Dead Alone (28 page)

Jessie laid everything out in front of her. A photograph of Eve Wirrel’s initialled painting. The list of sperm donors from ‘A Life’s Work’. Every photograph ever taken of the artist since her rise to fame. For a rebel, she certainly liked the unchallenging pages of
Hello!
. Jessie had stuck them up on a pinboard. There was a strange photo of Eve sitting in
an impressive art deco fireplace; she was naked and covered in ash. She had assembled a similar board for Verity. Each threatening letter. All the ones signed W.T. Every nude picture. The blood-soaked rag. There was a picture of the sunken boat, a close-up of T.T. She had played with anagrams and puzzles, but the letters and photographs continued to stare blankly back at her. Jessie returned to the threats. They were tangible at least. Forensics hadn’t found a single print. The person sending them was a professional. Gloves had been used. Standard office paper that was supplied to millions, and felt-tips that could be bought in every stationer’s in the country.

Jessie picked up one of the plastic-shrouded letters. ‘You told me you missed me, you told me you’d felt my wet kisses, my salty song, you told me you didn’t want to live without me.
SO WHAT WENT WRONG
?’

‘You never waved,’ said Niaz.

Jessie turned startled. ‘Shit. Don’t creep up on me like that.’

‘I thought you didn’t scare easily,’ he said. ‘Before you tell me to get out, I want to show you what I found outside your house last night.’

Niaz held up a white-tipped cigarette. Semi-crushed, like the others. ‘I’ll send it to be tested. Is it Mr Dean or your admirer from Acton, I wonder?’

Jessie looked at the see-through bag. ‘Or nothing at all.’ She turned back to the death-threats. ‘What did you mean, you never waved?’

‘I was simply referring to the song you were quoting from.’

‘The letter, you mean.’

‘No, the song: “You Never Waved”. It’s one of P. J. Deans’, from his first album. A big hit, I believe.’

Jessie held up the plastic folder containing the letter. ‘This?’

‘It’s an adaptation. I suppose the song was about his sister, waving not drowning, a play on the poem. Some demented fool thought he wrote the words for them. I would guess a woman, but you never know these days.’

‘So this was written to P.J.?’

‘Yes. Who did you think it was written to?’

‘Verity Shore. Everything was sent to Verity …’ Jessie rested her chin in her hand and stared at the evidence. Something was staring back at her. ‘… Everything was sent to Verity, but it was about P.J. He could be the trigger. Niaz, get online, check out this fan-extremis.com. Keep an eye on it, see if anyone gets online with the web name W.T. I know Acton police said they found nothing, but if that fag you found last night was also smoked by Frances Leonard, I think we may be on to something.’

‘You think she greased the wheel of the bike?’

‘I thought it was Ray St Giles trying to scare me off.’

‘It
was
just after you’d gone away with Mr Dean. Maybe you’re right, maybe competition triggers her off.’

‘Niaz, I didn’t –’

He smiled knowingly. ‘I know.’

Jessie pulled up a stool and sat on it, reflecting on the possibilities regarding Frances Leonard. ‘She’s a middle-aged woman, hardly fits the profile of a serial killer.’

‘“Probabilities are what got the Force into the mess it is in today.” You said that.’

‘Did I? How irritating.’

It could be a middle-aged woman. The murders had never been about strength, Jessie had said that from the beginning, when she’d had Bernie in mind. And both Eve and Verity had had relationships with women. If Cosima was next, did that mean P.J. had been with her too?

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Niaz, interrupting her thoughts. She frowned at him. ‘Simple deduction, ma’am. I’ll take this to the lab straight away.’ He opened the door to the evidence room. Outside there was a commotion. Jessie followed Niaz and was taken aback by the sight of DC Fry holding a tearful Clare Mills.

‘Fry?’

‘Thank God you’re here.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Oh, Inspector Driver,’ wailed Clare. ‘He’s dead!’

‘Who?’

‘And Irene has put the salon up for sale. I can’t find her. I think she’s leaving, she’s going to leave me too, I can’t …’

Clare was breathing erratically. Jessie looked at Fry nervously. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Give me a sec, I’ll fill you in word for word,’ he said earnestly.

Jessie paced her office nervously. It took ages for Fry to return. If she hadn’t seen the look of fear in his eyes, she would have thought it was a wind-up. Eventually he walked in and closed the door firmly behind him.

‘DI Ward was in a car accident,’ he said gravely.

‘No. He’s –’ But Clare had already told her. Dead.

‘He’s in Reading Hospital with concussion. He’s shaken, the car is a write-off, but he’ll live.’

Jessie frowned. ‘So who’s dead?’

‘Frank Mills. Alistair Gunner is a son from another relationship.’

‘How do you know Frank is dead?’

‘He’s buried in Woolwich Cemetery, under the name Gareth Blake. Has been for twenty-odd years.’

‘You’ve lost me? Who’s Gareth Blake?’

‘He was born on the same day as Frank Mills, according to DSS records. He came into care aged three, same day that Frank did. He was fit and healthy until he died of pneumonia aged four. A lot of children got ill in care. He was buried in Woolwich Cemetery under the name social services gave him.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Mark called from the hospital. In fact, he said
he’d like to see you. In person. No wind-up, I swear.’

Jessie sat down. ‘Poor Clare. So it’s over?’

‘Not exactly. Ray St Giles said he knew where Ward was getting his information – Irene. Ray said it would stop. Now Irene has disappeared. That’s why Clare Mills is here. I only thought it fair to tell her what’s been going on.’

‘You told her about Ray St Giles?’ asked Jessie, startled.

‘No. About Gareth Blake. So now she thinks her brother is dead and doesn’t know why her friend seems to have vanished. She’s freaked out about the salon. It seems it’s been the only constant thing in Clare’s life.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this, Fry.’

‘Yeah, well, I came from the same part of town. Let’s just say I was going to be putting people behind bars or be behind bars myself. Family support is not a social given, ma’am.’

So he had joined another sort of family, thought Jessie. The police force. Not so very different to the kind of unit the likes of Ray St Giles have to offer. Why did it always come back to Ray St Giles?

‘Look, boss, I know I’ve fucked up in the past, but Clare is very upset, so is Mark. They think Ray might have got to Irene.’

Jessie knew what he was asking. She called Tarek but got no response.

‘Send a surveillance team round to St Giles’ house. He isn’t at the cable company any more.
And, Fry?’ He turned. ‘Thanks for keeping me up to speed. I appreciate it.’

He smiled and winked. ‘Don’t get carried away, I’m not all good.’

‘Mostly good then,’ she replied. ‘And make sure Clare doesn’t know about St Giles. I don’t want to have to cut her down from a wardrobe door.’

Fry looked shocked.

‘If we are not very careful, that is where we are heading with this, Fry, I can feel it.’

‘I’ll keep her here,’ said Fry softly.

Jones summoned Jessie to his office. She wondered whether she would have the courage to ask him to do what she could not. Ring P. J. Dean and ask him if he’d also had an extra-marital affair with the Titled Tart. Missing. Now presumed dead.

Jessie found Clare standing alone in the corridor. She was swaying slightly, her narrow frame struggling to cope with the weight of all the news. Jessie led her to the small TV room. Clare said she didn’t want to go home. She just wanted to wait. Wait for news. DC Fry was looking for Irene. Jessie was about to leave her when she spoke, quietly, into the cup of tea Jessie had made her.

‘I want him exhumed.’

‘What?’

‘Frank. I want him exhumed.’ Clare looked at her with wide, flat eyes. ‘Dead or alive, remember?’

Jessie did. Jones had given his word. ‘I’ll start court proceedings immediately.’

Jessie pushed open the door to Jones’ office. He had two cups of fresh coffee and croissants from the café. He smiled kindly. It worried her greatly.

‘Hear you’ve been burning the midnight oil.’

She took the sweet, milky coffee gratefully.

‘Have you eaten?’

Had she? She couldn’t remember.

‘Obviously not. You look starving.’

She bit into the pastry and chewed hungrily. ‘Sir, I know you think I’ve gone off the wall on this, but I’m close. If only I knew how to put the pieces together. I discovered something about Cosima Broome this morning. Her mother was called Penelope Richmond. She went mad and was sent to a home. Her nurse became Cosima’s stepmother. More secrets. Richmond. The boat. It was staring me in the face.’

‘Cosima Lennox-Broome … doesn’t spell Richmond to me.’

‘No. And I think that is the point. All these clues have been muddying the water. Sending me on a wild-goose chase. But there is another possible link, sir.’ She took a deep breath. ‘P. J. Dean.’

‘Now, Jessie …’

She quickly explained about the mystery W.T. ‘If only we could find out from him whether he slept –’

‘No, Jessie!’

‘But, sir, every other murder told me where to look next, if I’d been clever enough. The plantation in the park, the smuggler’s house, the punt in the Thames –’

‘Absolutely not. No.’

‘What if Cosima Broome is lying at the bottom of a lake at her father’s house, like the boat was laid to rest in the Thames? She obviously didn’t buy the punt herself. Maybe there is a private chapel on the estate, some link with a church. All you have to do is –’

‘He is suing you.’

‘What?’

‘For harassment.’

Jessie dropped the croissant. Her appetite deserted her. She stared back at Jones.

‘Sorry, Jessie. Depending on what the lawyers tell us, you may have to be suspended.’

Jessie brought Mark Ward some cans of bitter and a book to hide them with. A peace offering. She felt inexplicably nervous walking towards his bed, passing other car-crash victims. The ones who’d been let off lightly. Mark pulled his dressing gown around him to hide the hospital pyjamas. Dignity was difficult in open-plan wards. An impressive bruise covered the left side of his face and his shoulder was strapped up.

‘Typical bloody copper,’ said Mark. ‘No seatbelt.’

Jessie could tell it was difficult for him to speak. ‘I hope you like history,’ she said, handing over the bag. Mark peered inside. Then looked up smiling. ‘Seems you know my tastes quite well.’

‘Better than you think, DI Ward.’ Jessie sat down on the low, hard visitor’s chair and waited for Mark to explain his summons. He looked tired. It was probably shock. He reached out and took three cardboard envelopes from his bedside table, and handed them over to her silently. The first thought that flashed through her mind was bribery. She opened the first one cautiously and pulled out an A4 photograph. She tried to fathom Mark’s expression before turning the picture around. It was the same photograph that Tarek had showed her. Verity Shore and Christopher Cadell grabbing each other in a hotel lobby.

‘Do you know who it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Jessie. ‘Christopher Cadell, and I’ve already questioned him. Where did you get this?’

‘Alistair Gunner’s bedroom. Along with all the rest. Looks like the bloke is obsessed with his father and the murders. Could be one and the same obsession, couldn’t it?’

‘But it doesn’t mean either of them are directly involved. What boy isn’t curious about his absent father, more so if he’s a notorious gangster? And it’s the murders that are making Ray into a household name.’

‘Ray St Giles is involved,’ said Mark. ‘The proof is right in front of your nose.’

Jessie opened the remaining envelopes and slowly flicked through the pictures and cuttings. ‘We’ve got a lead on the person who was sending P. J. Dean hate mail about his wife –’

‘Ray killed two women before Trevor Mills was shot. The Met fucked it up and pinned it on some trucker, but it was Ray. He beat the women to death and set them on fire. He’s a killer. P. J. Dean is a sappy twat from Manchester. It takes a certain type of person to kill.’

‘I don’t think he did it, but he could be the trigger.’ Jessie looked at the photo of Cary Conrad and grimaced.

‘The police said the tractor rolled into the road, they said it was unmanned, a freak accident. What do you think the chances of that are, Driver?’

‘Did Ray know you were going to the village?’

‘Look at the fucking photos. Ray knows everything. Where do you think Irene is – taking a holiday? She’s never missed a day in that salon. Come on, Jessie. Stop hounding lover boy and do something. Jesus, I thought you’d be pleased. You were right: Ray St Giles is in this up to his neck.’

He knew exactly how to turn the knife. What he didn’t know was that he couldn’t make her feel any worse. She looked him in the eye. ‘What do I do about Clare?’

‘Exhume the body, take a DNA sample. It will prove they are related. She doesn’t have to know that they are not as closely related as she thinks. Everyone goes home happy.’

Jessie got to the last photo. It was of Cosima Broome hugging another woman. ‘Shit!’

‘What?’

‘Lady Cosima Broome. The person who the punt belonged to. She’s missing.’

Mark lay back against his pillow. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Fuck.’ Jessie stood up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To Haverbrook Hall. I think she’s there.’

‘What about Ray?’

‘I’ll up the surveillance. You know, Alistair may hate his dad. Ray deserted him. Maybe Alistair would like to see his father put away again. Maybe he can help us.’

‘I doubt it. Birds of a feather, and all that.’ Mark pulled out the book that Jessie had chosen for him. ‘Ray has spent years building up his reputation, he isn’t going to let some pipsqueak do-gooder of a son get the better of him.’ He flicked the book over. There was a photo of Dame Henrietta Cadell draped over a 1930s pewter fireplace. It was adorned with photos of her precious son.

‘Cadell? Any relation to the bloke poking Verity Shore?’

‘His wife. He was drunk in his club all weekend.’

‘Still, it’s a bit weird.’

‘What is?’

‘Isabella of France.’ Jessie stared at him blankly. ‘Wasn’t Eve Wirrel found dead in the Isabella Plantation?’

‘Oh God, this is getting too confusing. They’ve all slept with each other.’

‘Celebrity is very exclusive.’

‘I think you mean incestuous,’ said Jessie, studying the back cover of Dame Henrietta’s biography.

While Jessie waited for Niaz to bring the car round, she called Sally Grimes. Jessie knew that she was asking a lot of the pathologist, but she wanted Sally’s eye. Sally wouldn’t budge. ‘You haven’t even got a body yet.’

‘She’s dead,’ said Jessie. ‘I know it.’

‘Then trust your own judgement.’

‘But –’

‘Jessie,’ she said sternly, ‘I haven’t told you or pointed out anything to you that you hadn’t already seen for yourself. If you come across something strange, call me.’

‘If you change your mind,’ said Jessie, ‘the corpse is at Haverbrook Hall, outside Oxford.’

‘It’s flu season,’ said Sally. ‘We’ve got bodies stacking up as it is.’

‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

‘Sorry, too many …’ Sally paused. ‘You know.’

Jessie did. Faces to peel back. Lips to lift off. Teeth to remove. Human offal to weigh.

‘Good luck,’ said Sally before hanging up. ‘I hope you find the girl alive.’