The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  ‘Fine, fine – whatever. I’ll tell her to call you. Now I really have to go. I’m very late, you see – it was being caught up in the blockade outside. Must go!’ For all her persistence, Charlotte remained rooted to the floor.

  ‘Fine,’ Jessie replied.

  A few more seconds passed before the blonde scooped up her shopping bags. Only three per cent of the British population were true blondes. Jessie didn’t think Charlotte Scott-Somers was one of them.

  ‘Fine,’ Charlotte repeated, then streaked through the hall and disappeared behind a set of double doors. As Jessie handed her card to the butler she thought she heard the sound of clinking glass from the next room. She hadn’t expected the staff to ask why the police were looking for Nancy Scott-Somers, that would be too indiscreet; but for her sister not to enquire could mean only one thing. Her nonchalance was as forced as her laugh. The sound Jessie had heard from the other side of those doors was the top coming off of a heavy crystal decanter. Whatever it was about Nancy that forced her sibling to turn to drink, it wasn’t ‘fine’.

  15

  Early the following morning, Jessie plugged in the security code to the station and went upstairs to her office. She placed a paper cup of take-away coffee down and looked at the five unread box files on the desk. Hearing the door swing closed behind her, she turned.

  ‘DCI Moore? Good morning.’

  ‘Sorry to startle you. I wanted to congratulate you on your handling of the situation yesterday.’

  ‘You’re the one who got the gun.’

  ‘But I would have left the engine running if it hadn’t been for your uncanny reading of the situation.’

  ‘What did Sarah say?’

  ‘That Timothy Powell had seduced her daughter while he was in the house waiting for her to get ready. Anna Maria is in pieces. She thought Powell loved her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jessie, ‘at that age you’ve no reason not to believe them.’

  ‘You were right, she was only fifteen when they met.’

  ‘Poor girl. How old is he? Fifty?’

  ‘More like sixty. They’re animals,’ said Moore angrily. ‘The fucking lot of them.’

  ‘Did they have sex?’

  ‘Yes. It only went on for a few weeks, then he moved on to other pastures, leaving Anna Maria desperate. That was why she planned her own abduction: to get his attention. She thought he’d come running.’

  But he hadn’t.

  ‘Why did Sarah lock her daughter in the car?’

  ‘She says she was too scared to leave her on her own. That it was for her own safety.’

  Jessie didn’t have to point out the contradiction of that statement.

  ‘Two nights ago Anna Maria Klein was rushed to a private clinic to have her stomach pumped. Vodka and her mother’s Diazepam. Sarah Klein managed to keep the story out of the press.’

  Probably because for once she didn’t leak it, thought Jessie.

  Moore continued, ‘I believe her when she says she didn’t realise the engine was running.’

  Jessie wasn’t quite so sure. ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘Sarah is trying to convince Anna Maria to press charges against Powell. Legally, Sarah cannot do that without her daughter’s consent. Anna Maria doesn’t want to, she says she loves him.’

  ‘What a mess.’

  ‘And it’ll get messier when Sarah’s case comes to trial. Anyway, I would have brought you a drink last night, but you didn’t come to the pub with everyone else.’

  ‘Sorry about that; my brother is only in town for a few more days and we had a dinner planned.’

  Moore looked over at Jessie’s desk. ‘So you weren’t here, burning the midnight oil?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Good. Don’t want you working too hard. Burnout is high among ambitious young detectives.’

  Jessie offered Moore a drink, Moore declined. Jessie offered her a seat, Moore declined. Jessie began to wonder if this was the friendly chat it was being dressed up to be.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ she asked.

  ‘There is, actually. I think you and I may have got off to a bad start. I would like to apologise for that.’ Jessie was so taken aback by these unexpected words that she was totally disarmed. It was only later, when the full purpose of the conversation revealed itself, that Jessie realised total disarmament had been DCI Moore’s intention. Jessie not only took full responsibility for the bad start, she thanked Moore for the ‘unnecessary’ apology. Hours later she was still smarting. Unnecessary! The woman had over-ruled her, belittled her, offended her and told her what to wear. At the time, however, she had apologised and her apology was accepted.

  Moore fiddled with the only photo frame on Jessie’s desk. ‘Who’s that in the photograph?’ she asked, picking it up.

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You look a lot like her.’

  ‘Not as beautiful.’

  ‘In your own way, Jessie, you are.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘Take it, I don’t give them out very often.’

  Jessie laughed at that. ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  ‘Sarcasm is not ladylike,’ said DCI Moore, though Jessie detected a hint of humour.

  ‘I gather you went to see Jones the other day.’

  Jessie’s guard rose a couple of notches. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t because you don’t feel able to talk to me about things.’

  ‘I just wanted to know how he was.’

  ‘And how was he?’

  Friend or foe? Goodwill or trap? ‘It takes a while to adjust to the change. I guess he’s adjusting.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he is,’ said Moore. ‘You probably don’t know this, but he and I go back a long way. Mutual friends inform me that he isn’t sleeping. Insomnia and depression are linked, you know.’

  ‘I think all his friends need to rally round him. I’ve asked Father Forrester to go and see him.’

  ‘Excellent idea. Jones is lucky to have your support. You and he were always close.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessie, refusing to find a hidden meaning in Moore’s words. ‘And we still are. He’s my mentor. I know every case he worked on, I’ve studied them all and I respect him enormously. I would hate to see this end badly.’

  ‘We won’t let that happen.’

  Moore turned as if to leave. ‘One last thing: any formal ID on the body in the baths?’

  ‘Nothing concrete,’ Jessie replied.

  ‘And Mrs Romano, have you found her yet?’

  ‘No, she’s still missing. A definite suspect, though I haven’t ruled out her husband either.’

  ‘They certainly had a very good reason to want this man dead if they believed him to be responsible for their son’s death.’

  ‘Yes, they did.’

  ‘In which case you won’t need to return to the Scott-Somers’ house, will you?’

  Jessie couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘The answer I need from you is no.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Jessie.

  ‘It’s important that you do understand. You cannot go anywhere near the Scott-Somers family. That is an order.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘From people far higher than me, Jessie. Do not pursue that line of inquiry, or you may give DI Ward what he lost in that bet.’ Jessie frowned. ‘Yes, I know about that too. His office is yours when he returns to work – as long as you don’t do anything stupid, that is.’ She laid a hand on the unread case notes. The name Scott-Somers stood out boldly on the label. ‘Are these all of the files?’ she asked.

  Jessie nodded.

  ‘Luckily for you, I’m on my way down to CID admin now.’

  Jessie pushed the files over. ‘My, that is convenient,’ she replied.

  It took a while to track him down but eventuall
y she did. According to personnel records, Paul Cook was living off a nominal police pension on the outskirts of South London. He’d spent the rest of his time in the Force as a DI, which told Jessie quite a lot, but not enough. She jotted down the address. A ride to the south coast would be good for her. She’d abide by DCI Moore’s rules. For now.

  It started raining before Jessie even got to the river. It was going to be a long, cold, wet ride through the eternal high streets of South London before she reached the motorway. Something had gone wrong with the Scott-Somers case that had blighted his previously unblemished career. Maybe he just wasn’t as pro-establishment as higher-ranking positions required. If so, Jessie hoped he wasn’t the type to be frightened off by a warning from on high.

  Deep grey clouds moved east over the Thames basin as Jessie steered her way south, rising higher up the foothills of the South Downs until sunshine broke through and she sped on to the sea. Finally she turned the bike into a street of modern terrace housing on the outskirts of Hove and edged forward, trying to read the small brass numbers on the brightly coloured doors. It was a sweet, cherry-tree-lined street and Jessie felt a strange gladness seep through her that this retirement had had a happy end. She was coming up to the address. Of course she meant ending, not end. Paul Cook was alive and … Jessie stopped the bike. A young woman was coming out of number 42 carrying a packing box. Two small children trailed behind her. Jessie noticed three things in quick succession. The children were playing cops and robbers, the girl was playing the part of the copper, and their mother had been crying. A beaten-up Volvo estate was parked outside the house. The boot was open and inside were more boxes. Jessie’s excitement was rapidly replaced by apprehension. Just as she was deliberating on whether to turn the bike round, the woman looked up. She had short brown curly hair and a figure that came of being constantly on the move. She smiled naturally at Jessie. Jessie kicked the stand out and leant the bike carefully on to it. The kids stopped playing and ran forward to admire the machine. Jessie removed her helmet.

  ‘Kids! Don’t pester the lady.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was trying to find Paul Cook.’

  The woman bowed her head briefly, then looked up with a brave face. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed him,’ she said.

  ‘He’s gone to heaven,’ piped up the smaller of the two children – a boy about her niece Elbe’s age. What would seven days’ captivity do to a child as young as this?

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Jessie sincerely.

  ‘Why?’ asked the older girl. ‘Heaven’s a nice place.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Jessie. ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Paris,’ said the girl. ‘But I know it’s very nice. That’s where French fries come from. That’s a chip, by the way.’

  Jessie resisted the urge to smile.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said the children’s mother. ‘You’re supposed to be helping. There are still all the gnomes in the garden.’ She looked up at Jessie. ‘Cookie loved gnomes,’ she explained. ‘He said they kept him company when he couldn’t sleep.’

  Another copper who couldn’t sleep. Not such a happy ending then.

  ‘Cookie being your –?’

  ‘Father. Their grandfather. I’m afraid they won’t remember him.’ She stared at the empty space where her children had recently filled.

  ‘When did he die?’

  The woman sighed heavily. ‘Tuesday. It was expected, but …’

  Jessie couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Does this seem mad, clearing out the house so soon? I needed something else to think about. He’d been ill for some time. Everyone says it’s a relief, but … He wasn’t very old …’ Her voice croaked under the strain of holding back her emotions. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear this.’

  ‘When my mother died they said it would be a relief, but it wasn’t.’ Jessie stared at the woman whom she hadn’t even introduced herself to. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have no idea why I just said that.’

  The curly-haired lady smiled sadly and stretched out her hand. ‘Emma. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Jessie Driver. Likewise.’ The boy and girl appeared clutching brightly coloured garden gnomes. Gaiety in resin. ‘You have lovely kids,’ she ventured.

  ‘You have a lovely career, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Jessie.

  The children jostled her for attention. ‘Likewise,’ she replied, collecting the offered gnomes and thanking them both profusely. Happy, they ran back for more. ‘What am I going to do with all these? I never understood the fascination in them, myself. A few months after he took early retirement, they started to appear. He was forever talking to his gnomes. They all have names,’ she said, showing Jessie the underside of one of the gnomes in her hand. ‘This one’s called Nancy – poor old gnome, not a very good name for a boy. I don’t suppose you’re in the market, are you?’

  It felt like someone had placed a heavy hand on her solar plexus.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed him,’ said Jessie, walking backwards to her bike. ‘I should leave you in peace.’

  The dead man’s daughter frowned for a moment. ‘What did you come here for?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Try me. We were very close. I was in the Force myself.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  The kids made a timely appearance. ‘I was a child protection officer,’ said Emma, looking at her offspring. ‘I’d seen too much to leave my kids with anyone. Know what I mean?’

  Jessie had seen the footage, listened to the tapes, studied the photographs. ‘Only too well.’

  ‘My husband earned more than me,’ she shrugged. ‘So that was that. Cookie was the only one who didn’t give me a hard time.’

  ‘Because he knew,’ said Jessie, comprehending the situation.

  ‘Only too well,’ said Emma, echoing her again.

  ‘Maybe I will have one of those gnomes,’ said Jessie, ‘if you’re serious about trying to off-load them.’

  ‘I am. I have sleepless nights, but not for the same reasons, and my husband isn’t really a gnome kinda guy.’

  ‘It takes a special kind of man to love a gnome,’ said Jessie smiling. ‘And I think I know just such a man.’

  Emma put her hand to her heart. ‘He was special.’

  If Jessie was supposed to offer warm words about her father being in a better place, she couldn’t. Instead she picked her helmet off the seat of the bike and pushed it over her head. The mother of two touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Detective Inspector, don’t think I’m mad, but you didn’t come here to ask Cookie about the kidnapping, did you?’

  Jessie peeled the helmet back off.

  ‘You did?’ Emma smiled. ‘I thought so. It was your reaction to the name Nancy. That is so weird.’

  You’re telling me, thought Jessie.

  ‘Has Malcolm Hoare been found? Are you reopening the case? It haunted him, you know, I think it may even have killed him.’

  So, definitely not a happy ending. ‘Why?’

  ‘He never forgave himself for not putting Malcolm Hoare behind bars. Mr Scott-Somers never wanted Cookie to go after him; he just wanted Nancy back. He certainly didn’t give a shit about the money. But once a policeman … In Cookie’s defence, the evidence against Hoare was concrete. They caught him trying to leave the country with half the money.’

  ‘The tracking device?’ offered Jessie.

  ‘No, Hoare was too smart for that. He dumped the bag immediately. It was the shoe-mould that got him. Cookie matched a shoe-print from near the drop point to one they had on record. Malcolm Hoare had a limp, you see. The tread of his shoe was as individual as a fingerprint. It’s a statistical fact that most thieves only have one pair of shoes – their lucky shoes. It was a brilliant bi
t of detection and Cookie was right to be proud of himself. But then, as you know, it all went wrong in court.’

  ‘I knew about the limp,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘That poor little girl survived seven days trussed up like a chicken in a disused well, only to be dragged through hell by Malcolm Hoare’s lawyer.’

  Jessie had heard enough. Trussed-up … disused well. But Emma had more to say.

  ‘Children were tried like adults in those days, remember. And after all that, he walks on a technicality. I became a child protection officer because of the Nancy Scott-Somers case. Between her parents, the police, Malcolm Hoare and that lawyer, they pulled her apart. They absolutely destroyed that little girl. Cookie played his part, that’s why he feels, I mean felt, so guilty. Right up to the end he was still talking about Nancy Scott-Somers.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘I never met her, of course, but Cookie always said she was angelic. The most beautiful child you ever saw. Her personality matched her face too. When they brought her back, she didn’t speak for five days. Cookie and the family doctor stayed with them round the clock. When she did finally talk it was to ask whether Charlotte was okay.’

  ‘What about her parents?’

  ‘Couldn’t say. They didn’t really feature much.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember what the doctor was called?’

  ‘Turnball, Christopher Turnball. Isn’t it on the record?’

  ‘He wasn’t a witness,’ said Jessie, taking a punt.

  ‘No, silly me, of course he wasn’t. Cookie liked him. I think he was the only one connected to that household who showed them equal affection; everyone else preferred Nancy. You see, Charlotte was fat with frizzy dark hair and a sleepy eye, or something like that. Not attractive like Nancy, but definitely the spirited one, always in trouble, always running away from the nanny. Even so, imagine blaming a nine-year-old. I don’t suppose you recover from that.’

  Jessie was struggling to fit the description to the Charlotte she’d met. She was certainly not unattractive, she didn’t have a sleepy eye, or dark frizzy hair, and she wasn’t fat. Whether Emma was also wrong about her recovery, however, Jessie wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Honestly, it’s enough to make you believe in the Scott-Somers curse.’