I swore blind I didn’t know anybody by the name of Robert Carravaggio. I mean, you’d remember, wouldn’t you?
It wasn’t until Corky escorted me into the mortuary that I realised who it was. Dodgy Bobby. Cold on the slab, eyes closed down, covered with a sheet. Outside, it was bustling – one of the busiest general hospitals in Europe. Inside, apart from the banter of the technicians and a radio playing in one of the offices, it was silent. I felt a surge of sympathy and sadness well up inside me as I looked at Bobby. Nobody had ever given a fuck about the poor bloke, including me.
He’d already been identified by his sister, and the cause of death was no mystery – he’d been found with the needle in his arm, lying in the broken lift at Thelwall Towers, by a couple of local kids. I could probably even guess which ones. Maybe that’d put them off their life of crime.
I went with Corky to a nearby coffee shop. I hated the place. It was always full of sad people – hospital visitors, families who’d been told the cancer was terminal, even the occasional escapee from the ward, wheeling a drip stand behind them.
For once, Corky was interviewing me in his official capacity. All suspicious deaths are referred initially to the Coroner. The criminal cases will be adjourned to Crown Court, the straightforward deaths finished off with a full inquest. Corky’s job was to oversee the whole process, gathering forensic and medical evidence, talking to witnesses, liaising with the family.
As he sat opposite me, dunking his tea bag in his mug, I was reminded of why he was so good at his job. If you didn’t know otherwise, you’d swear he was a funeral director, not a police officer. He looked perfectly average, medium build, sandy brown hair, sandy brown eyes. But he had a deep, calm voice that made you feel safe, like he had the answers to all your questions. If only.
My hands were shaking, and I clutched the mug to steady them. I had a feeling that events were racing ahead of me, and I never liked that. Plus this was about my seventeenth cup of coffee of the day and I had caffeine running through my veins instead of blood.
‘It looks clear-cut enough, Jayne, but CID will want to talk to you.’
‘Who’s dealing with it?’
‘Your favourite and mine – Jack Moran.’
‘Oh fuck.’
Jack Moran was a universally loathed middle-aged sergeant from Ball Street. On my first day, he changed the signs round on the loos so I walked in on my DCI taking a piss in the urinals. He was also renowned for scooping ‘freebies’ – from anyone who offered. That included the local greasy spoon at breakfast time and the equally local ladies of the night. I always thought there was more there, but investigating a fellow officer was a sure-fire way to a job as a security guard at Aldi, so I ignored it. As did everybody else.
My parting gift to Jack Moran had been a set of bruised balls when he tried to grope me at my own leaving do. This was going to go swimmingly.
‘Bobby wasn’t a user,’ I said, firmly. ‘Booze, yeah, fags, millions, but not smack. I know the signs. Bet there weren’t any track marks, were there? And what did his sister say?’
‘There were track marks, Jayne – old ones, from years ago, though. And his sister said he used to have a habit, but he’d been straight for over a decade. If you class a crate of Special Brew and sixty Lambert and Butler a day as straight. We’ve not done the PM yet obviously, but I’m guessing the overdose just got him there a bit quicker.’
I said nothing. I was remembering that strange feeling I’d had in his flat, that he wasn’t long for this world. And how he’d agreed. I just hoped he wasn’t burning in the hellfire he’d been shown at Hart House. I know I’d slagged him off to Dan the day before, but let’s face it, he was harmless. There were far more malevolent men still walking the earth.
‘The sister hadn’t seen him for almost two years, apart from a couple of strange late night phone calls asking if “she was all right”. She said he sounded worried, anxious. Maybe he’d finally had enough of his shitty little life and went out in style. Besides, there’s a witness.’
‘Who? And a witness to what?’
Corky stared at me, obviously weighing up what he should and shouldn’t let slip. This was an active investigation, not a favour to a friend.
‘Come on Corky – you know I could find out anyway. And I’ll pay the usual fee.’
He smiled, and his whole average face lit up into something much nicer.
‘I’m not sure my fridge can handle any more bottles of Lambrusco, McCartney. Okay – it was some scrote called Jason Quillian. Minor league dealer, operates around Thelwall, although business is down since that shiny new estate opened. Says he sold a bag to Bobby that night.’
‘Why would he offer that kind of information?’
‘Because he was caught with several more bags about an hour later, and he thought it might help him. Jack Moran did the usual and promised to let him go if he’d testify.’
He wouldn’t let him go, of course. Unless he couldn’t be arsed with the paperwork for a tiny case that might not even make it out of Magistrates’ Court, then Jason Quillian Esq may be shown the door.
‘Tell me about Quillian,’ I said. ‘Trustworthy sort, is he?’
‘Oh yes. You could trust him to sell his own grandmother to white slavers for an extra five bob in his pocket. You know the type – looks like a pit bull cloning experiment. Dumb as a box of rocks about everything except his own survival.’
I nodded. I did know the type. I could picture his black hoodies, the trackie bottoms tucked into his socks; his mean, empty eyes; the squat he lived in; and the £300 iPhone he’d have in his pocket. There were thousands of Jason Quillians in this city and beyond.
I asked a few more questions, told Corky to pass my regards on to Jack Moran, and left. I stood outside for a few minutes, watching the buses, black cabs and cyclists compete for road space, a hectically choreographed dance of death. One wrong move and bam, game over.
I fished my phone from my pocket – two missed calls. I hit the buttons, listened to voice messages, stepping back from the kerb as a double-decker whooshed past me a bit too close for comfort.
‘It’s Wigwam. Dodgy Bobby’s dead. Call me.’
Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, I thought.
The second message was more interesting. It was from Francesca Neilson, the dragon lady at Deerborne and Family, telling me that the number one son and heir would be available to see me at my convenience. God. How many meetings was I going to get through in the space of twelve hours? I was fed up with talking to people, smiling and being friendly and using the few ounces of charm I possessed. I’d been thrown in the back of Wigwam’s car, viewed a dead body, and tried to get a good bobby to tell me he believed in ghosts. I wanted to go home and kick something very, very hard.
Instead I called back, told her I was on my way. It might lead nowhere – but at the very least, I’d get another cup of coffee out of it.
Chapter 16
On the way to see Mr Deerborne, I phoned Mrs Middlemas, to see if she had contact details for the friend mentioned in the diary, Sophie Clark. I also called Alec Jones, as our meeting had been inconveniently cut short by my trip to the morgue.
‘That was fast,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you’d call. What can I do for you?’
I ignored the open invitation to flirt, and instead filled him in on Geneva Connelly. I didn’t explain who she was – just that I needed to see the case notes. He promised to see what he could do and hung up. I suspected I’d have to pay a price, and that any case notes he found would need to be handed over in the pub of his choosing. I could live with that, I thought.
Deerborne and Family were based in a predictably swish office block on Water Street. The road stretches down to the river, and on a clear day, you get peeps of the ferries and cruise liners coming in and out on the rolling waves of the Mersey. On a windy day, you get blown inside out like a dodgy umbrella.
Francesca – late fifties, skinny, face as chirpy as Morticia Addams’ – led me to a
plush waiting room, where I amused myself looking at back copies of Cheshire Life and Antiques Today. Why didn’t I ever get left any family heirlooms? The best I could hope for was several sets of Tupperware and a collection of Everton FC programmes.
Within a few minutes a call came through, and I was escorted into the inner sanctum. The office was huge, with stunning views down over the Mersey. Framed paintings of the Liverpool of yesteryear, minus the poverty and child labour and slum dwellings, were hanging on the walls. It was all very tasteful, as was William Deerborne himself.
Not in the Father Dan league when it came to height, but tall enough to avoid a Napoleon complex. In good shape physically, late thirties maybe, with well-defined biceps bulking out his tailored shirt. Brown hair, striking hazel eyes, and a generous smile. Hot, as Tish had said. In a well-styled, corporate kind of way.
‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Mr Deerborne,’ I said, as we settled down at the meeting table. Coffee had magically appeared in front of us, with a plate of those posh-looking Italian biscuits you only normally get in nice cafes. I was livin’ the vida loca.
‘Please, call me Will,’ he said, ‘and it’s my pleasure. It’s the least I could do, once Francesca told me it was about that poor girl. We were devastated when we heard the news. We did what we could to ensure it never happens again.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked. ‘As far as I can see, there’s no implication of any fault on your part in the police investigation.’
He waved that comment aside, and poured me a coffee from an elegant silver pot.
‘It’s not to do with blame – or avoiding litigation. It’s to do with a duty of care. We’ve been back and done checks on all the window locks in the entire building, and tested that particular one again – there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, but I wanted to know for sure.’
I was surprised he’d even heard of Joy, at his level – didn’t he have minions to be caring on his behalf?
‘Right, well, from the police file, Mr Deerborne—’
‘Will, please. I feel about a hundred if you call me Mr Deerborne.’
‘Will. From the police file, it’s clear that in all probability, this was just a tragic accident. Her parents have involved me because they have a few unanswered questions, and as you can imagine, it’s hard in their situation to lay their minds at rest.’
‘Of course. And if there’s anything we can do to help, we’ll do it.’
‘Can you fill me in a little on your relationship with the Institute, and why they use your building?’
‘Well, Hart House had become something of a white elephant for us. It was originally built as a centre for one of our shipping concerns, but as we pulled out of that business, we were left with this rather beautiful building on our hands.’
Ugh. Hart House was many things. But ‘beautiful’ would not have been top of my list of adjectives, that’s for sure. I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging way, as I mainlined some more caffeine.
‘For a while we used it for overspill office space, but it was clear we had to decide whether to sell it, or demolish it and use the land for other purposes. At the end of the day, despite several very lucrative offers from developers, we decided we didn’t want to see it flattened. It holds some… I suppose you’d say sentimental value.’
He flashed me a killer smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, made him look boyish and full of charm. I could imagine it slaying the opposition in the board room. Wasn’t doing that much for me, but he seemed nice enough.
‘Did you know it was designed by my great-grandfather? Joshua Deerborne. The family money came from trade, but Joshua always had an interest in architecture, and Hart House was his pet project. He came up with the original plans.’
I wondered briefly if that included burying a dead baby or two beneath it, but it seemed rude to ask.
‘So we mothballed it for a number of decades, a decision taken by my father. About four years ago, we were approached by the Institute. They’re always looking for ways to save cash, so we leased it to them, at a ridiculously low rate. Their part of the deal was that they covered the refurb costs. It fits in with our ethos of corporate social responsibility, and seems to work well for both parties.’
‘That’s very interesting. I’m fascinated by history,’ I lied. ‘Would you be able to provide me with anything more about it?’
‘Of course! There’s all sorts of literature I can root out for you, going right back to the earliest days. I’ll get a package together for you. What else?’
‘Well… did you know that another young woman died there, a couple of years beforehand? She was called Geneva Connelly.’
He nodded, and the smile disappeared. He seemed genuinely upset. Will Deerborne wasn’t turning out to be at all like I expected, which probably tells you more about my working class snobbery than anything else. When you’ve been raised in a house where voting anything but Red is tantamount to slicing the Andrex puppy’s head off with a machete, you don’t anticipate multi-millionaire business magnates having so much as a sliver of soul.
‘Yes, and strangely enough, I knew her. We’d met briefly, in the Dean’s office. She was one of the building reps, fighting for their right to… well, to nothing in this case, she was perfectly happy with all of the facilities, and spent most of our meeting trying to persuade me to fund a Jacuzzi room! Bright girl.’
I kept my professional face on, but inside I was laughing: two of the premier league families of Liverpool, albeit from vastly different ends of the social spectrum, coming face-to-face in a chat about the student body’s need for jet-powered bubbles.
‘And how did you deal with that request?’ I asked.
‘I gave her my card and told her to come back to me with a proposal. I didn’t really have any intention of doing it, but it seemed the best way to placate her.’
He continued with his tale: ‘Again, after her death we went and checked for anything we could improve. In that case I believe it was a fall down the stairs, so we went through the building and added extra non-slip treads to all the steps. Anything we could to avoid it happening again. Why? Do you think the two are connected somehow?’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But no stone unturned and all that. I wondered if you’d heard of any other occurrences there? Anything… odd?’
‘What do you mean by odd? And please, speak freely. I really do want to help.’
I put the coffee down and sighed slightly. It was time to piss or get off the pot, as my dad might say.
‘Okay – this is going to sound strange, but the parents of the girl, Joy Middlemas, have it in their heads that she was somehow haunted. That some kind of supernatural force was responsible for her death.’
There. It was out. Still didn’t sound any saner, no matter how many times I said it. And here, in this swanky office with its soundproofed windows and delicatessen standard coffee, it seemed particularly out of place. I looked over at Will. He was silent. Possibly wondering if he should press the panic button and call security.
‘Ah. I see,’ he said, quietly. He looked concerned, but not terrified, which was a good sign.
‘Well, I’m not going to dismiss it out of hand,’ he said after a few moments’ thinking time. ‘It’s undeniable that there are things we don’t understand in this world. I’ve been in Hart House many times and never felt anything… out of the ordinary. Then again, I have been told by many people – most of them female – that I am a particularly insensitive person.’
He grinned. He was joking. Actually having a laugh about it, instead of kicking me out. Weird.
‘But if you need any help with that, let me know. I’m sure there are resources we can supply. Not that we have ghost-hunters on the books, obviously, but if you need money for anything, we can provide it. I presume there are experts you can go to on this kind of thing?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There are. In fact, I’m already working with them, and money doesn’t
seem to be an issue. More of a… labour of love. If you don’t mind me saying, Will, you’re taking this all very calmly.’
He laughed out loud, and looked a bit shamefaced once he’d calmed down.
‘I know this is a terrible thing to say, in the light of what happened to those poor girls, but I must admit I find it all very intriguing. Running a business has its moments, but I’ve been doing it all my life. It’s not what you’d call exciting. But this? It’s fascinating, and frightening, and if you don’t mind, I’d be very interested in finding out what happens next. Should I be sending Francesca out to stock up on holy water and crucifixes, do you think?’
From the looks of Francesca, she’d be struck by lightning if she so much as set foot in a church, so I wasn’t sure that would work. I reckoned she’d be protection enough if he needed a bodyguard against the supernatural.
‘I’m sure it will all come to nothing,’ I said. ‘But I promise to keep you in the loop, and be in touch if there is any way you can help.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate it. Perhaps we could meet up and discuss it over dinner some time soon?’
I stared at him in disbelief. Bloody typical. Men are like buses – no sign of one for months on end, then three turn up at once. All of them very attractive, as buses went. I just wasn’t sure which one I wanted to ride.
I handed him my business card, and he studied it before tucking it away in his shirt pocket. I had the feeling he was mulling over the McCartney thing but was too polite to ask.
I should give some definite consideration to a date with Will Deerborne, I thought as I left. He was cute, charming, and loaded. The men I tend to go for are usually none of the above, and look how well that’s turned out.
I didn’t have much time to digest the conversation, or ponder my future as a millionaire’s wife, because I needed to speak to Wigwam. If I didn’t, he’d be hoisting me into the back of his Audi again; he wasn’t a man renowned for his patience. I found a seat in the Starbucks at the top of the road, where I skipped the coffee for a bottle of still water. My body is a temple.
Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson) Page 11