Jessie couldn’t help it. She started laughing. Harris joined in. It was simply too revolting to comprehend. Humour and draught lager, safer ground.
CHAPTER 70
A crowd of people had gathered at the top of the stairs. Mark Ward was bringing in his big catch. Raymond St Giles. Mark showed the compact and angry TV personality into an interview room. When Fry knocked on the door to interview room two, Mark gave him a suspicious look but let him stay.
‘I want a fucking lawyer. Do you know what this will do to my reputation if it gets out? I’m a reformed fucking character, and this is police harassment.’
‘We just want to talk to you about the death of Trevor Mills.’
‘Who?’
‘The man you served nine years for killing.’
‘Oh, that Trevor Mills. What about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Ray, along with his wife, Veronica.’
‘My friends call me Ray. You can call me Mr St Giles. What is it you really want? Tickets to the show? I can arrange that, front row and all. Bet that’s what’s galling you, eh? You don’t like the thought of me becoming a star. Well, get used to it, boys. I’m on a trajectory that you cannot curtail.’ Ray looked around the room. ‘Any words you lot don’t understand, I’ll explain. All you need is a good teacher. I had a great one in the nick, taught me a lot.’
‘Remorse, Ray, did they teach you that?’
Ray tapped out a cigarette. He pulled a Dunhill lighter from his pocket and lit it. A few long drags and he dropped the partially smoked cigarette in the plastic cup. It fizzed in the cold tea.
‘Just tell me what the fuck this is about.’
‘Do you feel remorse for Trevor Mills?’
Ray didn’t respond.
‘What about his wife, Veronica? Beside herself, she was. Hung herself from the wardrobe. Heard she got about a bit. Never understood why she topped herself, if she had so many men waiting in the background. Unless they were all married. Perhaps she was on the game. She always had lovely clothes. She was probably overcome with …’ Mark Ward paused, watching Ray’s knuckles whiten, ‘… remorse. What do you think, Ray? If an old whore can feel remorse there may even be a chance for you. You’ve gone very quiet, Ray. Are you feeling all right?’
Ray’s eyes turned to ice. Fry felt the coldness of his stare as he looked at every single face in turn. When it came to his turn, Fry looked at his feet.
‘Is there anything else?’ Ray said in a soft, hard voice. ‘Only I’ve got a lunch at the Dorchester. An old pal of mine has written his memoirs, two hundred grand for the book rights. Sorry.’ He rose to leave, sliding his packet of fags and lighter off the table in one swoop.
‘How’s your son?’ Mark asked when Ray had reached the door.
Ray turned back. It was a full minute before he spoke again. ‘Fine, thank you. How’s yours? Oh yeah, forgot – you don’t have any kids.’
‘How kind of you to remember.’
‘It’s my job to remember who’s who in the police force. Wouldn’t have complained so much if that lovely DI Driver had brought me in. Wouldn’t mind doing a few rounds in the ring with her. She boxes, did you know that? Very sexy. Must be hard, Ward, having a peer half your age who looks that good. Perhaps she’ll have an accident on that bike she loves so much, then you’ll be free of her. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ward?’ His eyes still navigated the room, taking in the opposition. ‘How long you been DI now? Twelve years, isn’t it? That’s a pity. And no kids.’
‘Does he look like his mother or you?’
‘Who?’
‘Your boy. Not really a boy any more. What is he – twenty-eight?’
Ray didn’t move.
‘Pity he didn’t get more of his mother’s genes. She was attractive, that’s why all the lads liked her.’
‘What the fuck do you want with Alistair’s mother, eh?’
‘Alistair? Oh, sorry, Ray, must have got you confused. I was talking about Frank.’
Ray St Giles’ eyes paled. ‘Who’s Frank?’ he asked. A little too late.
‘You don’t know? Perhaps we should talk to Alistair about it instead.’
‘Leave him alone. I’ll get my lawyers on you if you so much as fucking look at him.’
‘Doesn’t he know you killed his mother?’
‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’
‘How did you find him, Ray?’
Ray had one hand on the doorknob.
‘Probably best he didn’t know his slut of a mother,’ said Mark.
The knuckles whitened.
‘Still, every family has the odd skeleton. It all comes out in the end. The press would love a story like this, especially since your new-found fame. Bet Alistair wouldn’t mind knowing the truth either.’
‘Alistair’s mother is dead.’
‘Yes, Ray, we know that. Your trigger-happy handiwork did that for her. Funny how even slags can stick by their old men.’
Ray carried on, ignoring Mark’s taunts. ‘She died three years ago from cancer. Her name was Alice Gunner, she worked in one of my clubs, earning money for medical college.’
‘Yes, Ray, I’ve read the beautifully constructed birth certificate. Another useful little sideline, wasn’t it, documentation? Ray St Giles father, Alice Gunner mother, gave birth to beautiful baby boy called Alistair at St Mary’s Hospital, Reading. Very nice piece of work.’
‘That is the truth.’ He spat the words.
‘Really? Funny Alice and Alistair never lived in the area. What did you do? Set her up somewhere nice in the country while you did your time?’ Mark looked at Ray. ‘We know everything.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. Stealing babies is a crime, Mr St Giles, even if the child’s mother was a slag.’
Ray took a step towards Mark. ‘I know where you are getting this information from and it will stop.’
‘You go near –’ Mark stopped himself.
Ray laughed. ‘You have nothing. And now, thanks to your splendid incompetence, I have everything. You should have done your homework before you called the likes of me in. I’m a professional when it comes to gleaning information.’ He looked around the room once more. ‘Look it up, if you don’t understand.’ Then he left.
‘Shit,’ said Mark.
‘You’d better warn Irene,’ said Fry.
‘He’s playing with us. Frank is Alistair, of course he bloody is.’
‘Still, just in case, you’d better warn Irene.’
Mark looked at him. ‘One fucking word of this to Driver and I’ll have you transferred to Traffic.’
Fry knew then he’d tell Driver everything that had happened. Verbatim. ‘Too late,’ said Fry. ‘DI Driver’s already put me in for the job. You two aren’t as different as you think.’
CHAPTER 71
Jessie walked through the revolving doors of the Pall Mall club and stepped back in time. Everything from the wooden panelling to the reverent hush emanated old money. Men sat in high-backed leather chairs reading the Financial Times while sipping pink gin. It was not yet twelve.
She was informed that Christopher Cadell was waiting for her in the visitors’ bar. The one place women were allowed. Jessie found him in a corner. A waiter was removing an empty crystal glass and replacing it with a full one. As Mr Cadell lifted it to his lips he noticed her approach and rose to introduce himself. Jessie wondered whether it was nerves or alcohol that made him quiver. According to the information from the WPC, Christopher Cadell had been a social alcoholic for years. His career as a documentary maker had floundered as a result, though he blamed short-sighted superiors rather than inebriation for his downfall. Fortunately, his wife had become increasingly wealthy and he had retreated to his club safe in the knowledge that Henrietta would pick up the bill. Divorce was not an option. This Jessie knew was because the Dame set great store by reputation. They had now been unhappily married for thirty-nine years. Joshua, who arrived after six years, had obviously not mad
e it any better. Jessie was still working out how to bring up the subject of infidelity and murder when Cadell leant forward in his chair and spoke.
‘No doubt you want to ask me about the dead girl.’
‘Verity Shore?’
‘Yes. Verity.’ He said the name as though he hadn’t spoken it before.
‘You were having an affair with her when she died?’
‘No. It was over. At my age these things don’t last long.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘Through my wife. She hated Verity, thought she was stupid. Henrietta doesn’t like stupid people, she finds it insulting they breathe the same air as she does.’ Christopher took a sip of gin and tonic. Then another. He was handsome, or had been. The spider’s web of broken blood vessels criss-crossed his cheeks and nose. He was shorter than Joshua and had brown eyes. So did Henrietta. Jessie wondered where Joshua’s dark blue eyes had come from.
‘Mr Cadell, how did you know that I was here about Verity Shore?’
‘If that dreadful man on television knew, I rather thought the police would soon enough.’
‘Is that why Henrietta went on the show, because he was blackmailing you?’
‘Nothing as dramatic as that. Though of course she’ll never let me forget it. You would have thought this was the first time she’d ever done anything she considered beneath her to promote a book.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward?’ asked Jessie.
‘It’s not for me to do your job, is it?’
He seemed completely unfazed by her arrival. ‘We’ve met before, Mr Cadell. At the film premiere party, in the corridor by the ladies.’
‘Did we? I can’t remember.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I’ve been to so many.’
‘Did Ray St Giles tell Henrietta about Verity?’
He smiled meanly. ‘There would be no sport in it, if she didn’t know.’
‘So you told her?’
He shrugged. ‘Not exactly, but she does like checking the credit-card bills. What else would I have been doing on Monday afternoons in Dukes Hotel?’
‘Mr Cadell, Verity Shore was killed by someone who knew what she was really like. A lover, or perhaps the lover’s aggrieved wife.’
‘Henrietta? Aggrieved?’ He spat when he laughed. ‘You’ve got the wrong wife. All she cares about is her position and her precious son.’
‘Her son?’
Christopher looked muddled for a moment, then clicked his finger and ordered another double Bombay Gin and tonic.
‘Is that why you flaunt your affairs, Mr Cadell?’
‘There is something you should understand about my wife, Inspector. When she puts her mind to something, whatever it is, she always gets it.’
‘And your wife wanted a child.’
‘More than anything. She couldn’t understand why she could succeed where others had failed but couldn’t do what millions of women did every day. It drove her mad. When she discovered it wasn’t her fault, she was over the moon. It was my fault, you see, not hers. She was still perfect.’
‘So she had an affair?’
Christopher Cadell spun the ice round the glass before sucking the last of the gin out of it. ‘If it had been that, I might have understood. But it wasn’t, it was an exercise. She fucked her way around the intelligentsia until she got pregnant. Obviously that was less degrading than a visit to the IVF clinic.’
So Joshua was all hers. Henrietta didn’t even have to pretend to share him.
‘But not for you?’
‘What do you think?’
She had humiliated him. So now he humiliated her.
‘She always wanted more,’ said Christopher, staring into his empty glass. ‘Joshua was never going to criticise her. He would never rave about her one minute, then slate her the next. He had to love her. She made pretty sure of that.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Cadell?’
Christopher picked up the wine list and scanned it. Finally he looked up. ‘I think a bottle of claret, don’t you? Just to wash a sandwich down.’
‘What did you mean about Henrietta and Joshua?’
‘Didn’t you come here to talk about that woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’ He snapped the wine list shut. ‘I know when she died, and I was here. The club will verify that.’
Jessie sat back in her chair. ‘You seem to know more than we do. Because of the state of the body, we can’t tell exactly when she died. Thank you for your alibi, but it isn’t quite enough. There is still the motive.’
‘What motive? She was just some silly girl. I’m sorry she died, but it really has nothing to do with us. Henrietta and I play a nasty little game, but it is only with each other. No one else gets hurt.’
‘That isn’t true, I’m afraid, Mr Cadell. What do you think it does to Joshua to see his father drunk, feeling up women, humiliating his mother?’
‘Joshua doesn’t give a shit. You think his mother would miss the opportunity of telling him how ineffectual his father really is? He’s known for years. So, as I said, this is merely a nasty little game between us. It’s kept us going for years.’
‘Mr Cadell, did you know Eve Wirrel?’
He shook his head. ‘And neither did Joshua.’
‘Joshua?’
Christopher stood up. ‘My table is ready. Sorry, but women aren’t allowed in the dining room.’
CHAPTER 72
Jessie pulled up outside the familiar green gates and pressed the button. P.J.’s disembodied voice reverberated through the speaker.
‘Jessie, thanks for coming, this really means –’
‘Can we come in?’
‘Of course.’
The gate buzzed, clicked and began to move. She looked in the rear-view mirror. A woman from social services and a WPC occupied the rear seat. Burrows and a PC were in the car behind. This was an ambush. She was the Trojan horse. She wasn’t here for him. She was here because of something Christopher Cadell had said. Monday afternoons. Tarek’s photo of Christopher and Verity was dated. It had been taken four Mondays before Verity died. Jessie had returned to the station and re-checked the security videos. The tape did not show Verity Shore leaving the house on that or any subsequent Monday. That meant one of two things. Either the video had been doctored, or Verity had found another way to sneak out of the house. Jessie was having the tape examined. Meanwhile, she would check out the property again.
P.J. was walking down the black tiled driveway towards her. He looked more crumpled, less sure and more ravaged by sleeplessness. He watched the second car with suspicion, but managed a smile when Jessie got out of the car.
‘DC Burrows is here to take you to the station,’ said Jessie, before P.J. could even say hello.
‘Oh.’ He looked at her with his big green eyes; they had dulled to the colour of sage. Doleful. Like his sons.
‘DCI Jones will do the interview. You may as well tell him everything, because we’ll find out in the end.’ She sounded angry. Too angry.
‘You couldn’t find it in your heart to trust me, could you?’ said P.J. quietly.
Jessie wouldn’t fall for that soft voice again.
‘This way, please.’
‘The boys are in the garden out the back, they’re making a tepee.’ He was looking straight at her. ‘That’s a wigwam, you know.’
She did know, and it was making her stomach flip. ‘DC Burrows is waiting.’
‘I should tell them –’
‘I’ll tell them,’ she said quickly, holding open the car door.
His eyes narrowed and all softness left his face. She watched him realise that she’d spat out the worm, that he couldn’t reel her in any more. The change in him was immediate. Down went the charade and the real beast showed its face.
‘Bernie and Craig will be here in a few hours. If I’m not back, tell Bernie to call my lawyer. Presumably you’ll know where to send her.’
‘Bernie?’
‘No.
My lawyer.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. He was tall. Like his son. ‘You don’t know everything, Detective Inspector Driver. You just think you do.’
It was a blow. A deep, painful blow, and even after the non-descript Rover pulled out of the driveway, she felt the aftershock radiate through her.
Jessie started in the pool house. She checked the windows in the changing rooms, but they had been sealed shut. There was a fence dividing the property from the neighbours. It wasn’t impossible that Verity had climbed over it, but in the photo she was dressed in high heels and a minuscule dress, so it wasn’t likely. If she did get out, it had to be easy. Then it dawned on Jessie that maybe Verity hadn’t been home at all. Craig had said he was frightened for her when she was away, Danny Knight had told Ray St Giles she was away a lot. Perhaps P.J. had lost control long before Verity died.
She walked back into the house. The Eve Wirrel installation with its two and a half wrinkled condoms made her feel worse. An average week. Not even. Mark had been right, she was no better than a groupie. One in a long line. Jessie walked up the stairs and watched the boys play from the landing. She picked up the binoculars and looked at the fifteen-foot-high brick wall. Verity certainly hadn’t climbed that. She looked out over the park to the Isabella Plantation. There was something she wasn’t seeing, something she was missing. But what? She returned to Verity’s bedroom. She would begin the search again.
CHAPTER 73
Jones pulled up a chair opposite P. J. Dean and for a few moments studied the papers in front of him. He was pleased that Jessie had come to her senses, sorry that she had over-estimated the super star. He too had liked P. J. Dean, but he suspected P.J. had been playing God for so long he’d started to believe his own press. Burrows stood a fraction behind Jones and Fry stood at the door. P. J. Dean had requested a private interview. The request had been denied. This was a serious matter. Dean needed to know that.
‘I’m not under arrest,’ said P. J. Dean.
‘No. You can leave at any time. But I wouldn’t advise it. Next time – and there will be a next time, Mr Dean – our meeting might attract a little more attention.’
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