man, stoop like an ordinary man. Getting noticed, that was the hard part.

Jessie left her helmet and jacket with one coat attendant, while another was being harassed by a couple of fourteen-year-olds. The two precocious,
overly made-up teenagers were standing with their hands on their undeveloped hips, clutching their ‘freebie’ bags, demanding the poor French cloakroom girl find their belongings. Apparently some glittery evening bag was missing. These were the people Maggie partied with.

As she looked around the room, for the first time in three months Jessie was glad of her choice of career. It was tough and there were people out to get you, but at least you knew who your enemies were. If you were good at your job, you got results, and if you got results you got promoted. The battlefield was ugly, but open. Here, she felt as though she was standing on a tropical beach. Beneath the fine white sand was a minefield. One wrong step and boom!

Just as she was about to give the girls a piece of her mind, a tall, handsome, dark-haired man brushed through the onlookers and spoke softly in French to the girl behind the pile of coats. The attendant laughed, glanced over to the two teenagers and laughed again. The tall man said something else and the girl nodded, replied, then pointed at the designer coat that the child-woman was holding.

‘It’s in your pocket,’ said the man.

The girl searched it, found her bag, huffed and turned away.

‘I think an apology is in order, don’t you?’

The girls looked horrified. How dare anyone speak to them like that? Unsure what to do, they turned their backs on him.

‘And a simple thank you to me will do, considering I saved you from making more of a spectacle of yourself than you were already.’

‘She lost my purse,’ said the girl, pointing at the coat attendant.

‘No, you misplaced your purse. Now you owe everyone an apology.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘A spoilt precocious child, which is only marginally less attractive than the spoilt precocious adult you are soon to become. I’m afraid you’ve just embarrassed yourself in front of people who have long memories. Apologise, then go away.’

Now the girls looked terrified, but still would not relent. ‘I’m going to tell my mother about you.’

The man laughed. ‘She’ll be hearing from me before I hear from her.’

Too cryptic for the children; they departed. But Jessie knew what he meant. She knew who he was. Joshua Cadell, the hack who’d done a hatchet job on Maggie. She needed to find her flatmate immediately.

Maggie was with a group of people, enthusing wildly, all hands and hair. Jessie waved frantically. Maggie waved back happily and beckoned her over. Maggie had no idea that Joshua Cadell was fast descending on the group of people she was with. Jessie half walked, half ran across the room, grabbed Maggie and swung her around in midsentence.

‘Two o’clock. The enemy approaches,’ said Jessie in a hoarse whisper.

‘Enemy?’ enquired a robust voice next to her.

‘Jessie? I’m so glad you came. Let me introduce you to Dame Henrietta Cadell,’ said Maggie, pinching Jessie’s arm hard. Jessie stared at the heavily made-up face of the historical novelist. Boom. Where were the bomb disposal squad when you needed them?

‘Darling, I must know, who is the enemy?’ gushed Henrietta Cadell.

‘Jessie’s ex,’ said Maggie swiftly, looking at Joshua then Jessie. ‘It’s okay, I think I saw him go to the bar.’ She winked at Jessie. Jessie did not wink back.

‘I’m so sorry. Love is a violent pastime, is it not?’ Henrietta turned back to Maggie. ‘Go on, dear, you were telling me about your next big job. You’ll be focusing on the Loire Valley, you say. Marvellous. Do you have a good producer? It is imperative. You seem to be a class act, you need a good team behind you.’

Maggie beamed. Jessie took a step back.

‘Ouch. Big boots, thin leather brogues. You win.’

Jessie turned and looked up into the boyish face of Joshua Cadell. He had looked so angular and pale on the television, yet up close his dark blue eyes weren’t remotely threatening and his hair that had looked so sinister now fell in curls over his eyes. He seemed to be smiling at her. But she
wasn’t going to let that put her off.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t wearing stilettos.’

She watched Joshua do a double-take, then nod. ‘It was you by the coat check. I saw you watching. I’m sorry, you obviously don’t approve of my parenting skills.’

‘Oh no, they deserved it.’

He was confused by her hostility.

‘Have we met before …?’

‘No,’ said Jessie.

He frowned again. ‘I’m Josh.’ He held out a hand.

‘Joshua, darling, come and meet my darling new friend. Maggie …’ Henrietta turned back to Maggie.

Jessie smiled in anticipation of the banshee. But the banshee didn’t appear. Instead, Maggie stuck out her hand, her breasts and her lips, and pulled Joshua towards her. ‘… Hall,’ she said sweetly. ‘Maggie Hall. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Jessie’s mouth dropped open. Joshua was shaking Maggie’s hand but he was looking at her.

‘Do you two know each other?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Henrietta. ‘This young lady’s ex is here somewhere. We’re shielding her. Broken hearts are more painful than the rack, my dear. Joshua wouldn’t know, of course, lucky for him.’

‘Actually –’ Jessie began to protest.

‘Jessie’s over it,’ said Maggie.

Jessie was too angry with Maggie to speak.

‘Why don’t we go and get a drink?’ said Maggie.
‘It was lovely to meet you. I really am loving your book.’

Joshua looked at Jessie. ‘I’m going to the bar. What would you like?’

Jessie remained stubbornly mute. This was Maggie’s fault, she could deal with it.

‘No, we’ll get you something. What do you want?’ asked Maggie, still pouting.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Joshua.

‘No sweetie, stay with me. My publisher has just arrived and you know how she adores you.’ Henrietta took Joshua’s hand and pulled him towards her. ‘And there are some more important people for you to meet. Another adoring fan sent over a bottle of champagne, so you may as well drink that.’

Maggie dragged Jessie to the ladies loo. Jessie turned on her flatmate. ‘You lying little toad! You’re not reading her book. And as for being so nice to –’

‘Shut up, Jessie. Until we’re alone.’

Maggie waited for two girls to leave the room before speaking. Jessie was seething with indignation. She didn’t mind Maggie using her as a date at difficult parties until a suitable and more masculine other came along to relieve her of her duties as prop. But this, this was too much. The door closed.

‘I can’t believe you –’

‘Look, Jessie, I don’t like them but, trust me,
these people are better if they’re on your side.’

‘Sure, but you wouldn’t catch me prostrating myself at Mark Ward’s feet and letting him walk all over me. Where is the self-respect in that? She’s patronising you and you take it, then she tells you that you aren’t important enough for her treasured son and you take that too, and that’s forgetting the whole shitty article he wrote. It’s embarrassing.’ Jessie realised she had gone too far when Maggie began to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. ‘Get up, Maggie.’ She didn’t move. ‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.’ She grabbed Maggie’s hands and pulled her up. ‘I was shocked.’

‘I’ve got to play the game, Jessie. You know that.’

‘I know.’

‘She is very well connected. I’ve got to make them like me.’

Jessie wanted to tell her that it wasn’t worth it, the loss of face was too high a price, but she didn’t. She relented. ‘Joshua looks quite sexy in real life.’

‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’

‘Me? After what he did to you? That would be breaking the code of sisterhood. I’ll hate him until my dying day,’ said Jessie.

‘I wish I had that luxury.’

‘Come on, Cilla, don’t think about it. Let’s go and get that drink. Seeing as it’s free.’

Maggie nodded. ‘I’ve got to pee. I’ll catch you up in a minute. And, Jess – be nice to him, I know
that tongue of yours can draw blood, but keep it curled up tonight, please?’ Jessie frowned. ‘For me?’

‘If you say so.’

By the cigarette machine, Jessie passed a man who was leaning heavily against a girl. At first she thought they were kissing, but the girl was in fact trying to push the man away.

‘Don’t make a scene,’ said the man, just loud enough for Jessie to hear. She couldn’t help herself, she walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Jessie could now see that the girl was younger than the man, much younger and very frightened.

‘Everything all right here?’ she asked, looking at the girl.

‘Oh, Christ,’ moaned the man. ‘What do you want?’

‘I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, sir.’

‘Too much? You obviously don’t know who I am.’

‘No. And I don’t want to. Now, perhaps you should call it a night.’

He laughed. ‘Very good, you almost sound official.’

‘Actually,’ said Jessie, holding open her wallet, ‘I am. So perhaps you wouldn’t mind removing your hand from the lady’s shoulder and taking yourself off home before I have to make you, whoever you are.’

He stepped away from the girl, who quickly scampered into the safety of the ladies. The man
sneered at Jessie then straightened out his pinstripe suit and walked over-cautiously back out into the party. No sooner had Jessie replaced her wallet than Maggie came out of the loo, wiping her hand in front of her nose. ‘You don’t have to wait for me. I’m a big girl now, you know.’

‘I was just –’

Maggie grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s show those Cadells how truly fabulous I am!’

Conjuring up an image of a long stretch of river, bulrushes, blue sky, Jessie followed Maggie back out into the fray. She watched Maggie return to the Cadell group and slip in with ease. She thought about following, but couldn’t bring herself to. She simply wasn’t interested in listening to an overweight historian holding court to a gathering of sycophants. If she snuck off now, Maggie wouldn’t even notice. She glanced back and saw Maggie accept a glass of champagne. Maggie was in her element, at the centre of things, letting a little stardust rub off on her. No wonder she looked so attentive, so alert.

Jessie had almost made it to the exit when a hand landed on her shoulder. It was Joshua.

‘You’re leaving already?’

‘Early start,’ said Jessie, stepping back.

‘Shame to go so soon.’

Jessie looked over to Henrietta. ‘Not a great deal to keep me here.’

Joshua laughed. ‘Most people can’t get enough of my mother.’

‘I was always better at geography,’ said Jessie.

‘Me too. Of course I was made to do history anyway.’

‘What did you get?’

He smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t ask, it’s a big family secret.’

They looked at each other for a moment until Jessie got embarrassed. ‘Good night, Joshua.’

‘Can I walk you to a taxi rank?’ She held up her helmet. ‘Your bike, then?’

‘Will you be able to get back in? They’re like the Gestapo on the door.’

‘No problem. I’m Henrietta Cadell’s son. Practically royalty.’

‘Even here?’

‘She wrote the film.’

‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise.’

‘You didn’t see it?’

Jessie shook her head, embarrassed.

‘Don’t worry, most people just come to the party, say something about the costumes and try and get their photograph taken with Mother.’

‘And what about you? What do you do?’

‘I bask in her reflected glory, accept the perks and get laid frequently by women who would like the Dame as a mother-in-law.’ He smiled. ‘It could be worse.’

‘Could it?’

‘Much. I might have wanted to be a historian myself. The world does not look kindly on the offspring of celebrities who go in search of their own merit. That is a true curse.’

‘But you write. Don’t you?’

They arrived at the parking bay. ‘Let me explain something about that piece.’

‘What piece?’

‘The thing I wrote about Maggie. The reason why you’re so hostile.’

‘Don’t take it personally. I’m often hostile.’

‘I don’t believe that. You think I stitched up your friend. It’s the pressure I get from the editor. They want the dirt – dirt sells.’

Jessie looked at him. ‘It was a bit brutal.’

‘It’s what the editors want. Stitch them up or get another job. I could just go home and spend my allowance, but I don’t want to. Everyone is under the same pressure; people like to read abuse, it doesn’t mean I think it.’

‘Good to know British journalism is in such good hands.’

‘It’s what people want to read.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Your friend doesn’t seem to mind. She knows the game, she didn’t take it personally.’

Not in front of you, no. But behind closed doors, with a bottle of wine and a destructive helping of self-doubt …‘You know, it’s late, I’m tired … Thanks for escorting me to the bike but –’