‘Latter, sadly.’
‘Anything you can tell me about?’
The sigh was uncontrolled and came from deep inside her. Jessie shook her head.
‘Then can I rant?’ said Maggie.
Jessie took a slug of wine. ‘Rant away.’
‘Firstly, I want to kill everybody.’
‘Okay, but it’ll take some doing,’ said Jessie, smiling.
‘I have had it up to –’ she had no free hand, so kicked a leg out of the bath and promptly slipped – ‘here!’ Maggie was gurgling.
Jessie wondered if Maggie was already on her second bottle of wine. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You know that job I was up for – the Istanbul thing?’
Jessie crossed the proverbial fingers and waited.
‘The fucking Titled Tart got it. I am inconsolable. I am mad with rage.’
‘Who?’
‘That awful blonde, skinny posh bird who writes, ha, ha, for the Mail on Sunday. Lady Cosima Broome. She was at school with my sister, you know. Thick as pigshit. Just because she’s a size eight and her father owns most of Oxfordshire, she gets my job. Honestly, Jessie, I want to kill her. I hate them all. But I particularly hate her. I’m good at my job, despite what that bastard Cadell wrote.’
Jessie opened her mouth to respond. But she wasn’t quick enough.
‘We live in a mad, celebrity-obsessed, media-run, PR-polluted world. I went to college to learn how to present, produce and write pieces to camera. And I was fucking good, too. We went to Trinity, Jessie. Trinity! Doesn’t that count for anything? Just when I think I have a chance of a boost, some fucking pseudo-celeb comes and pinches my spot. Jessie, I’m telling you they all do holidays. Some soap star has a new single out and the bright sparks at the PR company send them our way – and the precious little mite ain’t going to do Skegness. Journalists, It-girls, models, singers, actors, actresses, ex-Blue Peter presenters, anyone who wants a little career lift, comes calling. You know when they are going down for the count of ten when our producers pass on them and they end up on Ready Steady Cook. Jesus, it’s depressing. Why can’t journalists stay journalists, why do they suddenly want to be novelists, food critics and presenters? What’s with all this multi-tasking bollocks? I trained hard to be a presenter, what the fuck do they know? I mean, please, the Titled Tart? It is so insulting!’
‘Feeling better?’ said Jessie.
‘I need a celebrity shag.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘I know what I should do. Go on a miracle diet, pose naked for FHM, get engaged to Robbie Williams for five minutes and discover my father is really Jeffrey Archer. That should give me enough print to get on The Big Breakfast. Oh, and did I mention sleep with the producer?’
‘Several times.’ Jessie poured more wine into her flatmate’s glass. ‘But luckily you have more self-respect than all those dolly birds put together. You’re good at your job, Maggie. I wouldn’t say so if you weren’t. You just have to persevere.’
Maggie gave Jessie an impenetrable look then sank lower in the bubbles.
Jessie thought about Verity Shore and her picture-perfect life. The camera lied. ‘Do you really care? Do you really want it that much?’
‘Yes. And so do you, otherwise you wouldn’t put up with the shit those boys in blue send your way. Ambition is what ambition is. Don’t kid yourself that you haven’t got it in body-bags.’
The door to Jessie’s bedroom creaked open. Maggie was pink from too hot a bath and too generous a drink.
‘Hey, Rebus,’ she said.
‘Hey, Fergie,’ said Jessie, looking up from the pages of Hello!.
‘Oh, that’s harsh.’
‘You deserve it.’
‘Sorry. I really should stop venting my anger on you, shouldn’t I?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
Maggie threw herself on to Jessie’s super-king-size bed. ‘You love me really. Listen, Bill called earlier, wants to know whether you’ve got any time off. He’s in Egypt, right?’ Jessie nodded. Her brother moved around the world with Médecins Sans Frontières; he was a picture-book hero in her mind, one that made Indiana Jones look old and tired. ‘I think he has some plan to take a canoe down the Nile. I said that’s exactly the sort of relaxing holiday you’d like after examining dead bodies. Perhaps I should pitch the idea of following him with a camera,’ said Maggie. Jessie shook her head.
‘Everyone wants to be on TV, even if they don’t admit it.’
‘Not Bill,’ said Jessie proudly. ‘He’d hate it.’
Maggie pouted. ‘Even if it was me …?’
Jessie smiled but said nothing. Bill found Maggie too pushy for his liking. Her lack of subtlety grated, and she always flirted with him. Jessie told Bill not to take it personally, Maggie flirted with everyone. She missed him when he was away.
Maggie picked up the magazines fanned out around Jessie. ‘You little closet!’
‘Research,’ said Jessie.
‘Like fuck it is. These are old, I’ve got the latest issues in my room.’
Jessie lowered the magazine. ‘It’s amazing you don’t swear on air.’
‘I’m a pro, honey. So what are you looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh my God, you’re on the Verity Shore case! Jessie, that is brilliant! Why didn’t you tell me? Stupid question, I know, you can’t tell me anything. Does that mean you get to meet – oh my God, P. J. Dean! He is so sexy. He must be in one of these somewhere.’
Jessie pulled the magazine away.
‘Okay, I get the message. Just tell me one thing – is he as sexy in real life?’
Jessie smiled.
‘I knew it. Right, I’m going to some film party, you want to come? You don’t even have to change out of your fatigues, the lipstick lesbian look is in at the moment. Very Matrix.’
‘I can’t. But thanks for the compliment.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, here’s a spare invite. You can spy on the celebrities.’
Jessie stared at the picture of Verity Shore and her second husband. They were in a pool. The same pool that experts had been crawling all over that afternoon, looking for Verity’s remains. ‘I’ve got to work.’
Maggie leant over and gave Jessie a kiss. ‘Suit yourself.’
Jessie’s mobile phone rang. Maggie grabbed it.
‘No, Maggie!’
‘Please, let me say it, just once.’
‘No.’ Jessie took the phone. ‘Detective Inspector Driver.’
‘Hi. It’s P.J.’
She pointed to the door and Maggie retreated grudgingly. Jessie swallowed. ‘Where the hell are you? I’ve been dragged over hot coals for letting you out of my sight. You said you’d phone me straight back.’
‘Sorry. Had to get the kids away. Took a bit of time.’
‘You are still in London, aren’t you?’
‘I take it that it was Verity.’
‘Yes. I’m very sorry, Mr Dean. I wish you’d phoned me back sooner.’
‘It’s P.J., for fuck’s sake.’ There was a long pause. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘I’d rather not tell you over the phone.’
‘Are you still worried about being listened to?’
‘Actually, I’m more worried about you, your family, and what I have to tell you.’
She heard a long sigh down the phone.
‘It wasn’t an accident then?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Can you meet me now?’
Jessie glanced at her watch. It was nine o’clock. ‘Yes. Where?’
‘The middle of Hammersmith Bridge in half an hour. I’ll be on foot,’ he said.
It wasn’t until she saw the swirling mass of the Thames under the sickly orange haze that the location struck Jessie as odd.
CHAPTER 18
Ray spun a pencil through his fingers. Tarek listened to it click against Ray’s thick gold ring. Tarek couldn’t look at Ray’s hand
s without wondering whose neck they had been around. He’d done his homework on Raymond Giles. His name was associated with the death of at least two women who worked in his clubs. Hostesses. Prostitutes. Whatever the nomenclature, like associates and hoods, Tarek was sure Ray was involved. You only had to look into the eyes. And the way he kissed that cross, like a man desperate to keep his demons at bay. It was typical, wasn’t it, that a crook like St Giles should be superstitious. Tarek believed it was because only the truly evil believed in hell, like only the truly good believed in God. Everyone else floated in between, dipping in and out when it suited them.
The shanty office was gradually being heated by light bulb, Tarek’s hard work and Ray’s nervous energy. They were attempting to put an unscheduled programme through in three days. Ray was trying to keep the guest under wraps, but Tarek was beginning to get savvy. The more he knew, the more danger he was in, but the more in control he felt.
Alistair entered the room without knocking, as usual. He didn’t walk, he slunk, watching Ray with large eyes that made him look as if he’d spent his childhood in the dark. Tarek wondered if Ray had found him inside, in the nick, doing bird. He had an imprisoned look about him, a mixture of fear and arrogance. It would explain their rather peculiar relationship.
Ray asked Tarek to go and fetch coffee when Alistair came through the door. Another custom that Tarek was getting around. If he ran to the coffee machine he could programme it and return to the open window to listen. Nine times out of ten, Ray didn’t even drink the stuff.
‘Coffee,’ barked Ray. ‘It’s going to be an all-nighter.’
Tarek started running.
CHAPTER 19
Jessie sat astride her bike and watched P. J. Dean approach. He wore a grey woolly hat pulled down to his eyebrows. His jacket collar was turned up and, although it wasn’t too cold, he had wrapped a scarf around his jawline. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and he walked with a slight hunch. He glanced briefly at Jessie then away to the other side of the bridge.
‘P.J.?’ Jessie called, removing her helmet.
He stepped back. ‘Sorry, you’ve got the –’
‘It’s me. DI Driver.’
He scratched his stubble and peered at her. ‘Course it is. Sorry, you look a little different.’ Jessie swung her leg off the bike and they moved to the railings. ‘I love the bike. Triumph?’
‘Virago.’
‘Had it long?’
‘Five years, but don’t get me started. I have a tendency to become a petrol-head if encouraged.’
‘I used to nick bikes in Manchester, race them around the streets and dump them where they ran out of petrol. We couldn’t afford more petrol and we were too young to think of selling them on.’
‘How young?’
‘Ten.’ He paused. ‘I got lucky, I guess.’
‘Very.’ Jessie knew what happened to kids like that. If they were fortunate, someone they looked up to guided them away from the inevitable. For most of them it was glue, petty theft, young offenders’ units, hard drugs, real crime and then prison. Prison made them into absent fathers and the whole sorry tale would begin again.
‘Why did you want to meet here?’ asked Jessie.
‘I love the bridges. I love the view. I’m not a big fan of water, but I don’t seem to mind it from up here. I come here at night, when I know I won’t be mobbed.’
‘That constant, is it?’
He nodded. ‘I know I can’t complain. I’m the lucky one, right? But once in a while it would be nice to sit in a coffee shop, chat to a mate, have a laugh and not have to wonder who is watching and what your mate’s motive is.’ He leant on the freshly painted green-and-gold balustrade. A River Police launch honked from somewhere up river. Netting bodies. Night after night.
‘What was Verity’s motive?’
‘The worst, I’m afraid. But I didn’t kill her, Detective Inspector.’
‘You seem remarkably sanguine about your wife’s death.’
He shrugged. ‘I knew a long time ago that she wasn’t going to make it. The drink was going to kill her.’
‘Drink didn’t kill her.’
He turned and stared at her, then looked back at the water. ‘You’d better tell me.’
‘We don’t know exactly how your wife died, but we do know that at some point her body was submerged in industrial-strength sulphuric acid until only her bones remained. We can only hope that she was not alive when this happened.’ Jessie watched P. J. Dean take in the information. He didn’t move for a few minutes. He stood, hunched over the railings, staring at the water as it buffeted the bridge’s foundations. The eyelashes on his upper lid almost touched his cheek when he looked down.
‘They say drowning is the nicest way to die. Do you think that is true?’ he said quietly.
‘No,’ said Jessie.
‘No. Nor me.’
‘Did you hear what I said, about Verity?’
He turned to face her. ‘Nothing would surprise me. We are capable of such terrible things. Children are forced to drink bleach, they are raped and sodomised, cut up and burnt, starved and tortured, and that’s just in this wealthy middle-class country of ours. So, no, nothing would surprise me.’
‘Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Verity, get rid of her?’
‘Well, she didn’t have a lot of friends, but off the top of my head I don’t know anyone who would dip her in acid. Then again, people like that don’t wear signs.’
‘How would you describe Bernie and Verity’s relationship?’
P.J. sighed. ‘Exhausted. Verity exhausted us all. You can’t help a person unless they want to help themselves. The first rule of the addict. It didn’t matter that she had two great kids who worshipped her, it didn’t matter that I loved her, it didn’t matter that she had everything money could buy. It can go two ways, either you hate them for not changing or you hate yourself for not being good enough for them to want to change.’
‘Is that why you let her go out, even though you knew she’d get into trouble?’
‘We couldn’t stop her. How do you stop someone who is hellbent on self-destruction?’
‘We are going to have to question everyone in the household, find out everyone’s movements.’
‘Give me a couple of days, I need to tell the boys that their mother isn’t coming home this time. Paul asked me which hospital she was in. Isn’t that depressing? You think you can hide these things from kids, but you can’t. Do you have family – brothers and sisters?’
‘Three older brothers.’
He smiled knowingly. ‘It wasn’t enough at home, you had to take on the oldest bastion of the dominant male?’
Jessie took a step away from him. ‘I have wanted to be a murder investigator since a headless woman was found in a field near my parents’ house. That was twenty years ago. They still don’t know who she was, how she died, or who killed her. My choice of career had nothing to do with my brothers; it had everything to do with that woman in the field. And one day, I’ll solve that case. Meanwhile, I’m going to find out who killed your wife, how, where and why, and I shall stop at nothing until I do, because the only person who’s important in this is Verity, despite the person you say she had become. The only right left to a murder victim is to have their murderer caught. I’ll give you till the morning. Then I’m coming to question everyone, and that includes Craig.’
‘Craig? Why him?’
‘Why did you empty your pool?’
P.J. frowned. ‘I didn’t know it was empty.’
‘You have a pool that you don’t even know is empty?’
‘I told you, I’m not a fan of water. It’s probably being cleaned.’
‘Who used it, then?’
‘An amazing thing about Verity, it didn’t matter how shit she felt, she’d still do a hundred lengths. Even when she was drunk, she’d swim, up and down, up and down. That kind of vanity is hideous.’
He really hated his wife. ‘Mr Dean, do not un
der any circumstances speak to the press, leave the country, or be seen out on the town with some model.’
He started to protest.
‘There are only two reasons why you wouldn’t help me find your wife’s murderer: you did it, or you want to protect the person who did. The moment I come up against any obstacles, any PR bullshit, or prima donna antics, that is what I will think. Do we understand each other?’
‘My name is P.J.’
‘Do we understand each other?’
He nodded once.
She put the helmet back on and returned to the bike. Comments about her brothers hit a nerve. She may have spent her life keeping up with them, but not in her career. Her career was all hers, she was in it alone because she alone wanted to be in it. She had no contemporaries on the inside and no one she could completely confide in on the outside. She was in this for the victims and the families who needed to know why. P. J. Dean turned his back on her and began to walk away. And when there was no grief-stricken family, she was in this for the dead alone.
P.J. quickly merged with the night gloom. He had discovered a way he could move through the world as an ordinary man. It was simple. All he had to do was dress like an ordinary man, walk like an ordinary man, stoop like an ordinary man. Getting noticed, that was the hard part.
CHAPTER 20
Jessie left her helmet and jacket with one coat attendant, while another was being harassed by a couple of fourteen-year-olds. The two precocious, overly made-up teenagers were standing with their hands on their undeveloped hips, clutching their ‘freebie’ bags, demanding the poor French cloakroom girl find their belongings. Apparently some glittery evening bag was missing. These were the people Maggie partied with.
As she looked around the room, for the first time in three months Jessie was glad of her choice of career. It was tough and there were people out to get you, but at least you knew who your enemies were. If you were good at your job, you got results, and if you got results you got promoted. The battlefield was ugly, but open. Here, she felt as though she was standing on a tropical beach. Beneath the fine white sand was a minefield. One wrong step and boom!
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