The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  ‘There are literally hundreds of organisations and religious cults in this country who fund themselves by obtaining money from people unable to defend themselves against brainwashing. Nancy was obviously at risk.’

  Charlotte slid into one of the large leather chairs and was immediately dwarfed by it.

  Mrs Scott-Somers, on the other hand, was at last rising to the bait. ‘Now what are you accusing me of? That doctor said to keep the doors unlocked, he insisted we let her go,’ she said defensively. ‘That was the way to get her back.’

  Perhaps Nancy was yet another Scott-Somers to make a pact with the devil, thought Jessie. Perhaps someone offered murder as a way to put an end to the nightmares, an end to all the things that had conspired to make a young woman dream of death. The sweet seduction of revenge. But it came at a price. And all the money in the world couldn’t cover the cost.

  ‘She might not be able to get back.’

  Finally the veneer cracked. ‘You think this is my fault! I didn’t do this! That fucking man did this! It’s his fault! He ruined my life! I’m glad he’s dead. Do you hear me? The day Malcolm Hoare walked out of court was the day my husband died. It killed him. He ruined everything.’

  ‘Christ, Mother, don’t you get it? We were ruined long before.’ Charlotte was slurring her words, she had drunk too much to hear her mother correctly. Mrs Scott-Somers hadn’t said their lives, she’d said my life. That fucking man ruined my life. And not the day he took Nancy, but the day he walked free. Jessie studied the woman and wondered what it was that Malcolm Hoare had done to her?

  Angry at her own outburst, the widow snatched up her handbag and stalked out of the office, her chin, once again, raised slightly higher than was comfortable. A lawyer pulled Charlotte Scott-Somers out of the chair; she had rubbed her eye so viciously that her smudged make-up made her look bruised.

  Jessie and Moore watched them go. Together they began clearing up the used glasses.

  ‘What do you want to do, Driver?’

  Jessie suppressed a yawn. ‘Trace the money. It will lead to Nancy, or whoever is bribing her – or, worse, whoever is masquerading as her.’

  ‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

  ‘Somewhere, yes. But I get the feeling she’s not in a good way, not in a good way at all.’

  ‘And what do you make of the family?’ asked Moore.

  Jessie knocked back a slug of whisky. Not in a good way at all. ‘Cursed,’ she replied.

  It was one o’clock in the morning by the time Jessie got dropped off at home. A small group of people were milling around the entrance to her flat. Journalists. She’d forgotten that Amanda Hornby knew where she lived. She swore loudly.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked the young police driver.

  She took out her keys. ‘It’s okay, I’ll run for it.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, DI Driver, you have our full support. All of us feel the same.’

  It was worth a lot. More than she could say. She mouthed words of thanks and dived out of the car. A couple of the journalists turned at the sound of the closing door. By the time she was across the road, they were all looking at her and the questions began:

  ‘Are the Scott-Somers going to sue?’

  ‘Is it true you’ve been suspended?’

  ‘Will P.J. stand by you?’

  Jessie lowered her head and pushed her way through, her mind focused on one thing: the gate that took her on to private property. She reached out. Someone jostled her. An elbow. A microphone. The gate felt cold. Relieved, she pushed it. It didn’t move. The journalists crowded in behind her. She pushed again, beginning to panic slightly.

  ‘Is it Malcolm Hoare?’

  ‘Did Nancy kill him?’

  ‘Are the family cursed?’

  ‘Are you cursed?’

  They’d jammed the gate with gaffer tape.

  She tried to turn round, but there were too many of them. She tried to signal for the driver, but he’d already pulled away. Determined not to cry out for help, she lifted a leg and put her foot on top of the gate.

  ‘Come on, Jessie, give us something?’

  ‘How long you been lovers?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Is is true Charlotte Scott-Somers has undergone laser surgery to look more like a little girl?’

  Someone pulled on her leather jacket. She fell backwards. She pushed someone away. Someone pushed back. Do not react. Do not react. Do not react. Someone pushed her again. She swung round.

  ‘This is HARASSMENT!’ shouted a male voice. The domineering figure of a finely spoken, bespoke-suited, six-foot black man pushed his way through the journalists. ‘Not to mention criminal damage against private property. If you are not out of here in three seconds, DI Driver will press charges on all of you for gross misconduct, assaulting a police officer, the aforementioned criminal damage, and anything else I can throw at you …’

  Jessie watched them move away.

  ‘Have you got one of those plastic bag things?’ he whispered.

  Shaken, Jessie pulled an evidence zip-lock out of her bag and held it open while Boateng cut the tape with a small penknife, then placed it into the bag without touching it. He took the bag from her, sealed it and held it up to the journalists.

  ‘Exhibit number one,’ he called out to them as he pushed open the gate and escorted Jessie inside.

  She was shaking. ‘Bastards taped the gate shut.’

  ‘It’s one of their favourite tricks: corner the hunted and close in. Lose the gate, or it’ll happen again.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Jessie, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘I have some interesting information for you that I didn’t want to leave over the phone.’

  ‘Don’t freak me out even more,’ she said, keen to put distance between herself and those people on the street.

  ‘Be careful who you speak to and on what line.’

  Jessie blocked her ears. ‘I’m not listening. This is not my life!’

  ‘It is now. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re up against something much bigger than that problem out there.’

  Peter Boateng handed Jessie a drink. ‘I don’t suppose you have a cigarette as well, do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have if you’d asked me a week ago,’ he said, pulling out a package with the fatal warning written boldly across it.

  ‘I seem to have that effect on people,’ said Jessie.

  He returned with an ashtray. It didn’t bother Jessie that he was making himself at home. She knew she was out of her league and, relieved, she handed over the reins. Just for an hour or so. Until the whisky and cigarettes had done their work.

  Finally Peter Boateng sat down opposite her. ‘The Scott-Somers will do everything in their considerable power to protect themselves from you and your case, and if that means discrediting you through underhand means –’ he glanced out of the window – ‘then that’s what they’ll do.’

  ‘Did they kill Malcolm Hoare?’

  ‘Their overwhelming desire for privacy pre-dates Malcolm Hoare’s death, but that doesn’t mean the two aren’t connected.’

  ‘What are they hiding?’

  ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that Tobias Charles Edmonds was hired to defend Malcolm Hoare by Nancy’s own father – Nicholas Scott-Somers himself. It took a while for Edmonds to disclose that information. You can’t use it, because it’s covered under client – lawyer privilege, but I thought you should know.’

  Jessie was shaking her head. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He wanted to control the court case. Legally, Malcolm Hoare was entitled to representation; Scott-Somers couldn’t get around that. What he didn’t want was some nosy little bugger going over affairs that did not concern the case.’

  ‘Affairs?’

  ‘Business affairs, family affairs – I don’t know. Edmonds wasn’t privy to any of that, he had t
o stay within the remit of the case. What Scott-Somers did not account for was the abysmal way the prosecution was put together, presumably because they got lazy – the smoking gun and all that, or Edmonds’ own ambition. When they passed him a sitting duck, it would have been professional suicide not to shoot it.’

  ‘And shoot he did.’

  ‘He argued for a mistrial on a whim, assuming they’d settle for a re-trial, but won an acquittal. Go figure. Edmonds never heard from Scott-Somers again. Understandably.’

  The day Malcolm Hoare walked out of court was the day my husband died. No wonder the court case killed him, no wonder he blamed himself. No wonder he withdrew from his children. He’d put himself first and in doing so ruined his precious daughter’s life. He, more than anyone, had a reason to see Malcolm Hoare dead. He wasn’t going to risk another trial; he had friends in high places, a word in a judge’s ear and Hoare is acquitted. Scott-Somers had more control dealing with him out of court. But Hoare gave them the slip, went on a diet and dyed his hair and for thirteen years escaped retribution, until someone found him cowering in a deserted boiler room …

  ‘What was so important to Scott-Somers that he would ruin his daughter’s life?’

  Boateng shrugged. ‘His own?’

  ‘You’re genetically wired to save your children before yourself.’

  ‘Women may be. I’m not sure I can vouch for men.’

  Jessie stood up and walked to the window. The journalists had gone. It was late and Bill had still not come home. Not dared to, more like.

  ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘Listen, thanks for coming over and rescuing me. You didn’t have to tell me any of that.’

  ‘I guess I feel I owe him something. As you said, it might have been my words that got him killed. I looked at his background notes, I wanted to find something that would ease my conscience, if it turns out I was responsible. When he was first taken into care he was forced to steal by older boys. They shunned and bullied him when his limp slowed him down and got him caught. They annihilated him before he’d reached double figures. He was a miserable creature, but he wasn’t evil. He didn’t mess with Nancy.’

  ‘He’d had sex with a minor before.’

  ‘I looked at that. He was just sixteen, the girl was two days away from turning fifteen, they got caught having sex in their care home. It was her mostly absent father that started the rape allegation, which never went anywhere, but legally Malcolm had had sex with a minor. It was a shitty deal that left him a marked man. He only started getting into real trouble after that. With that on his rap sheet, it’s not surprising. The rest you know. What I’m trying to say, in my convoluted manner, is this: he didn’t deserve to die like that. That’s why I would like to help you.’

  ‘There’s one more thing you may be able to help me with …’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘If you didn’t buy the drugs off Malcolm, where did you get them?’

  Peter Boateng’s eyes narrowed. His skin creased. He looked at the door he was holding ajar. Anything but that, it seemed.

  ‘Why don’t you shut the door?’ said Jessie, pressing gently.

  Reluctantly he did so.

  ‘Who got the drugs?’

  ‘Jonny,’ he said finally.

  ‘Jonny Romano was bringing drugs into school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Where did he get them from?’

  The question hung in the air. The lawyer battled with himself right there in front of her.

  ‘He stole them,’ he said at last.

  The next question was inevitable. Peter Boateng didn’t even wait for Jessie to ask it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, crossing his arms in front of him.

  Jessie pointed back to the sitting room.

  ‘It’s late, Detective.’

  ‘You should have told me this earlier.’

  ‘Really, I never knew. I never wanted to know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you want to know?’

  ‘The Romano family weren’t known for their integrity and honesty.’

  ‘Funny that – Mr Romano said the same about your family.’

  ‘He hated us because we were black. End of story. The Italians, now there’s a good reason to keep out of their way. If there is one difference between my old life and my new one, it’s that, back then, knowing too much was never a good thing.’

  ‘How much did Jonny get his hands on?’

  ‘Enough to sell the surplus to some of the older boys for a pound a pop.’

  ‘He was selling it?’

  ‘It made him popular. We were the geeks, remember. Being clever isn’t cool.’

  ‘How long had this been going on for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It was Jessie’s turn to fold her arms.

  ‘Six months, maybe less.’

  ‘What did he do with the money?’

  ‘What every normal kid does with money. We bought records, played on the slot machines. It wasn’t a huge amount, he was selling the stuff very cheaply.’

  ‘Where was he getting it from?’ Jessie asked again.

  ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  ‘Then tell me what you think.’

  He rubbed his hand across his cheek, then shook his head.

  ‘Peter, you’ve been thinking about the events at Marshall Street Baths for almost half your life, you must have come up with some explanation, even if it is theoretical.’

  ‘Really, I don’t know,’ he insisted.

  ‘I’ve got all night,’ said Jessie.

  A stony silence ensued. Finally Peter Boateng spoke. His words demonstrated what a deliberate wordsmith and fine lawyer he’d become.

  ‘I don’t know who Jonny could steal drugs off who wouldn’t have killed him if they’d found out.’

  Jessie nodded. She was beginning to understand the man.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you mind if I use the loo before I go?’

  Jessie nodded. She returned to the sitting room semi-exhausted, semi-elated, armed with more information from Peter Boateng than she needed.

  Her home phone broke the silence. She looked at caller ID and was surprised to see the one number she least expected but most wanted.

  ‘Hey,’ said P.J.’s familiar voice.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Been in the wars?’

  ‘A bloody battle.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘Wounded, but there are glimmers of life.’

  There was a pause. P.J.’s mobile crackled.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘It got out of hand.’

  Jessie nodded at her reflection in the dark glass.

  ‘Can I use the phone? Oh, sorry –’ said Peter Boateng, walking over to her.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  It was two thirty in the morning. She didn’t want to complicate matters.

  ‘My brother is still staying with me,’ she said into the phone, but looking at Peter.

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Bill. I told you about him.’

  ‘The one who lives in Africa?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The one who has been staying with you for a while?’

  Jessie wanted to change the subject. So far she hadn’t actually lied.

  ‘The one you had dinner with the other night?’

  Peter tapped Jessie on the shoulder and silently signalled to her that he was leaving.

  ‘Half brother, is he?’

  She gave him a thumbs-up. He was astute, Peter Boateng, she had to give him that. He took her hand and squeezed it. Jessie smiled gratefully.

  ‘Been in Africa long, has he, this brother of yours?’ asked P.J.

  Jessie watched the front door close. ‘A few years.’

  ‘Got under his skin, has it?’

  Jessie suddenly focused on the window again.


  ‘Oh, hello, suddenly not looking so relaxed.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked, peering at the street below.

  ‘You could have just told me –’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Jessie: another fucking suspect?’

  Jessie shook her head. In denial, yes; in the hope that he would see, yes; but also as a mark of horror, that he could use such vicious words against her so soon after he’d apologised. She was still shaking her head when the taillights of the motorbike disappeared and a shaft of light fanned out over the street below then slid back as Peter Boateng pulled the door close behind him. Jessie watched as he turned his collar up round his neck and walked quickly away in the opposite direction. Who the hell was directing this pantomime?

  You, Jessie.

  She didn’t think she would sleep, but she curled up under the duvet and closed her eyes, slowly her breathing regulated and her body sunk heavily into the mattress. Within a few seconds she was dreaming. A young girl was sitting in a wood clearing. A bear with a man’s face and a withered leg was circling her, but the little girl could do nothing about it; she was tied to a post with heavy cold chains. Even as she watched the scene unfold, she knew that she was the little girl. Just beyond the edge of the clearing, a woman walked among the tree trunks. At first it looked like an angel, dressed in white, but as she came nearer, Jessie recognised her. She was tall and slim and had short dark hair, large hazel eyes and pale skin. The bear was getting more and more aggressive, getting nearer but never reaching her. She tried to call for help, but her mouth felt as if it was filled with glue, all she could manage was a muffled moan. The woman couldn’t hear her; she was just standing there, with her back to her, while the bear took swipes with his claws. She tried to call again, over and over.

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  ‘Jessie, wake up.’

  ‘Mmmmmmm!’

  Bill shook her gently. ‘Wake up, Jessie, it’s just a dream.’

  ‘MMMM –’

  ‘Jessie!’

  She opened her eyes. ‘Mummy!’ Bill pulled her towards his chest and rocked her gently backwards and forwards. Jessie sobbed painfully, her throat aching with tension. ‘It wasn’t her,’ said Jessie.

  ‘It’s just a dream.’