‘But that’s what happened,’ Jadyn countered.
‘Try it again,’ said Harry. ‘Only like a normal person, rather than someone who’s just swallowed a Victorian newspaper.’
‘Right, yes,’ Jadyn said. He paused, wondered if he’d paused for long enough, then started to worry that he had paused too long, and at last started talking. ‘Hilary Wallace was at Charlie Baker’s author event and accused him of using a ghostwriter.’
‘There!’ Harry said, his face breaking into what Jadyn had to assume was his attempt at a smile, though it was hard to tell, the scars twisting up together painfully. ‘Now, wasn’t that better? Don’t stop.’
‘Apparently, she called him a fake and a liar and said that he had betrayed the trust of his readers.’
‘Quite the accusation,’ Harry said.
‘DI Haig was there, she’s a fan of Charlie Baker, and she helped calm it all down and get the woman out of the building.’
‘What else?’ Harry asked.
‘About the fan? Not much,’ Jadyn answered. ‘Like I said, fake address and phone number, possibly a fake name, too.’
‘Don’t you mean bogus?’
‘Do I?’ Jadyn said. ‘I’ve not written that down. I will though. Anyway, DC Blades managed to find the number plate of the car the woman was driving and traced that to this address. Which is where we are now. Well, not exactly. The house is over there.’
Jadyn pointed across the road from where they were sat.
‘Are we arresting her?’ Jadyn asked.
Harry shook his head.
‘Right now, we’re just questioning, that’s all. There’s nothing to link her to what happened, other than the fact that she got a bit shirty with our victim. And that’s not really a link, is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jadyn said, and that was the truth, because he didn’t. He was learning all the time at the moment and he’d realised pretty early on that it was better to just say when he didn’t understand something than pretend that he did. And Harry, he had realised early on, had a knack for knowing if something wasn’t right. So, it really wasn’t worth the risk.
‘Well, why don’t we go and find out?’ Harry said. ‘Come on.’
Jadyn followed Harry’s lead and climbed out of the car, following him across the road to the door of the house they’d just spent nearly two hours in a car to find. The house wasn’t much to look at. It was a Victorian terrace on a road which stretched off into the distance, made almost impassable by the cars parked along it. The brickwork was hidden under a layer of pebbledash, which had been painted cream. The plinth above the front door, and the sills of the three windows surrounding it, had all been painted as well, though a shade of green. It was neat, tidy, unassuming. Jadyn found it hard to believe that such a place could also be the home of a murderer. But then, what kind of a house would a murderer have anyway? he thought, shaking his head in disbelief at the way his mind worked. After all, it wasn’t as though a killer would live in a dark house with blacked-out windows, or perhaps a creepy old house on a hill.
Harry rapped his knuckle on the door.
‘Before we go in,’ the DCI said, ‘I don’t want you to just sit back and leave me to do this, okay? We’re both here, we can both ask questions. You good with that?’
‘Of course,’ Jadyn said, just as they heard the sound of scuffling from behind the door.
The door opened.
‘Yes? Oh, dear God!’
The woman in front of them was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved jumper, her black, frizzy hair pushed back on her head by a pair of rather oversized glasses. She was carrying a pile of paper, stapled in the corner. Jadyn guessed that she was in her mid-to-late thirties. On seeing Harry’s face, the woman’s shock was more than clear.
‘Does this always happen?’ Jadyn asked Harry, under his breath.
‘It does,’ Harry growled. ‘It does.’
‘You’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses, are you?’ the woman asked, having now gathered herself together, her voice clear, well-spoken, projected almost. ‘If you are, then I should tell you that yes, indeed, I do know who rules the world, and it’s the good Lord Jesus.’
‘We’re not, no,’ Jadyn said.
‘So what is it, then? Are you selling something? I don’t want it, whatever it is. No double-glazing, no insurance, no brushes, or any kind of cleaning product.’
‘Please,’ Jadyn said, but the woman was on a roll.
‘I’m not interested in a hot tub or a new kitchen, I don’t want to answer any surveys about my bills or internet provider, and above all, no, I really and most emphatically do not want to sell my house!’
‘Ms Wallace?’ Jadyn said.
At this, the woman fell silent.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
Harry pulled out his ID.
‘DCI Harry Grimm,’ he said. ‘This is Police Constable Jadyn Okri. May we come in?’
The woman seemed stuck for a moment, Jadyn thought, like someone had just hit the pause button on the remote, her face frozen, her body stiff. Then she shook herself and pulled her face into a wide-eyed smile.
‘The police? Here? Of course, yes, come in!’
The woman backed away into what was a small lounge and Jadyn followed Harry as they stepped inside.
The room was very neat, very tidy, Jadyn observed, not really sure if it was important to notice such details, but taking them in anyway. A large painting hung above a fireplace in the wall to their right, showing three or four dancers in blue tutus. The other walls contained other paintings, all of dancers, jostling for space between posters for classic movies like From Here To Eternity, I Know Where I’m Going, and Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Two sofas sat on either side of the fire, in between them a simple wooden coffee table.
‘Please, take a seat,’ the woman said. ‘Coffee? I’ve just made some.’
‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Harry said. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions. Shouldn’t take too long, I’m sure.’
The woman smiled again, but it seemed even more forced this time, Jadyn thought, but she sat down anyway, and placed the papers she had been carrying on the coffee table.
‘It’s a script,’ the woman explained. ‘I’m an actress, you see? Can’t say that it’s all that good, but it’s a good role, and I could do with the work.’
‘You’re an actress?’ Jadyn asked.
The woman looked at him and her smile looked suddenly rather tired. ‘I am, yes,’ she said. ‘For my sins. Theatre mainly, but a bit of television and film work, too.’
‘Would I have seen you in anything?’
‘I was in a few episodes of Casualty,’ the woman said, ‘but then who hasn’t been? Done some ads as well, not that I’m proud of it, but dreams don’t pay bills, do they?’
‘No, they don’t,’ Jadyn replied, not really sure what to say.
Harry gave a short cough and Jadyn turned to face his boss, shutting his mouth in the process.
‘Ms Wallace,’ Harry said, ‘we just need to go through a few things, first, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Of course,’ the woman said. ‘Happy to help. What is this actually about, though?’
Harry said, ‘Can you confirm that your name is Hilary Wallace?’
Jadyn noticed a flicker of something in the woman’s face. Was it nervousness?
‘Well,’ she said, ‘yes, it is, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
‘It’s my stage name, you see? My real name is Rose White. It was my dad’s choice because it just so happened that my mum’s favourite flower was a white rose.’
‘I see,’ said Harry, then looked over to Jadyn and gave the faintest of nods.
‘Can we ask where you were last Friday?’ Jadyn asked. ‘Specifically Friday afternoon, from around two o’clock?’
‘Friday?’ Rose repeated, suddenly staring off at the painting above the fireplace. ‘Now, let me think . . .’
‘It is a long time
ago, I know,’ Harry said. ‘Hard to remember that far back, isn’t it?’
Jadyn watched Rose’s gaze fall onto Harry, her stare nothing but the sharpest of daggers.
‘I’m a busy woman, you see,’ Rose said. ‘I have to juggle rather a lot of jobs to make sure that I keep a roof over my head.’
‘Perhaps I can jog your memory,’ Harry said and pulled out a book.
It was one of Charlie Baker’s novels, Jadyn noticed. It looked old and well-read, so clearly wasn’t the one which the author had launched the previous week. He hadn’t taken the DCI for a reader.
‘Do you recognise this?’ Harry asked. ‘Not the book as such, but the name?’
Rose leaned forward, dropping her glasses onto her nose with a flick of her head.
‘Charlie Baker?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Charlie Baker. Are you a fan?’
Rose sat back.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was a fan, no,’ Rose said. ‘I’ve read him, yes. Who hasn’t?’
‘So, you wouldn’t, for example, attend a launch of his new book, then?’ Harry said.
At this, Rose’s face went tight, like the skin of a balloon with too much air in it.
‘Look, what is this?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want? I’ve done nothing wrong! Nothing wrong at all!’
Harry leaned back, tucking the book away again.
‘Ms White,’ Jadyn said, ‘we believe that on Friday afternoon you attended the launch event for Charlie Baker’s new novel, The Hunt. We also believe that you accused him of a number of things, the main being that he uses a ghostwriter.’
Rose went to speak but Jadyn hadn’t finished.
‘We also believe that you gave false or misleading information at the event so that you couldn’t be identified.’
For a moment or two, no one spoke. Then Rose let out a long, slow breath, pushed her glasses back up on her head, and slumped back in her chair.
‘Bollocks,’ Rose said.
Jadyn was more than a little surprised to hear her say the word at all, and an accent had slipped out with it as well, a northern twang hidden until now.
‘Something wrong?’ Harry asked.
‘Wrong? I should coco.’ Rose sighed.
‘Then perhaps you can explain it for us,’ Harry said. ‘Please.’
Rose shook her head then rubbed her temple. ‘It was a job,’ she said, looking at Harry and Jadyn in turn. ‘The whole thing, from start to finish. It was a job. I was hired to say what I did.’
‘By who?’ Harry asked.
‘Charlie’s literary agent,’ said Rose. ‘Anna James.’
Chapter Twenty
Jim may not have been delivering the news himself, that responsibility laying fairly and squarely with Detective Sergeant Dinsdale, but he still felt as though the world was crashing in on him. The air in the room, though warm, seemed to be trying to suffocate him. The looks on the faces of those they had come to speak to were expectant, silently begging, demanding good news that just wasn’t going to come. The numerous taxidermied animals in the room didn’t really help either, Jim thought, their grim expressions silently surrounding them with tableaus of artistically designed death. Though he had to admit, that the one of a fox in a dressing gown and smoking a pipe, though really rather awful and in unbelievably bad taste, was also pretty damned funny. Particularly, as it was riding a large hare with a somewhat surprised look set on its face forevermore.
With the six colleagues and friends of Charlie Baker gathered round, each of them sitting down in the deep sofas in the lounge, Matt told them what he could.
‘I am sorry to have to tell you all that the body discovered yesterday, just a few miles from this lodge, has now been positively identified as that of Charlie Baker.’
As the detective sergeant’s words settled, the room seemed to only grow warmer, Jim thought, and for a moment it seemed as though the walls, the stuffed animals, all of it was closing in on them.
No one spoke, no one uttered a word. Adam, Charlie’s editor, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in one hand, staring at the floor. Chris, Charlie’s PA and the youngest there, seemed to stiffen up and freeze much like the animals around the room. Eric, Charlie’s accountant, and the oldest of the group, who was sitting next to her, reached out and rested a hand on hers, squeezing it a little, his face full of concern. Mark folded his arms and just sat there shaking his head. Abigail wept silently, but in just such a way, Jim thought, that would ensure everyone noticed. And finally, there was Anna, Charlie’s literary agent, and try as she might, she just couldn’t steady her hand enough to light the cigarette which had somehow magically appeared between her lips.
‘Here, let me,’ Mark said, leaning forward and reaching over to take hold of her lighter.
Cigarette lit, Anna sucked hard, and the plume of smoke she then released drifted off like a tiny independent weather system.
‘Thank you,’ Eric said, looking up at Matt and Jim. ‘For being straight with us. It’s better that we know. Are you able to tell us what happened? How he died? Was it a car accident?’
A sob broke free of Abigail and she stood up, walking away from the sofa, her face in her hands. Mark stood up and followed, but paused halfway to rub the tears from his own eyes.
Jim knew there was more Matt had to say and he couldn’t help but feel terrible for those about to hear the rest of it.
‘Mr Baker’s body was found some way away from his car,’ Matt went on to explain. ‘We currently believe that he may have taken his own life.’
If the first piece of news hit them hard, Jim thought, then this went through them like a wrecking ball, the impact of it not just written on their faces, shock scratching and clawing its way into their skin, but in their body language, too, as he watched them visibly shake with the shock of it.
‘We really are sorry for your loss,’ Matt said. ‘And we will, of course, provide any help and support that we can at this very difficult time.’
But no one was listening, not anymore, and Jim braced himself for what was to come next.
Anna was on her feet.
‘Taken his own life? Charlie Baker? Impossible!’ Her voice was growing louder as she shouted at the room, at the world. ‘He would never do anything like that! He couldn’t! I just don’t believe it!’
‘Can you think of anything, apart from what happened at the book launch, that would perhaps be a reason for him to do this?’ Jim asked, working hard to keep his voice calm and non-confrontational.
‘Of course not!’ Anna snapped back at him, biting at his words through the cigarette smoke seeping out of her mouth. ‘He was rich, he was famous, why the hell would he kill himself? Why?’
Jim provided no answer. He didn’t have one.
‘Maybe it just tipped him over the edge,’ Adam offered, lifting his face for the first time since Matt had delivered the news. ‘What was said, by that fan? I mean, it could have, couldn’t it?’
‘What edge?’ Anna asked.
‘I’m just saying,’ Adam said, ‘that Charlie wasn’t, well, all that stable, was he? Not all of the time anyway. You can’t say that he was, either, Anna, and you know it.’
‘But to kill himself?’ Anna said. ‘Can you really see him doing that? And over what? Some mad nonsense blurted out by a crazy fan at a book launch? I just don’t believe it. I don’t! I refuse to!’
‘Adam has a point, Anna,’ Eric said, standing up to face her. ‘Everyone here knows that Charlie wasn’t the easiest to deal with. Maybe Adam’s right, maybe what happened really did send him a bit crazy. He certainly wasn’t himself, was he, after it happened? Couldn’t get drunk fast enough.’
‘It’s my fault,’ Chris said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s my fault . . .’
‘Of course, it isn’t,’ Anna said. ‘This has nothing to do with anything that you’ve done.’
‘It does,’ Chris said. ‘I . . .’
Her voice broke then
and Jim was pretty sure she was about to say something else when Adam cut in.
‘There was no way you could have stopped that woman saying what she did. No way at all. You grabbed the microphone as soon as you could. There was no warning of it. We were there, remember, Anna and I? It has nothing to do with you. Do not put this on yourself, okay? Don’t let Charlie do that.’
‘But—’
‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Don’t, okay? Charlie did this. To himself. Selfish to the end, if you ask me, that’s what this is. Once again, it’s all about him. Un-fucking-believable!’
A rage burned through Adam’s words and Jim stared at the man. It was in his eyes, the anger, a hot seething thing close to bursting out of control. Jim had expected sorrow and upset, but there was something else going on here in front of them, an unexpected anger.
Eric stood and gave a short cough, loud and firm enough to get the attention of everyone in the room.
‘I think we all need some time to let this sink in,’ he said. ‘It’s a shock, yes, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? We all knew Charlie in different ways, some as a colleague, an employer, some as a friend, a client, and we’ve all got our own views of what the man was like. He was difficult, but for whatever reason, we all still stuck with him. And whatever reason there is behind his actions, why he did what he did, we need to just step back a bit, and perhaps avoid trying to lay blame where there isn’t any. Charlie’s gone, by his own hand, and we will have to pick up the pieces. But for now, and if these two good gentlemen will allow, I think our time is best spent just letting it sink in.’
They were wise words, Jim thought, and he could see how the others listened and took them in.
‘I’m going upstairs to lie down.’ Abigail sniffed, pulling away from Mark and heading for the stairs in the hall.
Mark said, ‘I’m going to make a pot of tea, if anyone wants one?’
Adam raised a hand. ‘Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.’
Chris stayed on the sofa, staring into the middle distance and Anna followed Abigail out of the room, probably to go and lie down as well, Jim thought. She had, after all, seemed to take it the hardest.
Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Page 16