Dead Alone (27 page)

Mark Ward had driven to the village where Alice and Alistair were supposed to have lived with her father. Alice was dead, she couldn’t corroborate St Giles’ story, but the old man was still alive. Mark had paid the farm cottage a visit, but Mr Gunner wouldn’t answer a single question about either his daughter or his grandson. When Mark asked who Alistair’s father was, Pete Gunner slammed the door in his face. So he had waited until the old man shuffled out of the house, then let himself in. The kitchen was lime green Formica, the wallpaper a spongeable plastic. It was neat and orderly and smelt of Sunlight lemon washing-up liquid. There was a hatch through to the dining room, which housed a good mahogany table and set of chairs. Mark went quickly and quietly upstairs. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom. The smell of wet wool and sandalwood told him which room was Mr Gunner’s. Alice’s room had been left untouched since her death. Mark picked up a photograph of a young woman and a baby. It was inscribed on the back. The boy’s name, birth date and weight. It was convincing, but it wasn’t proof. It could be any baby; Mr and Mrs Gunner weren’t necessarily in on the plot. Mark replaced the photograph, but he had to admit to himself that it was looking less and less likely that Alistair was
Frank. There was no sign of Ray St Giles anywhere.

The third room Mark went into was Alistair’s. It wasn’t the school photos on the wall or the stack of dumbbells in the corner that gave it away, it was the collection of ‘gangland’ literature so vast that it caused the plywood shelves to droop. Mark picked up a book and flicked through it. Sections had been highlighted with yellow marker pen. He pulled out another and another. Each one the same. The aspect of each book that had held Alistair’s interest was the same: his father, Ray St Giles. Here was a boy obsessed. Mark began to jot down the titles and authors, a veritable A-Z of the English underworld. When he’d finished, he opened drawers and examined under the bed. In a cardboard box he found recently posted jiffy bags and stiff A4 envelopes. All addressed to Alistair Gunner. All sent from London. Mark tore one open. A photograph fell out. An older man in a suit, his hand up a blonde woman’s skirt. He didn’t recognise the man but he knew exactly who the blonde was. She was lying in the morgue. Nothing but bones. There was another: two women kissing. He didn’t recognise either of the women. There was one of Ray St Giles shaking hands with John Banner, a well-known East End villain. He grabbed another envelope and ripped it open. Newspaper-cuttings spilled out. Headlines he recognised. Headlines he’d mocked.
THE Z-LIST KILLER
.
EVE WIRREL DIES FOR ART
.
DYED BLONDE
–
VERITY SHORE IS DEAD
.
CARY CONRAD
–
YOU STINKER
!

Jessie had been right. St Giles was involved. He stood up quickly, stuck the envelopes he’d opened under his arm and ran out to the car. Throwing the envelopes in, he started the engine and spun the car around. He was angry and worried and driving at speed. He didn’t see the tractor pull out of the side entrance.

Jessie nursed a vodka martini. It was her third. The previous two had done nothing to ease the pain, the humiliation, the sheer ugliness of it all. She had been dazzled by P. J. Dean, no better than the fans rendered speechless by his presence. She might have clung on to Cary Conrad’s death as a distraction, but Harris had called. The missing secretary had been found in Northern Thailand. Under questioning, the man had broken down and confessed. He had set Cary up in the position as usual, and left him to it. When he returned two hours later, Cary had drowned. Harris was now leaning towards accidental death. He believed the knots had slipped. It explained the lack of forensics: no forced entry, no struggle. Statistics had won: like Eve and Verity, Cary Conrad had known his killer. The crucial difference was that Cary’s death had been an accident, whereas those women had been brutally murdered. Jessie shuddered. It was no way to die.

A whole new dilemma now confronted her. If another body turned up, it lessened the likelihood that P.J. was involved. But it meant that someone else had to die. And she didn’t want that to happen. She didn’t want P.J. to be guilty either.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Jessie turned.

‘Hey, ma’am.’

‘Hey, Niaz. I’m in the doghouse.’

‘Pleasant doghouse,’ said Niaz, looking around Claridge’s bar.

‘I bet you’re wishing I’d left you in peace in Putney.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘How did you I know I was here?’

Niaz tapped his head. ‘My genie, remember.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t drink. But thank you for the offer. I recommend you order some ginger tea.’ Niaz summoned the barman.

‘I’m fine on vodka, thanks.’

‘No, ma’am, you need a clear head. Ginger will speed the process up.’

Jessie began to protest.

Niaz held up his colossal hand and ordered the tea. ‘I found the owner of the boat.’

Jessie straightened.

‘It did not belong to Mr Dean, or his housekeeper, or his housekeeper’s –’

‘Who did it belong to?’ Jessie interrupted impatiently.

‘Lady F. C. Lennox-Broome, according to the credit card.’

‘A woman.’ Jessie was perplexed. Almost disappointed.

‘We traced the punt to a yard outside Henley. It was bought over the phone by credit card and was picked up by a man with a trailer. It was a present for Lady Felicity’s father. A surprise sixtieth birthday present. The credit card transaction was verified. The details have been on my list for some time but, like the boat-yard owner, I had no reason to doubt the validity of the purchase. I’m sorry, ma’am, I’ve let you down. Perhaps you should have left me where you found me.’

‘No, Niaz, you have been a truly great help.’ Jessie sighed. ‘So, I was wrong. The boat was not the clue.’

‘Not necessarily. It doesn’t explain how the boat ended up in the Thames.’

‘You want me to ask her, this Lady F. C. double-barrel?’ Jessie looked at her watch. It was getting late.

‘No. According to her flatmate, she is on holiday with a man. Precise location unknown. Name of man, also unknown.’

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘I’m doing the job you asked me to do.’

‘You think I’m slacking. You think I should call out the cavalry again. You think she is missing? This Lady Felicity C. Lennox-Br—’ Jessie felt it, like a bolt of electricity. Knowledge. ‘Oh my
God, Niaz. I wasn’t wrong, I wasn’t bloody wrong. What did the flatmate call her? Not

Felicity, I bet.’

‘As a matter of fact, no. She called her Cos—’

‘–ima. Lady Cosima Broome. Niaz, that boat never had a tender. That was the fucking clue! T.T., the initials stand for the Titled Tart, not “Tender To”. Shit!’ Jessie stood up abruptly and swayed.

Niaz caught her. ‘Perhaps you should have that tea now,’ he said.

Jessie called the number of the family estate, Haverbrook Hall, and asked for Cosima.

‘Lady Cosima is not at home. May I take a message?’

‘Either of her parents?’

‘I’m afraid they are with guests at present.’

‘Please tell them Detective Inspector Driver would like to speak to them on a matter of extreme urgency.’ Jessie waited for three minutes. Either it was a very big house or the upper classes didn’t do urgency.

‘What’s happened?’ said a young, female voice. ‘Is Cosima in trouble?’

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Viscountess Lennox-Broome.’

The voice didn’t match the image. It was unsure, youthful, with a very faint London twang.

‘May I ask when you last saw your daughter?’

‘My daughter? Oh. Oh no, you’re mistaken.
Cosima isn’t my daughter, she’s my stepdaughter and friend. Is she all right?’

‘When did you last speak to her?’

‘Coral?’ barked a loud, rasping voice.

‘Geoffrey, it’s the police.’

‘I’ll deal with this,’ said the voice.

‘But –’

‘If my daughter is in trouble, I’ll deal with it.’

Jessie introduced herself.

‘What has she done that you have to call me at home at this hour?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to confirm the whereabouts of your daughter. Can you tell me when you last saw her?’

‘She is an adult now. I don’t keep tracks on her.’

Jessie didn’t want to alarm the man, but two women had been killed.

‘Her credit cards haven’t been used for a couple of days –’

‘What the hell are you looking at my daughter’s finances for?’

‘We believe she may be missing.’

A female voice interrupted. ‘She was here the weekend before last.’

‘How dare you listen to this conversation! You should be with the guests!’

Coral defied her husband, speaking hurriedly and breathlessly. ‘She came for the weekend. My husband was away shooting. We spoke –’

‘Get off the line! I’m warning you!’

‘Sir, I don’t think you understand the seriousness
of this situation. Two women have been killed in London in the last month. I am very worried for Cosima’s safety.’

‘The guests, Coral! No one likes to be kept hanging around.’

Jessie heard the click.

‘If your daughter is in a rehabilitation centre, you can tell me. I need –’

‘How dare you insinuate such a thing!’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

‘I don’t know where my daughter is. Now, if you will excuse me, I have guests, important guests, who require my attention.’

‘But –’

‘Good evening, Detective Inspector.’

Niaz insisted on driving her home. He even walked her to the door of the building.

‘I’ll be fine now,’ said Jessie, puzzled by his concern.

‘Even so, I’d like to see you to your flat.’ Again Jessie started to protest. ‘Your crash was no accident. Please. Indulge me.’

Jessie relented. ‘Don’t tell me – the genie.’

Niaz smiled. ‘Actually, it was the man in the garage, when I called up to see if the bike was ready.’

They walked up the two flights of stairs together.

‘Is it?’

‘Day after tomorrow. They’ll deliver it to the station in the afternoon.’

‘Good, I can’t stand traffic.’

‘I’ll be on to her travel agent first thing,’ said Niaz. ‘See if she really is on holiday, what do you think?’ But Jessie didn’t respond. She was staring at her front door. Someone had daubed it with a cross. In red. Jessie ran her finger through it. Lipstick. She opened the door and returned with a dripping sponge. She looked at Niaz, who was shaking his head.

‘Not a word of this to anyone,’ said Jessie, scrubbing the smeared red lipstick off her white front door.

Niaz tried to stop her. ‘It is a sign. A message.’

‘It is not. It’s just someone trying to scare me. I don’t scare easily.’

‘I think you should take this seriously. Do you know what it means?’

‘Niaz, this is one piece of trivia you can keep to yourself.’

‘It means “bring out the dead”. They would put a red cross on doors of infected households during the plague –’

‘Stop it. It’s nothing. Please, go home, Niaz.’

He hesitated.

‘That’s an order.’

When Jessie returned from rinsing the sponge, Niaz had gone. She finished wiping the gloss paint surface until it was spotless. She stood back.

‘I don’t scare easily,’ she repeated to herself as she locked and double locked the door.

Jessie knocked on Maggie’s door and went in. There was a manic rustle of sheets.

‘Oh God, sorry …’ Jessie retreated quickly as a man dived under Maggie’s duvet. Then she tapped on the door again. ‘Maggie, can I have a word?’

‘Now?’ came a strained voice.

‘Sorry, it’s important.’

Maggie joined her in the sitting room. She was flushed in the face and wrapped in her fake-fur bed throw.

‘This had better be good.’

‘When did you get back tonight?’

‘Jessie, you aren’t my moth—’

‘Tell me,’ said Jessie sternly.

‘Ten. Why?’

‘There wasn’t anything on the door?’

‘Like what?’

Obviously not. Even Maggie would notice the mark of a cross in red lipstick. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She didn’t want to scare her.

‘You got me out of bed for that?’

Jessie grinned. ‘Sorry. Who is it?’

‘No one you know,’ she said quickly.

Jessie waited.

‘Really, just some cameraman.’

‘Not your celebrity shag, then?’

‘God no, I’ll be doing that in a suite at the Metropolitan, darling. Still, I need the practice, so if you don’t mind …?’

Maggie swept the faux-fur around her.

‘Wait –’ said Jessie. ‘Cosima Broome, what do you know about her?’

Maggie turned back abruptly. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because you know her.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘Well, you don’t like her. So I presumed –’

‘I don’t like what she stands for, that’s all.’

‘So you don’t know anything personal about her?’

‘No, Jessie. How many more times!’

A little after six in the morning Jessie heard someone struggle with the double lock. She sat up in bed and peered through the curtain to the street below. A few moments later, a man appeared. She would never have known if he hadn’t looked up. But he did. Just as he reached the lamppost. Straight at her. It was no cameraman. It was Joshua Cadell. Jessie let go of the curtain and shrank from the window. Maggie never did like competition.