The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  ‘Well, well, well, no booze on the breath. For once you’ve agreed to see me without being so pissed that you can barely stand.’

  Jessie turned to go.

  P.J. grabbed her arm.

  ‘Hey, I’m only kidding.’ Jessie looked at him seriously. ‘I guess you’re not in a kidding mood?’ he ventured. ‘Don’t tell me – the pigs are after you, and you need a bolt hole? Well, you’ll be at home here. World’s best criminals only on this floor.’

  ‘It’s criminal you get paid so much to sing the crap that you do,’ she retorted.

  ‘Oh,’ said P.J. ‘So we are in a kidding mood.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  P.J. moved aside. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  She was wrong about the suite. ‘It’s huge,’ she gasped.

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  Jessie hit the rock star playfully and walked to the window. She could see across St James’s Park, over the wall of Buckingham Palace and into the grounds. A lake twinkled in the sunlight.

  ‘I’ve been trying to catch a glimpse of the Queen in tennis whites, but to no avail,’ said P.J. behind her. She turned around. He popped a cork. She jumped.

  ‘Drink?’

  Jessie nodded gratefully.

  ‘How are the cuts?’

  ‘Oozing with pus.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I had to have an injection in my bottom.’

  ‘Ouch! You know how to make a man jealous.’

  He passed her a glass of champagne. ‘Thanks,’ said Jessie, beginning to relax.

  ‘I’m glad you came over last night,’ he said. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, but I’ve missed you. Then I started missing you again, the moment you staggered out of my house at dawn. God knows why. Every time I see you, you tell me I’m a sub-species, barely worthy of sharing the same oxygen with you.’

  ‘You’re being typically masochistic for a person in your position. Lots of famous people are like you. I guess I’m cheaper than paying a visit to the House of Pain.’

  ‘And there was I thinking I was unique and special.’

  ‘God no. It’s because you’ve reached the pinnacle of your career,’ she continued. ‘You’ve done it all, seen it all, tasted it all.’ She shrugged. ‘You like the challenge of trying to date a copper. It could just as easily be clandestine meetings on Clapham Common.’

  ‘I thought I was dating a copper,’ he said, taking a step towards her. Jessie turned away. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up.

  P.J. laughed resignedly. ‘There was a time when girls seemed to like the idea of dating me.’

  ‘Must have been a long time ago,’ said Jessie, still facing the window. ‘You’re pushing forty.’

  He put his arm round her waist. ‘I can’t tell you how nice it is to have my tigress home.’

  Jessie couldn’t help it, she started crying. It wasn’t because only P. J. Dean, in his virtual life, could call a hotel suite home and make it sound normal. It wasn’t because DCI Moore was a bitch who might just be able to succeed where Mark had failed and run her to ground. It wasn’t because Father Forrester was making her ask herself questions she thought she’d escaped from. And it wasn’t because she’d been caught in a pitch-black vortex and lost her bearings so badly that she’d frightened herself to the core …

  ‘What’s happened?’ P.J. asked softly, holding her against his chest while stroking her hair. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Shh, don’t cry.’

  She sobbed again. ‘Sorry,’ she tried to splutter.

  He put his hands on her cheeks and lifted her face up to him. ‘What is it, Jessie? Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can. Tell me.’

  ‘You’ll think I’m an idiot.’

  ‘I won’t. Please.’ He kissed her cheek as tears ran down her face. More came as the feeling overwhelmed her again.

  ‘I miss my mother,’ said Jessie, so quietly that P.J. stopped breathing in order to hear her better. ‘And I want her back.’

  P.J. said nothing. He stared into her face, slowly brushing tears away with his thumb. P.J. might have his weaknesses, but he knew about familial loss. His sister had drowned herself when she couldn’t take the sexual abuse their father forced on her, and P.J. had never forgiven himself for not being brave enough to save her.

  ‘I’m so fucking angry with her,’ said Jessie suddenly. ‘She could have told me. She should have told me. I was busy, you know, there was always something to do, something that stopped me from getting home. Stupid things: parties, boyfriends, too much work, too little time, too tired, too fucking lazy – and all the time she was dying and she didn’t say anything! Why didn’t she say, “Jessie, come home”? That’s all she needed to say. I would have known, I would have come home.’

  ‘That’s why she didn’t tell you. You were living your life. The life she had worked so hard for you to have.’

  Jessie blinked at him through stinging eyes. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I love my stepsons like my own. All I want is for them to be brave enough and confident enough to take on this world. If you’ve achieved that, you’ve done well as a parent. Your mother would have loved your busy schedule, your friends, your parties, your boyfriends.’ He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Though of course I’d have to take umbrage with her over that.’

  Jessie laughed quietly, then sniffed. ‘They weren’t so bad.’

  ‘Your mum wouldn’t have wanted any of that to stop. Not for her.’

  ‘But I could have just hung out with her for a little while.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have, though. You’d have watched her and waited, and that’s no way to live.’

  Jessie sighed heavily.

  ‘Don’t be angry with her, Jessie, be proud of her.’

  She rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers and sniffed again. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Though I never bought the indomitable Jessie Driver bit in the first place.’

  ‘Is that so? I seem to remember you were pretty scared of me.’

  He pulled her closer. ‘Still am, sugar, don’t you worry about that.’ He wrapped his arms round her and she could feel his biceps hold her. ‘So, what do you want to do? We could order lobster and foie gras or burgers and chips, watch old classics on DVD, or take a swim in the tub, or –’

  ‘Go to bed,’ said Jessie.

  He took her hand. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not waiting to hear you say that twice.’ He looked up. ‘Now which of these fucking doors leads to the bedroom?’

  By the time she emerged from the bedroom it was dusk outside and all of London lay below them like a flashing electronics board. Jessie was enveloped in a robe that draped to the floor. She was dishevelled, happy and hungry.

  ‘I’m running a bath,’ called P.J. from the adjoining room. ‘It may take a week.’

  ‘Steak and string fries, maybe a little mustard sauce – what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re gorgeous,’ he said, standing on the threshold of the room.

  Jessie turned around. ‘Aren’t you supposed to throw me out of here and call up the next groupie?’

  ‘Hey, I’m not your average rock star.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ said Jessie. ‘But you’re making a supreme effort to hide it from me. I bet you throw terrible tantrums when your press department serve up the wrong mineral water during interviews.’

  ‘Did you read that on Popbitch? It wasn’t true. Everyone knows Badoit tastes of sperm. It was perfectly reasonable of me to throw it across the room and fire everyone on the payroll. Badoit! Good God! Who do they think I am – Boy George?’

  ‘See, that’s a little too convincing, and I don’t even want to know why or how you know what sperm tastes like.’

  ‘Casting couch ain’t reserved for the ladies these days. Bath oil or bubbles?’

  ‘Oil.’

  ‘Good choice, madam,’
said P.J., retreating to the bathroom.

  Jessie joined him after ordering food. She found him standing naked in the middle of a bathroom that was bigger than her living room at home.

  ‘Wow,’ said Jessie. ‘Hotel bathrooms, my new rescue remedy.’

  ‘You could have this all the time.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You could. I’m going on tour, you could come with me.’ P. J. Dean had a perfect body. It was lean and toned, enough muscle to hang on to, not too much to look waxy. She would have crawled along the floor to get a feel of his stomach, but he would never know that.

  ‘I can’t. I have a job.’

  ‘Not one that you enjoy.’

  She sidled up to him. ‘What did you have in mind – some kind of personal service?’

  ‘Actually, I need someone to head up our new security unit. A lot of police officers do that.’

  ‘Only the ones who’ve been farmed out because the Force can’t cover their alcohol dependencies.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll put you down for the job.’

  ‘Not funny,’ said Jessie.

  ‘I wasn’t joking – about the job, anyway.’ P.J. leant over and turned off the taps.

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.’

  ‘How about coming with me anyway, just not on the payroll?’

  Jessie looked at him. Life as a pop phenomenon’s girlfriend, she suspected, would be a more perilous job than the one she was in.

  ‘And what about all those leggy models?’

  ‘I don’t want any more leggy models.’

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  ‘Serves you right for asking trick questions. So, how about it?’

  This was getting dangerous. She had to nip it in the bud. ‘P.J., I’m a detective inspector with CID. I earn a pittance compared to you, and I work all hours of the day and night. CID has broken up some of the best marriages. The music business must have had its fair share too.’

  ‘Who said anything about marriage?’

  Just like Bill. Why, when you mentioned the word marriage, did men come out in hives? ‘You’re focusing on the wrong thing here.’

  He grabbed a towel. ‘Don’t spoil this, Jessie. Just give yourself five minutes off, one night. We’ll re-engage tomorrow. For now, the battle is shelved, all skirmishes are cancelled. Everyone has been given a pink ticket, R’n’R is compulsory, as decreed by the super major general in command – me. Now, strip off and give me fifty.’ He grinned to himself. ‘I’ve always wanted to say that.’

  ‘I could as well.’

  ‘No you couldn’t.’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Jesus, woman, there’s no let up with you! Everything has to be a deal.’

  ‘So, what’s it worth?’

  ‘I’ll write you a song.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a bike.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  ‘A Harley.’

  ‘Triumph Bonneville – pink.’

  ‘Done.’ They shook hands.

  Jessie started getting into position.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Fifty press-ups.’

  ‘Yep, but in the nude.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was the deal.’

  ‘Deal’s off.’

  ‘Can’t – you shook on it. Now, strip off and give me fifty. Great, I got to say it again.’

  ‘All right, a deal’s a deal. But you tell anyone about this and I’ll let everyone know you don’t write your own songs.’

  P.J. shrugged. ‘Everyone already knows.’

  Jessie let the dressing gown fall to the floor. She did fifty press-ups to his count. And then she did fifty more. Because she couldn’t help herself. Inside, she wanted P.J. to be impressed.

  Much later, after their bath, food, a movie – well, half a movie – another bath and breakfast, Jessie started to dress quietly. She felt better than she had in a long time. At some critical point, the battle she waged with herself to stop her seeing P.J. had become more damaging than seeing him. Would it be better to live a whole life for a short while, or half a life indefinitely?

  ‘Does that mean I have – to buy you two bikes?’ said P.J., emerging once again from the bedroom.

  ‘You’re supposed to be asleep.’

  ‘While you sneak out on me? Sorry, I’m sneaking with you.’ He read her mind. ‘It’s five o’clock in the morning. No one will see.’

  ‘My bike is downstairs.’

  ‘So, I’ll escort you to the bike. You are not sneaking out of here like a high-class hooker.’

  ‘I hadn’t actually considered that, but thanks.’

  ‘Trust me, you don’t look like one. And yes, that is a compliment.’

  ‘P.J.,’ said Jessie, picking up her bag, ‘you don’t really have to buy me a bike.’

  ‘A deal is a deal. Even if I was hustled.’

  ‘I could have done two hundred.’

  ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Do you really want to do this again?’

  ‘I’d pay for four bikes to see you naked again.’ He held out his hand. ‘But I’m hoping I don’t have to.’

  For a second she tried to resist. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘It’s five in the morning – no one has to be anywhere at five in the morning. What difference will an hour make?’

  Jessie dropped her bag. ‘No difference at all.’

  An hour later, at two minutes past six, several police cars pulled up outside the Ritz to reunite a hysterical Sarah Klein with her daughter. As Jessie had predicted, the sixteen-year-old had spent a week racking up a terrifying bill, hidden away in her room ordering room service. No one had forced her, kidnapped her or cajoled her.

  At five minutes past six, just as Sarah Klein, with her salon-sharpened nails, took a swipe at the concierge and the first camera went off, P. J. Dean stepped into the lobby holding Jessie’s hand. Instinctively, P.J. took flight from the flashes, jumping between the closing lift doors and leaving Jessie standing alone in the midst of the pandemonium.

  ‘How could you give her a room!’ screamed the actress, unaware another drama was mingling with her own. ‘She’s only a child!’

  ‘As I told you, Ms Klein, she didn’t look like a child when she checked in. She looked …’ he stumbled over the words, ‘well, she looked like …’ The concierge’s eyes flashed over the furious woman in front of him. ‘Like you.’

  At six o’clock in the morning Sarah Klein was expertly made-up and dressed in a flattering, fashionable outfit. Yet another flash went off as the missing teenager joined the fray.

  ‘Get these vultures away from us!’ the actress screamed again. It was quite a scene, or a very good act. Everyone was watching it except Mark Ward and Burrows. They were both staring at Jessie.

  11

  Jessie caught up with Burrows halfway down Piccadilly. He was walking alone. She put her hand lightly on his arm. He turned, took in the sight of her, then carried on walking. The look on his face told Jessie that what Mark Ward had inferred was true. In that extra hour, she had shattered Burrows’ dream and her own reputation.

  ‘You must be very pleased with yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ She couldn’t have been less pleased with herself.

  ‘You were right.’

  Jessie didn’t understand.

  ‘About Anna Maria Klein.’

  ‘Oh. That.’

  ‘Apparently she had five grand in cash on her.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a little girl.’

  ‘Do you think her mother gave it to her?’

  ‘That would be difficult to prove. I’m fairly sure she tipped off the press this morning,’ said Jessie. ‘We could try and find out if Anna Maria made any calls during her stay.’

  ‘
It’s not your case. It never was. You shouldn’t have gone looking for her.’

  She fell into an embarrassed silence.

  ‘I don’t mean last night,’ said Burrows stiffly. ‘I mean from before.’

  They walked along in silence while Jessie struggled to find a way to explain something that she shouldn’t have to.

  ‘You might want to know,’ Burrows allowed grudgingly, ‘we got nothing concrete out of the NIB 74c so I’ve widened the search. I also did some background work on Father Forrester: he’s the official exorcist for his diocese and very well respected. Perhaps it’s worth listening to what he has to say, as a qualified expert.’

  Jessie snorted.

  ‘What is your problem with priests? What do you think they do?’

  ‘Drink tea,’ said Jessie scornfully. ‘At least, that’s what our vicar in Somerset did.’

  ‘Then you were unlucky. A good priest is someone who can not only sense a soul in distress but is in a position to help. Apparently, Father Forrester does a lot of work with the mentally ill and the bereaved – he’s well placed to answer those difficult questions that death always brings.’

  ‘Really? He can sort it out just like that? “It was God’s will.” “Oh, thank you, I feel so much better now.”’

  Jessie spotted an Italian coffee shop setting out its tables in one of the side streets.

  ‘Why don’t we have some coffee?’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely knackered.’

  Burrows looked at her. She realised what she had said and squirmed.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Burrows.

  Her embarrassment increased. She busied herself with ordering coffee and pretended not to hear him.

  ‘You think I told Moore about the car-park CCTV. I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. I could see from the moment Ward and Moore paid you a visit yesterday, you put my name on the charge sheet. That hurt – I’m not the type to go sneaking around behind your back. I thought you knew that.’