The lad was staring at her, a fixed and desperate look in his eyes.
‘Didn’t your father ever tell you any of this?’
Very slowly Alistair shook his head.
‘Do you know why he went to prison?’
He nodded.
‘The man he killed was your mother’s husband. You have a half-sister. Her name is Clare and she has been searching for you all her life. Don’t you remember? Being taken away by social services after your mother …’ Irene breathed deeply ‘… died.’
He shook his head again.
‘Your father found you, and here you are working for him. Not an ideal man for a father, but he must love you. Getting you away from social services can’t have been easy. You were lucky. Clare stayed in care. Raymond didn’t want her. Her father was dead, so was her mother, she has been alone all this time.’
The young man listened.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Irene. ‘This must be hard for you. But it’s harder for Clare. You do understand that she must never find you. If she knew what Raymond had done to her mother …’
‘It would kill her,’ he finished for her.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.’
He was shaking. ‘This lass, you say Ray …’ he paused, ‘my, my father, flaunted … Do you remember her name?’
‘Alice. But she was nothing to him, I promise you, he just used Alice to stop Veronica going back to Trevor.’
‘Veronica,’ he said painfully.
Irene smiled sadly. The boy obviously had no memory of his mother. Her friend.
‘And did it work?’ asked Alistair through gritted teeth.
‘Yes. It did. You were born shortly afterwards. Their secret boy. Every opportunity Veronica had, she’d take you to see Raymond. Sometimes they’d meet in a hotel in Southend, but more often she’d take the bus to Woolwich Cemetery. When it rained, they’d hide in the Giles family crypt. Raymond had the key. That was how desperate they were to see each other. He visits her still. Every month. Now, of course, he takes the flowers himself. Being behind bars couldn’t stop him leaving those damned yellow roses …’ Irene faltered. Her voice cracked. ‘Yellow. For envy. The man is still jealous. She chose death over him.’
Alistair turned round and leant on Ray’s desk to steady himself. His breathing was ragged. Irene wanted to comfort him. She didn’t see him reach out for the marble pen holder, and she didn’t realise until it was too late that he had twisted his body, gathering up his strength. He spun towards her with alarming speed. Irene didn’t even have time to raise her hand to protect herself. The new thick carpet muffled the sound as she fell to the floor.
CHAPTER 84
Jessie pressed the bell of the Regency house until a harassed-looking woman came to the door.
‘I need to speak to Dame Henrietta.’
‘Who may I say is calling?’
‘DI Driver of West End Central CID.’ The woman did not move aside. ‘May I come in?’
‘Sorry, she is writing. I’m not normally supposed to –’
‘Is it normal for the police to show up on the doorstep?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
Jessie followed the nervous, retreating woman down an impressive hallway and into a room on the right. The floor was solid walnut, the skirting boards were white, the walls were cream. The large sofas were also rich white, the cushions were jewel-coloured silk and black-and-white sketches by famous artists adorned the walls. Jessie was disappointed, there was no art deco fireplace.
On the ottoman were three of the daily newspapers. Ray St Giles was on the front cover of every single one. ‘Ray the Voice of Reason.’ ‘Ray St Giles – patron saint of the people’s pocket!’ ‘No more rip-offs, says Ray.’ His latest coup had been to expose Jami Talbot live on television for the fraud that she was. She had paid some junkie to beat her up and the junkie had found a way to double his money. It seemed there were people who would stop at nothing to reach their goal. But the goal was a mirage. As soon as you reached it, it moved. These people were chasing the spotlight, but the light eluded them. It was a dangerous light. A fool’s light. They thought they could bask in it for ever, but in the end it moved on, leaving them in total darkness. Alone. Perhaps where they had always been.
‘I know you,’ said a blustering voice from the doorway. ‘You’re the little thing my son was talking to at the L’Epoch party. Jessica? The one with the broken heart.’
‘Detective Inspector Driver,’ she said, holding out her ID. Henrietta Cadell waved it away, seemingly unimpressed. She picked up a cigarette box and removed a white-tipped Marlboro. Jessie watched the smoke unfurl.
‘Those parties are dreadful, aren’t they? I couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for Joshua. My husband hates that sort of thing, poor man. He’d be much happier at home with a good book.’
So the woman was deluded and possessive. No different to Frances Leonard, except that Henrietta Cadell was better packaged. Jessie held out the hardback edition.
‘Oh, sweet, you want a dedication?’
‘Where was the photo taken?’ asked Jessie.
‘Here, why?’
‘May I see the room?’
‘Well, I’m writing at the moment, and I don’t like to have my concentration broken.’
‘I understand. This won’t take long.’ Jessie stood up.
‘I really must insist that you allow me to return to work. Deadlines, you know.’
‘Did you know Verity Shore or Eve Wirrel?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Your husband said you introduced him to Verity Shore.’
‘Very unlikely. I try to avoid people like that.’
‘What about Lady Cosima Broome?’
Henrietta laughed. ‘The Titled Tart? The only thing that stupid little girl wrote well was a cheque.’
‘You know they are all dead?’
Henrietta took a long drag of her cigarette and then flicked the ash. ‘Cosima, too?’ she enquired, trying to feign concern, and failing.
Jessie nodded.
‘And what exactly has that got to do with me?’
Jessie showed her the photographs of the fireplace.
‘Oh God, that was ages ago. I needed the money at the time. It isn’t easy being the major breadwinner, bringing up a son, and keeping a certain, well, you know, reputation. You don’t know what it’s like out there. One Duchess of Devonshire and you’re all but forgotten.’
‘I’d like to see it, please.’
‘What? Why?’
‘This is a murder investigation. You knew the deceased. I’m simply crossing off names.’
‘I didn’t really know them – you don’t really know those sort of people, you just kiss them hello occasionally and make an excuse as you move on.’
Jessie slid the photograph of Mr Cadell and Verity Shore in the hotel lobby across the ottoman. ‘And your husband, when he isn’t sitting at home with a good book, does he also kiss and move on?’
With extraordinary calmness Henrietta slowly screwed her cigarette into the base of a solid silver ashtray. ‘You think knowing about my husband’s affairs makes you a good detective? Everyone knows my husband screws around. Little girls who think he is impressive,’ she laughed harshly. ‘I really don’t know who I feel more sorry for – him for having to pretend that what they talk about is interesting, or them for having to pretend his wrinkly old sterile body is attractive.’
‘He told me you liked to use that against him.’
‘God, he tried that on you too, did he? That line tends to work best on the stupid and the desperate. Don’t tell me, I am the witch for getting pregnant without him. Someone had to do something. It was too awful knowing he was endlessly beating away into a plastic cup only to discover one or two healthy ones. Very difficult to respect a man after that. So, keep your picture, it doesn’t even raise my temperature. And the answer is, yes, eventually, he always moves on. Houses like this don�
��t come cheap and he isn’t a bedsit sort of man.’
‘And Joshua? Did he also kiss and move on?’
Henrietta winced. ‘My son has better taste than that. What would a boy of his calibre want with those women?’
‘Breathing space, perhaps?’
Henrietta stood up. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of ?’
‘Me? Nothing.’
‘I love my son. If there is a crime in that then I give up. The world has become a stupid place.’
‘And a violent one.’
‘Hardly. We don’t even know the meaning of the word.’
‘Dame Henrietta, could I see your study, please?’
‘You are a very irritating person, aren’t you? Ambition and envy are not attractive traits, Detective Inspector Driver.’
‘Your study. Now.’
It was a shrine. An altar to Joshua. It wasn’t a large room but every available space had a photograph of him on it. They all but drowned out the history books and the beautifully moulded 1930s pewter fireplace. Jessie held up the pictures of Eve Wirrel and Verity Shore. She traced the line of the wall, the fringe of the lamp, the pattern of the club fender. It was the same fireplace. The same room. The same soft furnishings. Verity Shore and Eve Wirrel had been ‘at home’ with Henrietta Cadell. And Henrietta Cadell had been playing house with her son. Christopher Cadell couldn’t compete.
Jessie picked up a photo of Joshua. He was on a beach wearing skimpy swimming trunks. The trunks were wet. The material clung to him suggestively. He had his arms spread out wide and his head thrown back laughing. Joshua Cadell. Eve Wirrel’s well-endowed nude. Henrietta took the photo from her. She might not mind her husband fooling around with the likes of Verity Shore, but her son? Her precious son. That was unthinkable. Here was a woman surrounded by literature documenting the barbaric acts of mankind and constant reminders of what she was missing. Could maternal love turn murderous? Could anyone be that jealous of their own flesh and blood?
‘Will there be anything else?’ Henrietta was holding the door open.
‘He lives with you, doesn’t he?’
‘Downstairs. It’s a self-contained flat and he isn’t in at the moment.’
‘Isn’t he a little old to be living with his mother?’
Henrietta wore the same self-satisfied smile Jessie had seen before. ‘A pity, I know, that his writing career didn’t quite take off as he would have liked. I felt terrible that his novels were turned down – people can be so cruel. I feel guilty, of course. The publishers compared him to me and, well … As I said, I feel terrible about it.’
Jessie didn’t think so. P. J. Dean had taught her one thing about the world Dame Cadell inhabited. If you were at the top of your profession there was very little you couldn’t manipulate to your advantage. Henrietta Cadell didn’t want her son to go. A word here, a threat there … It was like P.J. controlling the press over his errant wife. Henrietta had stopped her son achieving anything. That was what Christopher had meant when he said his wife had made sure Joshua was always there for her.
‘What publishers did Joshua send his work to?’ asked Jessie.
‘I can’t recall,’ said Henrietta.
‘The subject?’
‘Love stories, I’m afraid.’
‘Good?’
‘A little unbelievable, but yes, of course. He’s my son.’
‘And he hasn’t had a love affair himself?’
‘He has rather high standards, I’m pleased to say.’
Jessie handed Henrietta a list of dates. ‘Where were you at these times?’
Henrietta folded the page in half and passed it back. ‘Have you any idea how busy I am? My PA will be able to tell you, but I do write, I spend great swathes of time in isolation. It’s the only way to get the work done. I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand.’
‘I need to see her then.’
‘Him, actually. And he isn’t here yet.’
‘Where can I find him?’
Henrietta folded her arms under her shelf-like breasts.
‘Three women are dead. I don’t expect to have to ask twice.’
‘He won’t be in until midday. You are welcome to wait, but I really have to work.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jessie, a false smile fixed on her face. ‘I think I will.’
CHAPTER 85
Jessie took herself to a small café to think. The PA had arrived at twelve and shown Jessie the secrets of Henrietta’s schedule. Henrietta had been as busy as she claimed around the times that the first two women died. Although she still had no exact time of death for Cosima, Jessie didn’t see how Henrietta could have got to Haverbrook Hall and back in time to present a literary award, attend a dinner and visit the Reading Festival. On the other hand, Reading was not far from Haverbrook Hall, and if the murder had taken place at night and she’d had help … Jessie sighed out loud. It was all too tenuous, circumstantial. The CPS wouldn’t buy it. She wouldn’t have bought it. And Henrietta knew it. Jessie didn’t have one grain of evidence.
As the barista handed over her takeaway coffee, Jessie’s phone rang. She pressed it to her ear.
‘DI Driver.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ The voice sounded constrained. Angry. Hurt.
‘Clare?’ Jessie pushed through the crowd to the street.
‘You knew, didn’t you? About my mother and that bastard!’
‘Clare, where are you? I’ll come and get you.’
‘You bloody knew, you all bloody knew.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Never you fucking mind. Stupid, stupid, stupid me! Well, fuck your pity.’
‘Clare, let’s meet, we’ll talk.’
‘Too fucking late for that. I’m going to finish this, now, once and for all!’
‘Clare?’
Her voice echoed in the silence.
‘Clare? Damn!’
Jessie dialled the surveillance team outside St Giles’ house. How on earth had Clare found out? Had Fry let it slip? Had she seen a file? Overheard someone discussing the case? The surveillance team seemed uneasy hearing Jessie’s voice and it worried her. She wanted to know what was going on. But they couldn’t give her an answer. Ray had given his followers the slip walking through a shopping centre. Jessie paced the street angrily.
‘He got mobbed, women everywhere. By the time the crowd cleared, he’d disappeared.’
‘You idiots, he probably did it on purpose.’ Jessie was stuck. There was no point trying to find him, he could be anywhere. The man on the phone was apologising again. Jessie couldn’t be bothered to listen to his paltry excuses.
‘Find him, and bring him to West End Central.’ She was going to get Clare back on the phone, talk some sense to her, calm her down. She’d send Fry to go and get her …
‘With all due respect, DI Driver, I don’t think St Giles was up to no good. He left the house carrying a bunch of yellow roses –’ Jessie’s coffee fell to the ground and splattered over the pavement.
It took forty minutes to get to Woolwich Cemetery in the car, even with the lights flashing. There was a man leaning a bike against the forlorn gates. Jessie recognised the hunch of the shoulders as she switched the engine off.
‘What are you doing here, Mark?’
He turned round. The side of his face was still discoloured from the bruising.
‘Clare disappeared from the station. She isn’t at home, she hasn’t been to work. I couldn’t shake this bad feeling, so I checked myself out of hospital. I was hoping she’d be here.’
‘Isn’t she?’
‘No. But there are some fresh flowers, so I guess that means Irene is okay.’
Jessie shook her head and started to run along the cracked, weed-infested pathway to Veronica Mills’ grave. ‘Irene didn’t leave those flowers. Ray did!’
She was running too fast to hear Mark’s response. She saw the bright yellow roses lying on the ground in front of the luminous white cross. They were sti
ll in their paper. And their dead predecessors were still scattered over the grave. Ray had been interrupted. Jessie moved closer to the cross. Mark panted behind her.
‘How could he have left them? He was in the nick.’
‘He didn’t have to do it himself. He has enough influence to get this done without anyone knowing. Irene must have covered for him, like she always has.’
‘Clare knows, doesn’t she?’
Jessie didn’t reply directly. Instead she pointed to the splash of red blood on the corner of the headstone then put a finger to her lips. There was a rustle in the bordering hedgerow. Someone was watching them. She pointed to her eyes then indicated the spiky hawthorn bushes. Mark nodded and began to walk along the edge. Jessie scanned the big tombstones. Clare must have seen Ray leave the roses; she’d called Jessie because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. St Giles leaving roses on her mother’s grave. Jessie tried to imagine the rage Clare would have felt. It would have superseded any fear Clare may have felt for the man. She would have gone for him, no question. Jessie would have done the same. But Ray had been fighting off opposition for years. Jessie was pretty certain it was Clare’s blood on the gravestone. Mark walked up beside her.
‘Whoever was there, they’ve scarpered.’
‘Well, he didn’t have time to move her very far. She must be here somewhere.’ They reached the crypts on the brow of the hill and started trying doors. The crypts looked as forgotten as the cemetery; they belonged to a different time, when families stayed in one place, lived, died and were buried together. She approached the last one, saw the name above the door and stopped in her tracks. GILES. Carved in a roman-style script into the crumbling York stone. Jessie reached for the thick steel door. She knew already it would open. The ground had been disturbed and the bolt was drawn. Jessie retrieved the torch from her bag, took a deep breath and pulled the door towards her. The beam of light cut through the inky black space within. Ray’s ash-white face and glassy eyes loomed back at her. She dropped the torch.
‘Mark! Mark! Come here quick –!’
Jessie scooped the torch up from the musty earth-covered floor and forced herself to look at Ray St Giles. He was semi-naked, tied up against the wooden frame of the shelves upon which his dead family lay. He would be joining them soon if Jessie didn’t do something. He was bleeding profusely from a gash in his inner thigh. His femoral artery had been severed. Blood was pouring down his leg on to the dusty floor. He was five foot nine, weighed approximately thirteen stone and he’d be dead in thirty-five minutes. Jessie pointed the torch downward. Clare Mills was balled up on the floor at Ray’s feet. She too was unconscious. Bleeding from the head. Jessie thought of Eve Wirrel’s painting and wondered whether two worlds could really collide like this.
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