The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  Jones had been speaking over the rim of his pint, his breath creating tiny waves and oscillations over the surface of the beer. A little had spilt; it ran down the glass and over his bent fingers. Suddenly he turned to Jessie.

  ‘Do you really want to finish this race with no one but ghosts for company?’

  The man was clearly not well. Hadn’t Moore alluded to it? Hadn’t she said that Mark was doing the job Jones felt he was unable to do. No wonder he hadn’t been into the station, no wonder he hadn’t gone through the motions with the new DCI. He was depressed.

  ‘I’m not depressed, Jessie,’ he said, echoing her thoughts. ‘I’m tired because I’m not sleeping very well. I’m not sleeping because I have such terrible dreams, dreams that I didn’t think were possible to have. I wake up screaming. I can picture them now.’

  ‘Have you thought about seeing a counsellor?’

  ‘I don’t need a shrink, I need a priest.’

  ‘Sir, are you being serious?’ she asked.

  He placed his drink down untouched. ‘Do I look like I’m joking? Jessie, I wouldn’t have told you, but you’re young and intelligent and the truth is you could do anything in the world. Why fight an ugly battle just to end up in so gruesome a field as this?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted –’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  … There was a woman, she was found with no head. She wore a Marks and Spencer’s nightie, of which thousands were sold. No one reported her missing, no one reclaimed her body, no one was brought to justice over her murder. Jessie had been very young when they found the woman near their home in Somerset. Not so young that she hadn’t felt a deep-seated empathy for that abandoned woman. They spoke to her. The unquiet dead …

  ‘You have brothers –’ said Jones.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with them, sir.’

  ‘Really?’

  Jessie wanted to change the subject. ‘If you’re serious about needing to see a priest, what about Father Forrester?’

  ‘He’s got more important things to worry about.’ Jones’ forehead creased in anguish. ‘I pray for silence. I haven’t been granted it yet.’ He finally took a long sip of his drink. ‘I’ll back you up, DI Driver, whatever you decide to do.’

  Jessie returned to work after an all too brief weekend, sat at her desk and thought about her former superior officer. She wanted to tell herself that it was the shock of retirement. She would have liked to think that in a few weeks, when Jones was acclimatised, he’d feel differently about his life’s work. But she had seen the look in his eyes, she had seen the newly acquired nervousness in him; a two-week break wasn’t going to make a difference. Soldiers suffered the same anxiety. On the front line, during battle, they withdrew into the safety of siege mentality. It was only when they got home – back to their comfortable beds, TV, hot water – that what they’d seen returned to haunt them. Well, Jones had been on the front line for forty years. The onslaught of CID had become his life-support mechanism and someone had just switched it off. What had Father Forrester said to her? I’ll be ready … for whatever is needed of me. Perhaps she had just identified what was needed of him: to be Jones’ new life-support system.

  Her mobile rang. She quickly went round her desk to close the door, then took the call.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Finally! Where the hell have you been?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, I had a record company shindig to attend,’ said P.J.

  ‘All weekend?’

  ‘It was in Germany – are you all right?’

  ‘No. Mark is threatening to tell everybody if I don’t give him back his office.’ Gold-digger. Whore. ‘Don’t ask, it makes me too angry just thinking about it.’

  ‘I suppose proudly acknowledging me to everyone is out of the question?’

  Gold-digger. Whore. ‘Utterly,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Well, it may be out of your hands.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The News of the World have a picture of us coming out of the lift. They’ve been asking me to comment on who the mystery brunette is. It won’t take long for them to work out who you are.’

  She sank into her chair, lowered the phone to her lap, and covered her face with her hands. Why had she stayed that extra hour? Who was she trying to kid? She should never have been there in the first place. This was all her fault, she had only herself to blame.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  Reluctantly, she put the phone back to her ear.

  ‘Look, Jessie, don’t worry. I’ve been in these situations before,’ said P.J. conciliatorily. ‘We’ll go into crisis management. I’ll disappear and it’ll all blow over. You’ll see.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, you don’t have to go into an office every day.’

  ‘I’m going to be so low key your colleagues will forget I ever existed.’

  ‘P.J., you can’t be low key – you’re on Top of the Pops, for God’s sake!’

  P.J. sounded pleased. ‘So you do take an interest in my career.’

  ‘This isn’t funny.’

  ‘I know it’s not funny, I’m not an arsehole. I don’t go treating people like shit, I don’t shag everything that moves. I’m not such a bad choice. I won’t embarrass you, I promise.’

  ‘Look, the truth is, it isn’t about what you do or don’t do. The problem is how we met – I was investigating your wife’s murder.’

  ‘I’m sorry Verity died, but our marriage was a sham. Don’t ask me to mourn that.’

  ‘It’s a matter of my ethics, not yours. I took you away to my brother’s house in the middle of the investigation. I lost serious ground because I felt sorry for your stepsons –’

  ‘Oh, so you did all this for the boys.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really,’ said P.J.

  ‘Please, I’m trying to explain something.’

  ‘Oh, I understand perfectly what you’re trying to explain.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘What you do is really important, I know that. Much more important than what I do, in fact.’

  ‘Once again, this isn’t about who you are or what you do,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Right. So if I’d been some builder boyfriend of a murdered hooker, dating me would be fine?’

  ‘No, not then either.’

  ‘But if I was the builder boyfriend of a murdered hooker, I don’t suppose I’d have been whisked off to your brother’s house, would I? Like you said, Jessie, this has nothing to do with who I am or what I do.’

  Jessie felt the ice creep into her voice. ‘And so you show your true colours.’

  ‘Before you get all moralistic on me, let’s remember, you turned up at my house in a backless dress on a police matter. If all your suspects get the same hands-on treatment, it’s no wonder you’re so fucking busy.’

  Jessie tried to shake out the insult, but it wouldn’t stop ringing in her ears. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said to herself.

  ‘Jessie, please, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes you did. Deep down, that’s what you think. What chance have I against Mark Ward?’

  ‘Come on, you know I don’t really think that.’

  ‘You’ve got a strange way of showing it.’

  ‘Jessie, please, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  All conciliation left his voice. ‘You decided all this the moment the lift doors opened. It wasn’t what I said. I could beg your forgiveness, but it wouldn’t be granted. You gave up the fight before the fight even started. Well, thanks for that vote of confidence, it sure is sweet.’

  ‘You’re the one who left me standing in the lobby.’

  ‘To protect you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You know what? It isn’t worth the fucking hassle.’ He sounded exhausted. As exhausted as she felt. ‘I’ve tried, you know I’ve tried, I know I’ve tried. The problem is you can’t get beyond my public persona. You, Jessie, not
me. Despite your protestations to the contrary. And the sad thing is, I really thought you were above all that.’

  ‘Don’t try and turn this round, I’m not as easily manipulated as your late wife.’

  ‘I was trying to help her.’

  ‘Save it for the press corps.’

  ‘Fuck it.’

  The phone went quiet. She looked at the display. End call? She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes. A car horn blared from the street below.

  Niaz put his head round the door. ‘Are you all tight?’

  She nodded unconvincingly.

  He closed the door behind him. ‘You didn’t tell me how it went with the medium.’

  ‘She couldn’t tell me who it is in the morgue or where Mrs Romano is. I’m hoping your more scientific approach can.’

  ‘Not exactly. There is no death certificate registered under her name. No new marriage certificate either. She has contributed nothing to National Insurance and has taken not one penny from the state since she left her husband.’

  ‘So Peter Boateng was right, she’s missing or hiding.’

  ‘Why would she hide? If Doyle didn’t exist, then what could the dead man have meant to her.’

  ‘Doyle may not have existed, but she thought he did at the time and the dead man matched the description. Because of the limp, he would have been easy to overpower. He would have protested his innocence but she’d have been expecting that. We know that Peter Boateng doesn’t throw away words carelessly, well he said something else in that interview, he said that he couldn’t recall the man he saw in the baths that day. That means he saw someone. Someone he described as a drug dealer, but who may just have happened to be on the premises; someone who stuck in the boy’s memory. Someone who looked like your archetypal “bad guy”.’

  ‘Looked like a criminal or was a criminal?’ asked Niaz.

  ‘We don’t know yet. The National Identification Bureau database threw up five possible candidates. None completely fit the bill, but they do all have limps. So far we’ve narrowed it down to three like-lies. The first, Glen Thorpe, is from Newcastle. Eighteen years ago he nicked a couple of thousand from his employer, did maximum time, and nothing’s been heard of him since.’

  ‘Maximum time? No probation then?’

  ‘Exactly. So something must have happened in the nick, and now he’s disappeared. His ex-wife assures me he is alive and well and living on the Costa Brava, but I want proof. The second guy, David Peart, was done for ram-raiding in Leeds. No record of him ever being anywhere near Marshall Street Baths. Also quiet for the last fifteen years. If he’s dead, I want to see a death certificate.’

  ‘Isn’t it more likely that, after getting caught, getting his fingers burnt, he went straight?’

  ‘Since when did the justice system work like that? At least the third guy, Malcolm Hoare, was from London. He has a form sheet as long as your arm. Only trouble is, he stopped breaking the law twenty-seven years ago, and our guy has only been dead for fourteen.’

  ‘What was his last recorded crime?’ said Niaz.

  ‘Abduction. He kidnapped a ten-year-old girl in 1976.’

  ‘That is interesting, for it was a suspected kidnapping that led us to Marshall Street Baths in the first place.’

  Jessie chose to ignore him.

  ‘What was the girl’s name?’ asked Niaz.

  ‘Not Ann, Anna or Annie – if that’s where you’re going with this.’

  ‘A paedophile?’

  ‘The motive was more likely money. The girl came from a very wealthy family. Anyway, he was acquitted.’

  ‘Didn’t Father Forrester say something about “old money”?’

  ‘He was talking about Anna Maria Klein.’

  ‘Why don’t I go back to the library and check the 1976 papers?’ suggested Niaz. ‘See if this kidnap took place on February 23rd, 1976.’

  ‘What would it prove if it did?’

  ‘It wouldn’t prove anything, ma’am, but it would be a strong indicator –’

  ‘Malcolm Hoare weighed the same as a Sumo wrestler and had blond hair. Our dead guy is skinny with black hair. It isn’t him.’

  ‘A man with form would have plenty to regret,’ insisted Niaz.

  ‘This man didn’t die of regret. He died because of something he’d done. Think of the exceptionally hateful way he was killed. Who in all of this has the most reason to hate? Mr and Mrs Romano. I’m not certain of Mr Romano, and Mrs Romano is a mystery. What if she wanted her husband to stop the search because she knew exactly where it would end?’

  Two years spent looking over her shoulder, terrified that the corpse would be found. That kind of pressure would have been difficult to live under, thought Jessie. That kind of pressure would easily ruin a marriage. Paranoia is a far harsher jail sentence than anything Her Majesty’s Prison Service could impose. ‘Perhaps she ran to save her sanity, perhaps she ran to save herself. Perhaps Mr Romano is covering for her. You want to be a detective, Niaz, what do you think?’

  ‘I think you should listen to yourself.’

  Jessie frowned.

  ‘By that I mean you’ve always suspected Mr Romano was hiding something, ma’am, so we should continue to follow your instincts – it’s got us all this far.’

  Instinct, she liked that word. Jung could go to hell. ‘Call Burrows, tell him to meet us at Lisson Grove.’

  Jessie peered through the plain pane of glass and saw a kettle softly exhale a curling line of steam. The sink was full of dirty plates; on the sideboard were half-eaten tins of beans and congealing Pot Noodles. Mr Romano was at home. Jessie looked at her watch.

  ‘He’ll be here,’ said Niaz.

  She waited until Burrows came into view before knocking on the door. The man who opened it bore no resemblance to the well-groomed individual they’d questioned a couple of days earlier. Without saying a word, Mr Romano retreated to the sitting room.

  A quick glance through one of the open doors revealed his bedroom to be in a similar state to the kitchen.

  Burrows whispered, ‘Doesn’t look as though he’s ventured out since we were last here.’

  ‘Couldn’t be a guilty conscience, could it?’

  ‘Boss, he’s spent years looking for a man who’s been dead all that time. So long as he was searching, he never had to come to terms with the death of his son. He’s had to do fourteen years of mourning in a matter of days. Go easy on him, okay?’

  Mr Romano was seated on the edge of the sofa. At his feet were strewn empty beer cans. He did not look up when they entered the room.

  ‘Mr Romano, do the names Glen Thorpe, David Peart or Malcolm Hoare mean anything to you?’

  Nothing in his body language changed. ‘Huh?’

  Niaz shook his head.

  ‘What about Peter Boateng?’

  With a jolt, he straightened up. ‘Toe-rag. Always getting into trouble. Always getting my boy into trouble.’

  ‘Was that why you went to talk to him at the baths?’

  His eyes looked around the room nervously. ‘He had to have something to do with it. Jonny loved Pete. He would have done anything that Pete told him. I don’t know how that boy had such a hold on my son. Those African types, they do voodoo and stuff, you know.’

  ‘Mr Romano, did you have any specific reason not to like Peter Boateng, other than the colour of his skin?’

  ‘They’re all the same.’

  ‘Who are all the same?’

  He looked to Burrows for support and found none. He slumped back down.

  ‘Jonny would never have taken drugs if it hadn’t been for that –’ he rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand – ‘Bastard.’ The last word was whispered under his breath.

  ‘Peter Boateng says he doesn’t remember Ian Doyle now.’

  ‘I cannot forget him so easily.’ He tapped his temple. ‘He is always here!’

  ‘But you never saw him there, did you?’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ said Mr Romano. ‘I’v
e seen him. He comes back to taunt me, because he knows he got away with it. Read my notebooks – you’ll see, you’ll see where he’s been.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Mr Romano. I know I told you that Ian Doyle was dead, but I believe the body we found is not Doyle,’ said Jessie, treading cautiously.

  ‘I told you!’ he said triumphantly. ‘He’s not dead. Not yet. I’ll kill him. It’s him or me.’

  ‘You think he killed your son because of what Peter Boateng told you?’

  ‘The Boatengs were a foul-smelling –’

  ‘Mr Romano,’ warned Jessie. ‘I think that Peter Boateng was a scared boy. He was in trouble, so he made the drug dealer up.’

  The man on the sofa winced. ‘No. I saw him, they were talking.’

  ‘When?’ asked Jessie, surprised.

  ‘You can’t trust him,’ said Mr Romano, frowning. ‘He’ll twist things. Confuse you.’

  ‘When did you see them talking?’ She placed herself in front of him.

  ‘It’s a bit of a muddle now. It’s all in the note-books.’ He turned to the dresser. Once again Jessie declined the offer; she couldn’t face wading through the ramblings of an increasingly deranged mind. She was more interested in this new piece of information.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ Jessie felt a hand on her arm. Burrows signalled to her to back off. The man had started to shake.

  ‘Okay, Mr Romano. What about your wife? When did you tell her about Ian Doyle?’

  ‘She knew straight away. She was mad with rage. She wanted to kill him, but I talked her out of it. At that time we didn’t know for sure that he’d done it.’