The Blissfully Dead

by Louise Voss

They were allowed a fifteen-minute break at 10 p.m. and Jade dragged him outside to see if they could see anything through the steamed-up glass of the pool room – ‘Let’s try and take some photos on our phones, omigod, maybe they’re skinny-dipping, can you imagine how much The Sun would pay for a photo of OnT naked? We’d never have to work again!’

  Kai had already decided that after tonight he was never going to work again, but he didn’t tell Jade that. He followed Jade over to the pool house.

  They had signed confidentiality agreements as part of their contracts for the night, but neither of them understood what that meant. Kai was relieved that there was no chance of seeing anything through the window – he’d started obsessing about the size of his willy. OnT were all bound to have massive great pop star wangers, and he didn’t want Jade to start making comparisons . . .

  ‘We’d better get back to the house, or the dragon will sack us,’ he said, as Jade was putting away her phone. It beeped with a message and when she looked at it, she gasped and jumped as though the phone had given her an electric shock.

  ‘What, bae?’

  Her shoulders were rigid. She shook her head and stared at the screen again. Then, out of the blue, she vomited neatly into a lavender bush by the pool.

  ‘Jade! Are you sick?’ He rushed over to her. Puking always made her cry – she was practically phobic about anything to do with sick. But to his amazement, when she straightened up she had the biggest smile on her face that he had ever seen, even bigger than when she got them the jobs tonight at this party. Then she started to laugh hysterically, cackling as though she’d lost it.

  ‘What?’

  But she wouldn’t tell him. She tucked her phone back into her bra, still laughing and doing a little dance and basically looking as though she was about to explode with glee.

  ‘Did one of them footballers give you some drugs, or what?’ he demanded. She looked totally high. He felt even more pissed off. Suddenly, he was sure he knew: she’d had a text from that bodyguard twat!

  ‘You gave him your number, didn’t you!’ he yelled at her.

  ‘Who?’ she said innocently, not even bothering to conceal her happiness.

  ‘Oh, screw you, Jade,’ he said, and stalked back inside to carry on with the dishwashing. He’d have gone home right then, but until he got his cash at the end of the night, he had no way to do so.

  Part of him felt a sick little thrill at telling Jade to screw herself; he’d never dared do anything like that before, but suddenly he felt that he, Kai Topper, had a limit, and she had just pushed him right over it. He’d done stuff before that he shouldn’t have, but usually only because other people – often Jade herself – wanted him to do it. This time he was going to do something that he wanted to do. Screw the lot of them, the posh record company twats, the snooty celebs who thought they were better than everyone else – and as for that bodyguard! He was going to fuck them up tonight, good and proper. What he was going to do would get someone into so much trouble . . .

  The next time the chef went outside for a fag, Kai slipped into the cloakroom and retrieved his backpack from under a bench. He unzipped it, reached down to the bottom and felt his fingers close around what he wanted. Pulling it out, he smiled to himself.

  Nobody was going to walk over Kai Topper, not anymore.

  Chapter 42

  Day 14 – Winkler

  Winkler pulled up in the lane outside Mervyn Hammond’s Surrey home, got out of the car and immediately stepped in a puddle up to his ankle. He cursed aloud, the calming effects of his rainforest CD blown away in an instant. Goddamn fucking countryside; if he could pave over this shithole . . . He took a deep breath.

  Cold, stinging rain lashed down on him, soaking his hair. As he walked towards the gate, his sock squelching inside his shoe, he ran a hand across his scalp, icy fingers searching out skin. Last night, he’d had his head between Francesca’s thighs, wondering if she’d ever come, when she’d said, ‘You’ve got a little bald spot.’

  He had sat upright. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s cute. I like it.’

  He had immediately got up and run over to the mirror, trying to see the bald spot. He loved his hair, so much so that when he’d left his ex-wife her final words to him were, ‘I wish you baldness.’ Now it looked as if the witch’s curse was coming true.

  He hadn’t been able to perform after Francesca’s words. She’d tried to get him back in the mood before eventually leaving in a huff. Winkler had found a hand mirror and located the offending patch. His dad was as bald as Kojak, but Winkler Junior had always believed that he took after his mum’s side of the family: hirsute and manly. But this was it. The beginning of the end. He spent the rest of the evening looking up hair re-growth products on Google.

  So he was in a foul mood this morning. And Mervyn Hammond was going to take the full brunt of his bad temper if he wasn’t one hundred per fucking cent cooperative. Over the past twenty-four hours, Winkler had become increasingly convinced that Hammond was, if not the killer, definitely involved. He had the access to the young fans and would easily be able to persuade them to meet with him by making promises these desperate girls wouldn’t be able to resist. He had, Winkler knew, paid off a young girl who’d been molested by Shawn Barrett, which made Winkler wonder if this Irish girl hadn’t told them everything – if Mervyn’s involvement went beyond bribery and corruption.

  There was the signed photograph of Mervyn among Nancy Marr’s belongings – the only connection between the old woman and OnTarget anyone had been able to find. Finally, there was Hammond’s mysterious after-dark visit to the children’s home in Isleworth. Hammond liked young girls. Winkler’s guess was that Hammond had molested Rose and Jessica, and they had threatened to expose him. Or perhaps he hadn’t done anything to them directly but they had found out about him. Hammond was so furious that before killing them he had tortured them.

  He pressed the buzzer by the gates and a female voice came smoothly through the intercom. A housekeeper or PA, Winkler guessed.

  ‘Police,’ he said firmly. ‘I need to have a word with Mr Hammond.’

  After a long pause, there was a beep and the double gate swung slowly open. Winkler decided to leave his car out there and walked through, finding himself on a path that led through an immaculately landscaped garden, cone-shaped little pine trees and everything, up to a grand house – one of those Huf houses that were popping up around Surrey. Ridiculous – a house that came in kit form and still cost a couple of mill? It was impressive, though, he had to admit, with its glass frontage and chalet roof.

  He passed a kidney-shaped pond, gold and white koi darting beneath the surface, and considered propelling a juicy globule of phlegm into the water. He was so going to enjoy taking Mervyn Hammond down.

  Winkler reached the house, walking past a white van parked close to the entrance, to find a middle-aged Asian woman in a white apron – yep, the housekeeper – standing in the doorway. Several black bin bags lay at her feet. He flashed his badge at her.

  ‘Mr Hammond in his shed,’ she said. Not long off the boat, this one, Winkler thought. ‘I call him and he say please go there.’

  She pointed towards a large brick building across the garden. A shed! It was bigger than the house Winkler grew up in; it was in fact a converted barn, by the look of it. Winkler was about to walk towards it when he had a thought.

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr Hammond?’ he asked, using his most authoritative police voice, wanting her to believe she’d be in trouble if she didn’t cooperate. If she didn’t answer, he might have to use the magic word: immigration. That always worked.

  The woman, whom Winkler was pretty sure was Thai, shuffled so half her body was concealed behind the door. Frightened. Maybe Hammond threatened her. Beat her. Don’t worry, Winkler wanted to say. I’m here to take the bad man away.

  ‘Two year,’ the housekeep
er replied.

  ‘Is he a good man to work for?’

  She nodded vigorously. Too vigorously.

  ‘I bet he has lots of parties, eh? Lots of clearing up for you to do.’

  She nodded again, smiling tentatively. ‘Yes, many party.’

  ‘Famous people, yes? Celebrities?’

  The housekeeper’s eyes darted about like the koi had done. She leaned forwards, her eyes like saucers, voice dropping to an awestruck whisper. ‘Yes. I meet Harry Potter.’

  ‘Really? Nice kid. Any other . . . kids come here?’

  The woman cocked her head.

  ‘You know, like, young girls. Teenage girls.’

  She grinned again and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, many young girl. Pretty girls.’

  I bet, Winkler thought. He caught movement behind the housekeeper – a woman dragging a vacuum cleaner across the hallway – and took a second look at the bin bags.

  ‘Was there a party here last night?’

  ‘Yes. Big party! We clean up now. Many people sick from drink.’

  He tried to get a better look, but she moved her body to block his view.

  ‘Who was here? Anyone exciting?’

  She opened her mouth to answer, then appeared to change her mind, probably realising she’d already said too much. Possibly because he hadn’t been able to control his face when she said ‘pretty girls’. He decided not to push it.

  He nodded at the woman and said, ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

  She wore a bemused expression as he strode off across the damp grass towards the ‘shed’. It was raining even more heavily now and by the time he got there water was dripping into his eyes. He was thankful he’d had the good sense to slip the signed photo, which was tucked inside his coat, into a laminate sleeve. He banged on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Winkler wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside the converted barn, but he’d have been less surprised if he’d found a dozen bodies hanging from the rafters.

  The entire space was filled with model trains. Not just trains: an entire landscape, with rolling hills and valleys, bridges and tunnels; miniature houses and churches; tiny plastic sheep grazing in a field; people the size of thumbnails waving from a station. And, gliding on tracks around this landscape, replica steam trains, gleaming black and green engines hauling cargo and passengers, round and round, pausing at signals before emitting a whistle and chugging away again.

  Mervyn Hammond stood at a control deck on the far side of this display, his mop of black hair falling into his face as he fiddled with levers and rotated dials. He glanced up as Winkler approached but didn’t stop playing with his giant train set.

  Winkler noted that Hammond didn’t seem surprised to see him.

  ‘Mr Hammond,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you about—’

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Hammond said. ‘You know, when I was a kid my granddad used to take me to the station at Crewe to watch the trains. I used to dream of being a train driver. That was all I wanted to do.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘My granddad would turn in his grave if he knew what I do these days. But he could barely afford to buy me a single wooden engine to play with. If he saw this . . .’ He stretched out his arms to indicate his miniature kingdom and Winkler was rendered speechless.

  But he thought to himself: train sets. Toys. What does he do, use this to lure kids to his house? Is he into boys too? His paedo radar wasn’t just tingling now, it was going berserk.

  Hammond stepped away from the control panel, the fervour in his eyes dimming a little. ‘How can I help you? Detective . . . ?’

  ‘DI Adrian Winkler.’

  ‘A colleague of DI Lennon’s? Don’t tell me he’s sent you to ask more questions about Shawn Barrett?’

  Winkler shook his head. Beside him, an engine whizzed by dragging half a dozen passenger carriages behind it. The constant circular motion of the toys was making him feel queasy. And there was a cold, squelching sensation in his left shoe. I’m going to get sodding flu, he thought. And it was all this creep’s fault.

  ‘This isn’t about Shawn Barrett,’ he said, taking a step towards Hammond and pulling himself up to his full height. ‘It’s about you.’

  Hammond adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Mervyn. Hope you don’t mind if I call you Mervyn.’

  ‘What are you—?’

  Winkler interrupted him, producing the signed photo from inside his damp coat and holding it in front of Hammond’s face. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘Well, yes. It’s a photograph of me.’

  ‘A signed photograph of you. Send many of these out, do you, Mervyn?’

  Hammond was looking at him as if he were talking in riddles. ‘No. Hardly any. But I appear in the media quite a lot, so I get the occasional request for a signed photo. Why are you—?’

  ‘Recognise the name Nancy Marr, Mervyn?’

  In the moment before Hammond answered, his eyes shifted up and to the right. This was a sure sign that the PR man was about to tell a lie. Winkler held his breath.

  ‘No. I’ve never heard of her.’

  He was lying. Definitely lying.

  ‘So you don’t remember sending, or giving, her this signed photo?’

  ‘No. Detective, I don’t send the photos out myself. Do you really think I’d have time to do that? I signed a small stock of pictures and if a request comes in to the office, my PA sends them out.’

  ‘Really?’

  Winkler had spent much of the past twenty-four hours trying to work out why Hammond had killed the old woman and he was sure he’d figured it out. Somehow, Mrs Marr had discovered the truth about Hammond. Maybe Mervyn had assaulted or threatened a girl Mrs Marr knew. She had threatened to expose him. Blackmailed him, perhaps. So he’d murdered her to keep her quiet.

  And perhaps he’d left the signed photo as a kind of calling card . . . ? Unlikely – but not impossible. Winkler would work out the details later.

  Right now, he didn’t have enough to arrest Hammond. He could get him to come to the station again, but he strongly suspected this time Hammond would lawyer-up – an extremely expensive lawyer – and wriggle off the hook, then go crying to the papers about police harassment and how the cops were wasting their time on him when there was a murderer of teenage girls on the loose. Winkler knew there was no way the guv would allow them to touch Hammond without something rock solid. Winkler needed more . . . something to justify getting a search warrant for this place and Mervyn’s office, to seize his computer. He needed a girl to make a complaint about this pervert. An accusation.

  He looked around, checking there were no CCTV cameras pointing at him, that it was just him and Mervyn. It was time to crank things up a little, get Mervyn to start worrying.

  He walked over to the model train set and caught hold of one of the engines as it trundled past, snatching it up. The carriages it was pulling fell away and landed on the ground with a clatter.

  Mervyn rushed over. ‘What the hell?’

  Winkler stepped into his path, holding up the green and black locomotive. The letters LNER were stamped on its side.

  ‘Put that down,’ Hammond demanded.

  ‘Worth a fortune, is it?’ Winkler held it higher, his arm fully outstretched. ‘Would be a real shame if I dropped it.’

  Hammond tried to grab at it, but Winkler pushed him away. Winkler was delighted to see that the PR man’s face had turned as red as the carriages that had fallen to the floor. ‘That was my granddad’s,’ Hammond said.

  ‘Ah. What a shame. Was your dear old granddad a kiddie fiddler too? Is that how it started? Granddad climbing into your bed at night, asking for a special cuddle?’

  Hammond stared at him. ‘You’re sick. Who’s your superior officer? I’m going to call him right now . . .’ He
pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  ‘Him? Sexist too, as well as a sexual predator. How many have there been, eh? Over the years?’

  Hammond had gone so red now, breath coming out of him in quick, shallow gasps, that Winkler was slightly concerned the other man was going to have a heart attack. He didn’t want him to die before he faced justice. He lowered the train and gently placed it back on the track.

  At that moment, Hammond’s mobile rang in his palm, making him jump. He stared at the screen, clearly debating whether to take it, but it must have been important because he lifted it to his ear and said, ‘Mervyn Hammond. Oh . . . Good morning, your Excellency . . .’

  Winkler’s phone started ringing too. He checked the display: Gareth. He backed away towards the door, pointing at a spot below his eye and then at Hammond. Winkler felt satisfied. Hammond would definitely make some kind of move now. He would wonder how Winkler knew about him, move to further cover his tracks. Cover his train tracks, Winkler thought, sniggering. He really was a comedy genius.

  He answered his phone as he walked towards the house. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Boss, it’s DS Batey. We’ve had a call . . . You’re going to find this interesting.’ Gareth sounded excited.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Someone called Crime Stoppers anonymously. You’re not going to believe this, but they mentioned Hammond, said they were at a party at his house last night and saw some teenage girls’ clothes in one of the bedrooms. Including a pair of pink knickers with the word “LUCKY” printed on them.’

  Winkler stopped dead. ‘What?’

  ‘I know. Rose Sharp’s underwear.’

  Winkler’s heart was thumping like a full-size train thundering along the tracks. ‘Did this caller give any more details? Leave a name?’

  ‘No, like I said, it was anonymous.’

  ‘And who else knows about this call? Lennon?’

  ‘Not yet, no. The referral just came over – I picked it up and called you right away.’

  Winkler raised his eyes to the heavens and mouthed ‘thank you’. ‘OK. Great. Keep it that way for the moment. I’ll call you back.’