by Granger, Ann
She disappeared again, clacking across the tiles on her stilettos.
Jess and Carter took seats on the fat pale cushions and looked at one another. ‘She’s playing for time,’ Jess whispered.
‘That suggests to me that Billy isn’t far away,’ he returned. ‘What’s the betting he’ll come barrelling in here in – ’ he consulted his wristwatch – ‘about fifteen minutes’ time.’
The Jack Russells were still setting up a noisy protest at being shut in. They could hear Terri calling out to them. ‘All right, boys, it won’t be long.’
Five minutes later, during which time Jess noticed that Carter was getting increasingly restive, Terri tottered back, bearing a tray with the coffee things. She set it down on a glass-topped table.
‘Here we are!’ she announced.
As she spoke, they heard the sound of a car drawing up outside. They were not even to get fifteen minutes with Terri. Carter looked his frustration.
‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ said Terri, without bothering to go and see who the new arrival might be. ‘Here’s Billy, just in time for coffee. We’re in the sun lounge, darling! ’
The last phrase was unexpectedly yelled full volume. Both her visitors jumped and the invisible terriers started barking again. Terri poured coffee and passed them a cup each, smiling serenely at them as she did so. Thus they were both at the disadvantage of balancing a full cup of hot liquid when Billy Hemmings appeared.
Jess saw a large, red-faced man. He was a good few years older than his wife, as testified to by his balding head and the grizzled grey fringe of remaining hair surrounding the shiny, sunburned area. His jawline had lost its youthful tautness, jowls forming. His stomach protruded in an arc above the tight band of his jeans. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal hairy muscular forearms and a very expensive-looking gold wristwatch; but the backs of his hands were wrinkling and showed age spots. He was annoyed.
‘So, what’s all this, then?’ he demanded, standing over his visitors. ‘I can’t have the cops drawing up to the house every five minutes! What’ll the neighbours think?’
Carter had already passed on to Jess Monica Farrell’s opinion of the Hemmingses. She repressed a smile.
‘Have a biscuit?’ invited Terri them, proffering a plate.
‘This is Inspector Campbell,’ Carter introduced Jess. ‘My name is Carter, Superintendent Carter. You remember me from the other evening, of course. We don’t want to take up much of your time. Mrs Hemmings has been most hospitable . . .’
Terri beamed above the rim of her coffee cup.
‘But this shouldn’t take long. The evening before last, when I stopped for a moment outside here to admire your home . . .’
‘It is nice, isn’t it?’ said Terri.
Her husband glared at her.
‘You appeared to be expecting a guest who would be driving a Lexus. Is that right?’
Terri opened her mouth, intercepted another hard look from her spouse, and closed it again. She took a biscuit and bit into it. Apparently, her part in the conversation was over.
‘So what? What’s it got to do with you?’ asked Billy Hemmings.
‘We’re wondering if your visitor arrived safely.’
‘Police matter, is it?’ Hemmings was sarcastic now. ‘Worried about one person missing from our dinner table?’
‘No, concerned about a missing Lexus. Did the guest arrive?’
Hemmings surveyed Carter, glanced briefly at Jess, and then turned his attention back to the superintendent. ‘As a matter of fact, no, he didn’t But I want to know why you’re so curious about it; and I’m not answering any more of your questions until you explain yourselves a bit better. Neither is my wife,’ he added.
Terri, with a mouthful of chocolate digestive, could only nod her agreement.
Carter nodded. ‘Fair enough. The burned wreck of a Lexus car has been found in a disused quarry about five miles from here, on the other side of a local landmark called Shooter’s Hill. We believe, from a witness’s statement, that it was dumped and torched there the same night as your dinner party, but much later, around midnight. We want to trace the owner.’
‘Jay’s car!’ squeaked Terri, ‘don’t say poor Jay has had an accident! Is that why he didn’t turn up for our party? Oh, Billy, isn’t it awful?’
Hemmings turned to her. ‘Why don’t you take the dogs for a walk across the road, in the churchyard,’ he suggested. ‘It’s distracting, having them barking away all the time.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Terri resentfully. She departed and the terriers were heard making a noisy exit from their prison. Shortly thereafter the front door slammed.
‘Now then,’ said Hemmings. He lowered himself heavily on to the chair vacated by his wife. ‘What’s it all about? Is the wreck Jay Taylor’s car?’
‘We don’t know. But it’s a coincidence. You say Taylor didn’t arrive that evening. Did he phone? Send a text message or email? Anything to explain his absence?’
Hemmings shook his head. ‘No, and it is odd, I’ll admit that. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but no joy. He’s not answering his home phone or his mobile.’ He pulled at the lobe of one ear and squinted at them appraisingly. ‘He might have gone up to London, business reasons, or decided to take a few days off, like anyone might.’
Jess took out her notebook. ‘The gentleman’s name is Jay Taylor, you say?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Hemmings frowned. ‘His real name is Gerald, but everyone calls him Jay.’
‘You’ve got his address? You say you have contact numbers for him?’
‘Got his business card, somewhere . . .’ Hemmings lumbered towards the door and disappeared. A few moments later he was back, holding out a small white card. ‘There you go. Got all his details on that.’
Jess took the card and tucked it safely away. Hemmings seated himself again and leaned forward, resting his hairy forearms on his knees.
‘There’s more to it than a burned-out car,’ he said. ‘A couple of senior coppers like you two don’t turn up checking out something like that. Local police do that. Joyriders, probably. If you think that car might be Jay’s – and it’s the only thing on your mind – you’d go chasing after him. You wouldn’t come bothering us. You’ve got something else worrying you. What’s up? Can’t you find him, either? Why are you looking for him?’
Jess glanced at Carter, who said, ‘Yes, we do have something else worrying us. We have an as-yet unidentified body. That’s why we’d like to know if Mr Taylor turned up at your dinner party in the end, or whether you’d heard from him with his excuses, anything at all. But you say you haven’t been able to make contact and that, naturally, fuels our interest.’
Hemmings let out a long, low whistle. He leaned back and the bamboo chair creaked beneath this weight. ‘So that’s it.’
‘Have you known Mr Taylor a long time?’ Jess asked.
‘A couple of years.’ Hemmings answered her question but he was still looking at Carter.
Carter was examining the business card. ‘This doesn’t actually state Mr Taylor’s line of work.’
Hemmings grinned. ‘Yeah, well, Jay writes those books, don’t he? For the football stars and people you see on the telly.’
There was a puzzled silence. Then Jess had a brainwave.
‘Do you mean, Mr Taylor is – possibly was – a ghost writer?’
‘That’s it.’ Hemmings nodded approvingly at her. ‘All these well-known people who write books about themselves, well, they don’t always write them in the sense of doing the actual work. Someone else does that. I can understand that. I sometimes think I’ve got a lot of good ideas for a book. But I know I couldn’t put the thing together. That’s where Jay comes in. Jay can write you anything. You just tell him what you want; he does his research and writes the book. He started out as a journalist, he told me once. But then he found there was work a-plenty for ghosts. Literary ghost, he called himself.’
‘Mr Hemmings,’ Carter said, ‘I wonder
if we might ask your help. We’re hindered considerably by not knowing the identity of the body—’
Hemmings interrupted him. ‘I’ve got a photo of him, if you want to wait. I can look it out easy enough. Terri keeps a big album and sticks snaps in it all the time. Don’t know why she bothers, myself. I’ll fetch it.’
‘He’s being quite helpful . . .’ Jess murmured to Carter as Hemmings disappeared yet again.
‘He wants to know what’s going on. He hasn’t asked us where Jay Taylor’s body was found – if our corpse is Jay. I didn’t say the body was in the car and he hasn’t asked if it was yet. Don’t you think that would be the obvious question? Something’s been going on . . .’
Hemmings was back carrying a large white leather photograph album. He opened it out and held towards them. ‘There you go. Cheltenham Races, last year. That’s Jay with Terri. He’s looking pleased with himself because he’s had a good win. He took us off to dinner that evening on the strength of it.’
So Monty was right, thought Jess, about the dead man looking as if he belonged on a racetrack.
‘Jess?’ Carter turned the album towards her.
Terri, in the photograph, wore a large and no doubt expensive hat. She was smiling happily and held a raised champagne flute towards the camera. The man standing beside her was so obviously full of life that it was difficult to connect him with the stiffening corpse on Monty’s sofa. Death drains away all personality. Features lose their expression and become just a nose, a mouth. The person who dwelt in that body has quitted the outer husk and gone on somewhere else. Yet this could well be the same man, here in this photo, as he’d once been. The face was beaming, the hair slightly dishevelled; he’d obviously had a drink or two. The expression ‘flushed with success’ couldn’t be better illustrated. Moreover, although boyish good looks had given way to a mature solidity, he was still a handsome man.
‘This does look like him.’ She hesitated. ‘But not enough for me to swear to it right now. May I keep the photo for a while? You’ll get it back.’
‘Feel free,’ Hemmings said. He leaned back in the creaking chair and folded his hands on his ample stomach. ‘Jay Taylor, eh? Who’d have thought it?’
‘We can’t be sure, not just from comparison with this photo,’ Jess warned.
‘What sort of state is this body of yours in?’ asked Hemmings suddenly. He squinted at them. ‘Burned or what? Was he in the car?’
‘Not in the car, not burned and in a good state.’
Hemmings sighed. ‘Then I’ll come and take a look at the poor bloke.’
Carter quickly masked his surprise. ‘That’s very good of you, Mr Hemmings.’
Carter is right to be surprised, thought Jess. Few people volunteer to view a corpse. Hemmings is worried about something and it’s not just the possibility of a racing crony having died. He wants to be sure; he wants to see that body for himself.
‘So, if you’re free, we can go now?’ she suggested.
Hemmings nodded. ‘I’m doing this voluntarily, right? There’ll be no nonsense about cautioning me.’
‘It doesn’t apply in these circumstances,’ Carter assured him.
‘I’m doing my duty,’ said Hemmings virtuously, ‘like, being a good citizen.’
Jess, removing the photograph carefully from the album, avoided Carter’s gaze.
Later they were all three standing outside the morgue in the welcome fresh air, away from the chemical smells that never quite disguise the odour of death. Hemmings had lit a cigarette and was pulling on it thoughtfully. Beneath his tan his skin was pale. He looked older.
It had not been a wasted journey after all. The Lexus had been the key Carter had hoped for. Thanks to Billy Hemmings, they had learned the dead man was Gerald, known as Jay, Taylor, professional literary ghost and now, in one of those macabre twists of fate, departed to the great beyond to be an unseen presence for ever.
Hemmings had identified the body at once and confidently. Then his confidence had evaporated and he’d muttered, ‘Bloody hell . . .’ before turning away, and blundering out of the door.
‘A nasty business for you,’ Jess said sympathetically to him now. ‘But we’re very grateful. Thank you.’
Hemmings expelled smoke in her direction and looked her up and down as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘Could you tell us a bit more about Mr Taylor? Do you know if he had any steady girlfriend? There must be someone we can contact.’
Hemmings rallied. This was a question he was happy to answer. ‘Girlfriends? Jay had dozens of them. Don’t ask me to name any. They came and went. He was strictly a love-them-and-leave-them man. He always had some piece of totty on his arm.’ Hemmings gestured with the cigarette in a wide arc through the air. ‘No tarts, mind you. No “models” or “actresses” or whatever they usually call themselves. He moved in racing circles and you meet every sort, doing that. High and low in society.’ A jab of the cigarette, this time in Carter’s direction. ‘“I look for breeding in my ladies like I look for breeding in a racehorse,” that’s what he used to say.’
Charming guy . . . thought Jess sarcastically.
‘The day the race meeting photo was taken, did Taylor have a companion with him, at the races?’
‘No, he was on his own that day. I think Terri did ask him about his girlfriends and he made a bit of joke about having split up from the last one and being a free man again. But that was Jay for you.’
Hemmings had paused for a decent moment of grief. ‘Poor bugger, and there he is, cold as a cod on a fishmonger’s slab. It makes you think.’
It makes you think, thought Jess. Thinking is what you’re doing now, on your feet.
‘The girlfriends?’ she prompted rather sharply. Carter gave her a warning glance.
‘What? Oh, yeah. Well, we would all pull his leg about it, mind you. “One of these days you’ll meet your match,” I used to say. You ask Terri. She’ll remember me saying it. “Then,” I’d tell him, “it’ll be down the aisle with pictures of the happy day in one of those celebrity magazines.”’
Hemmings shook his head mournfully. ‘“Not me, Billy-boy,” he’d answer. “They won’t pin me down.” Well, he’s pinned down now, as you might say. Poor devil, he won’t be watching any more winners pass the post.’
‘Did he gamble heavily at the races?’ Carter asked.
Hemmings shrugged. ‘He liked a flutter, like anyone does. Well, all right, since he’s gone, I can tell you he used to put quite a packet on a horse he fancied. Then it was win some, lose some. But look, that was the advantage for him in not having a wife and kids. Any money in his pocket was his to spend however he wanted.’ A note of bitterness entered Hemmings’s voice. ‘There was no one wanting a ruddy great conservatory built on to a house, that sort of thing.’
They murmured understandingly and Hemmings finally came round to the questions he had been careful not to ask so far.
‘How did he die? Was it in a car smash or what? Where did you find him? Was it near Weston St Ambrose? Was poor old Jay on his way to our dinner party?’
Jess answered. ‘We don’t have the results of the post-mortem yet. Nor do we have any kind of timetable for his actions that day. But the body was found well away from the car at a place called Balaclava House.’
She and Carter both waited.
There was a silence. Hemmings dropped his cigarette stub on the ground and stepped on the glowing end. ‘Never heard of it,’ he said.
‘He’s lying,’ said Jess firmly, when Hemmings had driven away. ‘He didn’t ask where Balaclava House is, or what kind of place it is. He’s heard of it before, all right.’
‘He’s a tough nut, our Billy-boy,’ mused Carter. ‘But this has shaken him. There’s certainly something he could tell us, but won’t.’
‘I could tackle the wife on her own, if I can work it,’ offered Jess.
‘She won’t talk unless he gives her permission and as soon as he gets home now
, he’ll be telling her to keep shtum. I doubt she knows anything about his business deals, in any case. I wonder where he and Taylor met? On the racecourse, probably. Well, we know where our man lived from his business card. We’ll have to get over there and take a look at the place.’
There was a movement behind them and they turned to find Tom Palmer had come out of the building and joined them.
‘I was waiting until that bloke had gone,’ he said. ‘Bit of a thug, wasn’t he? I do have results back from the lab. It was as I suspected. The victim was killed by a massive overdose of painkillers and booze. They would have knocked out a horse. He had a creaky heart as well.’ Tom pulled a face. ‘If you ask me, someone doctored his last lunch.’