‘Are there any records of a son visiting him in prison? This Alistair Gunner?’
‘No. Raymond wasn’t one for visitors, apparently.’
‘Seems odd, doesn’t it, that he didn’t have his son visit him after he’d gone through so much trouble to get him? And why Gunner? Why not St Giles?’
‘Because Ray stole him from some bent arsehole in the social services, that’s why.’
‘So why change Clare’s name?’
‘Obvious. To muddy the water. Let’s face it, it worked. It’s taken twenty-five years to unravel this mess. I don’t like this either. I don’t want to break Clare’s heart, but the truth is Ray St Giles stole a kid.’
‘His kid.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Isn’t it? Isn’t that exactly the point? Whether Veronica liked it or not, Ray St Giles had rights over that boy. And who looked after him?’
‘For a moment I forgot I was talking to a bleeding-heart school girl.’
‘Drop it, Mark. This is more important. What are you going to do?’
‘Haul him in. Send him down. Everyone goes home happy. You got any better suggestions?’
‘Yes. Find out more. You don’t hide a child.’
‘Why not? Invisible people are very useful. And I’ve been hearing that our new-found voice of the people isn’t quite the rehabilitated fellow he wants us to think he is.’
‘Don’t start a war with St Giles.’
‘You started the war, remember.’
‘He could still be involved in these murders. Especially since we now know he has a faithful ally. Why don’t we organise some surveillance? Then we –’
Mark stood up. ‘We? We won’t do anything. I’m sick of you, Driver. Don’t try and pin the murders on St Giles when you know perfectly well your boyfriend did it.’
‘I resent that.’
‘I don’t give a fuck,’ he said, reaching for the door.
‘Clearly. But what about Clare?’
‘Tough shit. It’s time she grew up. Clare wanted Ray back behind bars. I’ll be doing that for her.’
‘At what cost?’
‘Not as much as gallivanting round the countryside with P. J. Dean has cost you. I know about your brother’s safe house. So get off your high horse, Driver. You don’t carry much weight around here any more. Lost your sheen, haven’t you, girl?’ He closed the door, leaving her to suffer in silence.
Jessie didn’t move for half an hour. She’d lost a great deal more than her self-respect by believing P. J. Dean.
Niaz knocked and stuck his head round the door. She looked up. ‘Tell me you’ve found out who bought the boat.’
‘Sorry. But I will.’ Jessie didn’t have a tenth of his confidence. ‘I do have the lab results back on those cigarettes you sent in. Don’t worry, it was just a coincidence they were the same brand.’
‘Niaz, have you got mind-reading skills I should know about? X-ray vision?’
‘Well, you are wearing the wrong bra size.’
‘Niaz!’
‘It’s true, ma’am. Most women do. You probably wear a 36B, but you have a very narrow back, so you should be wearing a 32D. Maybe C.’
Jessie held out her hand. ‘Those lab results, please? Then I’d like to see the back of you for ten minutes until my anger subsides.’
‘You’re smiling on the inside, ma’am.’
She looked down at the lab results. ‘Out.’
‘Time Out, actually.’
‘What?’
‘Time Out,’ he said, holding up the magazine. ‘It purports to keep people up to date –’
‘Thank you. I know what it is.’
‘A gallery on Davies Street is showing a retrospective of Eve Wirrel’s work. Including, it is rumoured, some previously unseen pieces.’ He held up the advert.
‘Aren’t we supposed to have all her unseen work?’
‘Quite. I thought you might like to escape the whispering gallery for an art gallery. You never know what you might find.’
‘Niaz, are you sure there isn’t a genie tucked inside your uniform?’
He smiled, tapped his head and pulled the door closed behind him. Niaz Ahmet gave her tremendous strength. There was something quite magical about him. Jessie examined the evidence from the cigarettes. The first white-tipped Marlboro Light had been partially smoked outside her house by a woman called Frances Leonard. She was forty-three and had a small list of petty crimes to her name. Predominantly shoplifting. Woolworths seemed a particular favourite. She hadn’t been active for three years. Jessie wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except Frances Leonard lived in Acton. So she wouldn’t be out walking her dog or stretching her legs in Paddington at ten o’clock on a Friday night.
The second cigarette had been smoked by P. J. Dean. She’d seen him take three or four drags, then stub it out lengthways under his foot. He’d done the same thing with every cigarette he smoked over the weekend. It was a very particular way of smoking. The lab concurred that the two cigarettes had been stubbed out in exactly the same way and the brand was identical. The similarities stopped there. Jessie wasn’t so sure. She called Acton police station and instructed them to pay Frances Leonard a visit. It was probably a waste of time, but she wanted to throw the net wide. Wide enough to include Dame Henrietta Cadell, her philandering husband and her put-upon son. Jessie called in a WPC and told her to find everything there was to know about the Cadells. Galvanised, she was ready now for a chat with DC Fry.
She found him in the lunch queue and beckoned him over. He swaggered as he followed her into the deserted corridor.
‘Ma’am, I never knew you felt –’
‘Shut the fuck up, Fry. I have an offer to put to you, one you will not refuse. You will report back to me on everything DI Ward does with St Giles, or get a transfer.’
He raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Insubordination and spying.’
‘But you’re asking me to spy.’
‘Only after you volunteered for the job, Fry.’
‘I didn’t,’ he protested.
‘Yes, you did – to DI Ward. Now it works both ways or not at all. You got me?’
Fry didn’t speak.
‘There’s a vacancy in Traffic, Fry. You want me to put your name forward?’
‘You wouldn’t do that.’
‘Watch me.’ She began to dial a number on her mobile phone, talking as she punched in the numbers. ‘Due to strains in his personal life, DC Fry has requested a transfer to Traffic. He needs a lighter load to save his relationship. Oh yes, I quite agree, too many policemen end up alone.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s ringing …’
‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it. Jesus, you’re making me into a snitch.’
‘You were already a snitch, Fry. I’m just making the most of your natural flair for the job. Everything, Fry, verbatim, or it’s Traffic. You read me?’
‘Like a porn mag, boss.’
CHAPTER 68
The short ride through Mayfair was not enough to ease her addled brain. She needed to open up the throttle, eat up the miles, scare herself with speed. Even then, Jessie wondered if it would be enough to erase the feel of P.J.’s skin and the look in her colleagues’ eyes.
She scanned the address Niaz had given her and headed north along Davies Street. Galleries and designer home stores, where you bought other people’s taste and their idea of ‘good’ art. The glass-fronted gallery was shrouded in a huge white sheet with one small hole cut out in the middle. It looked like a marriage sheet for the devout. Jessie chose not to peer through it and rang the bell instead. A portly man with porthole glasses to match bounced towards her on the balls of his feet. She could smell his pomade as soon as he opened the door.
‘I’m afraid, madam, the private view isn’t until tomorrow evening. Nothing is on display yet.’
She held out her identity badge.
‘Oh,’ he said, and took two bounces back.
‘It will be very tasteful,’ said the gentleman with the porthole glasses. ‘Very tasteful.’
‘I have reason to believe that you are intending to display a previously unseen piece by the late artist.’
The man was beginning to sweat. Niaz’s information was correct.
‘I’d like to see it, please.’
The man looked heartbroken.
‘And then I’d like to know where you got it from.’
Jessie followed him through to the back of the gallery and down some stairs to a room where pictures and photographs were arranged and numbered. ‘We don’t take them up until the day,’ the man said. ‘This is like our rehearsal room, if you like.’ Jessie wasn’t interested. She’d examined the back catalogue of Eve Wirrel’s work. She’d seen too many disfigured sexual organs and blurred heads. Now that she knew why Eve Wirrel painted the way she did, they no longer held any interest. No wonder the artist threw herself at the installation bandwagon. Dirty underwear, used condoms and now … The man opened the door of a free-standing family-sized freezer.
‘They’re all there,’ he said.
Except three, thought Jessie. The three back in the lab. The three they had found in Eve’s own fridge. Eve Wirrel’s private sperm bank. Neatly labelled. In matching phials.
‘We have a cooling tray being delivered. Square. For upstairs. It will be central to the whole show,’ said the man, desperation clawing at his throat.
‘How many are there?’ asked Jessie, looking at the rows of surgical containers.
‘Four hundred and sixty-three,’ he said, sounding exhausted at the thought of it. ‘It’s called “A Life’s Work”. Get it? “A Life’s Work”. That’s why it’s so central, because we are showing her life’s –’
Jessie held up her hand. She got the point.
‘Where did you get these?’
He seemed to shrink before her. Perhaps it was the freakish atmosphere, or his palpable nervousness, but he was beginning to resemble Penfold. Jessie relented.
‘I know this is a major coup for you. I understand that the gallery will make a lot of money. But Eve Wirrel was given Rohypnol, stripped bare and left to bleed to death, alone. Her murderer made a mockery of her art. This –’ she pointed to the contents of the freezer – ‘cannot be done tastefully. The DNA of the murderer may be in there. You still want to display it?’
He looked at his well-polished shoes.
‘It’s evidence,’ she said. ‘And I think you know that.’ He nodded as she began to make the arrangements.
Jessie swung her leg over her bike, forced the foam of the helmet down over her head and clipped the strap into place. The police van had arrived and another harvest of Eve Wirrel’s life had begun. She did not yet know whether ‘A Life’s Work’ included any female deposits, or if Eve kept that aspect separate, secret, not for commercial consumption. If that was the case, it was women who held the key to Eve Wirrel. Men she had en masse, but they were meaningless. Mocked. Like the ‘Average Week’. A message of solidarity to Verity, perhaps. P.J. had said himself he used condoms with his own wife because he didn’t trust her.
As the first tray of phials was carried out, the curator followed woefully behind. He was checking each phial against a list. Jessie took the list from him. He’d listed the phials chronologically. She ran her finger down until she came to what she was looking for. She took a sharp intake of breath. Three letters. Her worst fears. Jessie looked back at Eve’s ‘Life’s Work’ and wondered which one in that frozen still-life was P.J.D.
Jessie turned on her minidisk, jacked up the volume and steered the bike through the backstreets towards Park Lane. She needed the speed, to open the throttle. Get some air in her lungs before they imploded. The traffic was slow so she edged her way through the stationary cars with one foot hovering inches off the ground. Once on Park Lane, the lights were generous to her, green all the way. She caught an amber at the entrance to Marble Arch and skirted around into the park. The long, straight road lay flat and enticing in front of her. She kicked the bike into gear and pulled the throttle towards her, changing up quickly, making the bike bite faster and faster. For a blissful few moments the speedometer hit sixty-five. She saw a group of tourists up ahead on the left and knew instinctively they would step out on to the road without looking. It was a park, they didn’t expect traffic and had forgotten it came from their right. Jessie reluctantly squeezed the brakes. Nothing happened. She squeezed again. She changed down a gear, the bike roared in complaint, the speedometer dropped but not enough. The first woman stepped into the road just metres ahead of her. Jessie sounded her horn and shouted. A car was coming towards her on the opposite side of the road. The woman, shocked, ran to the central reservation. A second followed. The others scattered. Jessie couldn’t risk it; at fifty miles an hour she aimed the bike up the thick pavement, gave herself a jolt, steadied the bike, changed down a gear and raced through the ancient oak trees. The grass was wet, the bike was slipping and there were people shouting at her. She changed gear again. She aimed the bike towards an empty stretch of grass, hit a muddy patch and fell into a sideways skid. There was nothing she could do to stop the bike from toppling. If she put out her leg it would break. If the bike landed on her, it would break and burn. Jessie pulled the key out and threw herself backwards. She rolled four times before coming to a stop in time to see the bike, her precious Virago, hit a tree and come to a clattering halt. The American tourists came running. Jessie pulled off her helmet and checked herself for injuries. Pain came later, after the shock had died down.
‘Are you okay?’ asked one woman.
Jessie burst into tears.
CHAPTER 69
Harris showed Jessie to a table. ‘Are you all right? I heard about the accident.’
‘News travels fast.’
‘Bad news travels fast,’ said Harris. They were in a coffee shop near Cary Conrad’s house. ‘In my youth these sort of conversations were had over a pint, not a cappuccino.’
‘You sound like Mark Ward.’
‘I know your fellow DI. His own worst enemy, that one, but he isn’t as bad as he comes across.’
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ said Jessie suddenly. Accidentally. ‘I was going fast, I admit, but my brakes failed because someone had greased the wheel rims with lubricating oil.’
‘Not Mark –’
‘No, of course not Mark. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘You haven’t told anyone? Jones?’
Jessie shook her head.
‘Who do you think did it, then?’
Pick a card. Any card. ‘I don’t know,’ said Jessie. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about the options.
‘Know thine enemy, Driver – a vital rule, if you are going to survive this game.’
‘Thanks, that thought did come to me while I was upside down at thirty miles an hour, somersaulting my way through Hyde Park.’
‘Any injuries?’
‘No. I learnt how to roll on a skydiving course with my brothers. Never thought it would come in useful.’
‘Action girl.’
‘Obviously not.’ She stuck a spoon in her overpriced steamed cow’s milk. ‘Harris, what would you say to having this conversation the old way, over a pint and a large whiskey?’
Harris chose a table in the corner, away from the daytime drinkers and the clutter of men in suits. He had photos of an obscene nature. Definitely not images to be seen over coffee and a poppyseed muffin. On Cary Conrad’s home computer they had found, encrypted, a number of extraordinary images. They found others that had been looked at and then deleted. Even those images had left their mark on the computer’s memory.
‘Seems you were right about the fetishism.’
Jessie could not believe her eyes. Cary Conrad was lying beneath
the Perspex bowl of a boxed-in toilet while an unknown accomplice defecated on his face. From the angle of the photograph, Jessie could see this seemed to be bringing Conrad enormous pleasure. Jessie turned the photo over.
‘It explains why he purchased that old, unmodernised house. No doubt delighted the council had stuck a grade one listing on it. He couldn’t change it. He told his friends it was like living in a museum – not that he had many friends. I believe his wife knew nothing of this, though you can never tell how blind people are prepared to be.’
Jessie didn’t need to imagine what that felt like.
‘It’s incredible what people do behind their spouse’s back,’ said Harris. ‘I’m beginning to think this isn’t what we thought, the third victim. Conrad’s just a sad man caught in the act. Not suicide, mind. It was damp down there, the knots could have slipped. Except –’
‘He needed someone to lower him in.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What about this missing private secretary?’
‘He was due leave. No one knows what the arrangement was between him and Conrad. He’s travelling somewhere in Asia. We’re tracking him down.’
All someone needed was the information. Jessie explained that Verity Shore’s house was also listed. As was the church that Eve Wirrel managed to alter from the inside. It was a cobweb-thin link, but it was a link. They were all celebrities and somehow their deaths had exposed the area of their lives the camera never saw and the papers never printed.
‘Any forensics in the house?’ asked Jessie wishfully.
‘Nothing. Clean as a whistle. What about yours?’
‘Nothing. Not a mark. Invisible, even to CCTV.’
‘If this person is going to kill all the famous people with peculiar habits, there won’t be many left.’
‘Perhaps that’s the point. Except, Cary Conrad didn’t bleed to death like the other two.’
‘You don’t think drowning in your own faeces is enough of a point?’
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