Dead Alone (4 page)

Jessie placed her helmet on the wooden boards by the door and prayed her bleeper wouldn’t go off. The flat housed two women too busy to buy
anything. There was nothing on the walls except the previous inhabitants’ choice of paint; the floors were bare and the rooms blessedly uncluttered. Maggie’s only possessions were clothes and make-up, most of which she had purloined from the make-up rooms and wardrobes of television centres around the country. This, she assured Jessie, was normal.

The lights were on, but the flat was silent. Jessie knew the signs. Maggie had had bad news. She pushed the door to the sitting room open and saw Maggie sitting cross-legged on the floor. She did not look up. Instead she held out a piece of newspaper.

‘Bastard,’ she whispered.

Jessie took the newspaper and began to read.

Dear Lord. Give me strength. Is it too much to ask for – an intelligent female presenter of an intelligent show? Clearly it is. Bar the rare exception, TV has become the vessel of the inane, mundane and vain. The saturation of the saccharine blonde was distressing enough, but now they come at us with banal brunettes who I presume by their hair colour are supposed to at least
look
intelligent. Don’t be fooled. These women are in fact lower down the evolutionary scale than their pitiful predecessors. These are the new blondes. Faux blondes. Blondeabees. And they are springing up like weeds. Chickweed, to be precise. An abundant plant which is known to be particularly troublesome on rich soil. I write this as a warning to all
those impressionable producers, pop stars and players. They, like the blondes before them, will suck your AmEx dry.

I could name them all but fear the heavy hand of the ever-watchful lawyers. There is, however, one I feel I must pick on. I couldn’t live with myself if I let this pass without comment. Shown last week, ‘The Olive Oil Revolution’ was a programme about the changing eating habits of the British population. A reasonably interesting subject matter, you would have thought. Wrongly, as it turns out. It was utterly and spectacularly unchallenging. The presenter, I admit, was working with some pretty dire material, but even so she managed to lower the tone. Maggie Hall shook her equine mane, beating all the L’Oreal girls in an instant, and declared that we eat Italian food because it is ‘yummy’. Come back, Anthea – all is forgiven.

Jessie looked at her flatmate, who shook her head mournfully. There was no point telling her it didn’t matter, that no one read such columns, that the paper it was printed on would be polishing shoes and wrapping up broken glass tomorrow; she’d tried before and words didn’t work.

‘It gets worse,’ said Maggie, as Jessie leant down beside her and gave her a hug. ‘He was on some chat show yesterday.’

‘Who?’

‘Joshua Cadell, the creep who writes this shit.’

‘Slagging you off ?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘Just increasing his sphere of influence by a few thousand miles. They
watch him on telly, they’ll sure as shit read his column.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Jessie.

Maggie didn’t have to respond to Jessie’s declaration. Ask Jessie how long it would take a six-foot man weighing fourteen stone to bleed to death and she could tell you without hesitation. Put a gun to her head and ask her who was Number One in the charts and she would have to say ‘pull’.

‘You may not have heard of him, but you’ll have heard of his mother. Dame Henrietta Cadell.’

‘The author?’

‘Queen of the literati, the doyenne of all historical biographers. He is her son.’

‘So?’

‘That makes him famous by proxy. Even if people only read his column to slag him off, they still read it.’

‘Listen, Maggie, you said yourself the script was poor. He’s taken the “yummy” comment out of context –’

‘I know that. Doesn’t make it read any better though, does it?’

Jessie stood up. ‘Want a drink?’

‘There’s a bottle open,’ said Maggie.

There always was.

‘At least there was some good news today,’ said Maggie when Jessie returned to the room, boots off, glass in hand. ‘I got my first bit of obsessed
stalker mail. Now that
is
a good sign.’

Jessie hoped Maggie was being sarcastic. She didn’t want to put her flatmate in the same bracket as the desperate Jami Talbot.

Maggie threw her the envelope. ‘Not the most stunning bit of prose you’ve ever read, but it beats the signed-photograph hunters with all their gushing.’

‘It wasn’t so long ago that you loved every last gush.’

Maggie shrugged.

Jessie looked at the solitary page of cheap blue writing paper.
‘I know you want me as much as I want you, I’m waiting for you in our special place.’
Jessie looked up. ‘That’s not funny. Do you know who sent this?’

‘Course I don’t.’

‘What “special place”?’

Maggie shrugged again.

‘Do you want me to get it checked out?’

‘God no, it’s only some nutter. Everyone needs a stalker.’

‘Maggie, you should take this seriously –’

Jessie felt a cushion land on the side of her face.

‘I’m joking!’ exclaimed Maggie. ‘God, I worry about you sometimes.’

Ditto, thought Jessie.

‘Come on, Miss Marple, let’s watch this video and see if the bastard nails me.’

Maggie put the video in and they watched the clock tick down the seconds. It was a pre-recorded
show; a friend in the edit suite had copied it for Maggie.
Today with Ray
.

‘This is just a shit cable channel,’ said Jessie. ‘I wouldn’t worry about this.’

‘People watch this.’

‘Who? Who watches it?’

‘People,’ said Maggie belligerently.

There was no point trying to reason with Maggie while she was like this. Relativity and ambition didn’t go hand in hand. Jessie watched a man with pale blue eyes fill the screen. His hair was white and cropped short, his face was lined but he carried it well, like Clint Eastwood. His scalp was tanned where the hair had thinned. He wore an open-necked shirt – blue, to match his insipid eyes. A small gold cross was embedded in the white hairs on his chest. It matched the cap on his incisor.

‘Who is this con?’ said Jessie. ‘He’s got HMP written all over him.’

‘Shh,’ said Maggie, increasing the volume. ‘There’s Joshua Cadell and his mother.’

Jessie stared at the robed woman walking on to the set. She was about five foot eleven and was carrying at least four stone too many. She had wiry amber hair that enveloped her head and shoulders. Her jewellery matched her hair and the design matched her shape. ‘She’s huge –’

‘Shh, listen.’

‘… and so to the bloodthirsty world of fourteenth-century Britain. For this week’s “Mother’n’-Son” we have here in the studio Dame Henrietta
Cadell, author of
Isabella of France
, which is out this week, and her son Joshua, author of the weekly satirical column, “The Mallard”. Henrietta, I’ve flicked through all your biographies and was quite shocked by the violent nature of most of them …’

‘Bastard,’ said Maggie again. ‘Satirical fucking column.’

‘… do you think the violent nature of your books has helped you corner the market in mediaeval biography?’

The majestic woman laughed behind a bejewelled hand, smiled for the camera and began to talk.

‘People are interested in history. They should be. You cannot predict the future, but you can understand the past. Insight. It’s all anyone really needs. And insight comes from history. I think that is why all my books are so successful. Everyone can find something in the past that they can empathise with, take consolation from –’

‘Like infidelity.’

The smile remained fixed on the author’s heavily made-up mouth, but her eyes told another story. Dame Henrietta Cadell clearly thought herself far too classy for this outfit. ‘Absolutely. The list is endless; it’s about betrayal, loss, love, war – even murder, Mr St Giles.’

‘Yes. You describe Edward II’s death quite flamboyantly.’

‘Mr St Giles, don’t tell me you are squeamish
about violence.’ Henrietta Cadell smiled malevolently at the interviewer. ‘I would have thought hot pokers were right up your street.’

The corner of St Giles’ mouth flickered upwards, and he turned towards Joshua. The columnist was tall like his mother, but very thin and pasty. He had none of Dame Henrietta’s colouring, none of her pizzazz. He wore a plain black suit and his black hair was pulled tightly off his face. His cheeks looked hollow under the overhead studio lights. Joshua Cadell was a pale imitation of his mother.

‘It must have been very alarming, growing up around blood and guts, Joshua?’ asked the blue-eyed interviewer.

‘I grew up around history, as my mother has already said, learning the repetitive nature of mankind. Blood and guts have nothing to do with it.’

‘Still, you didn’t want to write yourself?’

‘I do write.’

‘Yes, but not books …’

‘Who is this guy?’ interrupted Maggie. ‘I love him, he’s ripping the arsehole apart.’

‘Ray St Giles,’ said Jessie quietly before standing up. Keeping one eye on the screen, she backed out of the room to fetch her heavily laden backpack from the hall.

‘I’ve read your column – quite the executioner’s style,’ continued St Giles.

Maggie swore loudly.

‘If you can’t stand up and be counted,’ said Joshua Cadell, not looking into the camera, ‘don’t stand up at all.’

‘Fair enough. But don’t you think people who criticise others should at least have achieved something themselves?’

Maggie clapped her hands. ‘Bloody hell, this guy’s evil. Mark my words, he’ll have a cult following before you can say “Whoops, there goes Jerry.”’

‘Evil,’ repeated Jessie, removing a manila file from the backpack. The camera zoomed in to the presenter’s face. Jessie looked up from the open file and pressed pause.

‘Hey, I’m enjoying this.’

The television flickered. Raymond Giles. Ray St Giles. The ex-con who had orphaned Clare Mills. The studio lights reflected in his pale blue eyes. He was smiling, his crooked, capped tooth the only evidence of his criminal past.

‘When was this on?’ Jessie asked.

‘Three in the afternoon yesterday. Why?’

Just the time Clare Mills’ video recorder had automatically switched on. Jessie recalled the array of video cassettes that had adorned Clare’s shelves where books should have been. Ray St Giles, Clare’s nemesis, a chat-show host. No wonder the poor woman didn’t sleep much.

Jessie pushed open the door to Jones’ office. She was too excited to notice the black circles under his eyes, the papery look to his skin, the slight yellow tinge to his fingers. Her jellyfish was back from the lab and her suspicions were confirmed. Her mud bath had been rewarded.

‘Great, you’re back. Can I show you something?’

Jones pushed himself up from his desk without a word and followed Jessie down the corridor to an evidence room. He was lagging behind.

‘What’s the hurry, Detective?’

Jessie turned back. ‘It’s about the bones we found on the Thames. I think I can identify them.’

‘What bones?’

‘Didn’t you hear about the …’ Jones was frowning at her. ‘Are you feeling okay, sir?’

‘How?’

‘What?’

‘How can you identify these bones?’

‘Oh,’ Jessie smiled, extremely pleased with herself. ‘I found a jellyfish. Let’s just say it didn’t look indigenous to the sullied waters of London. Turns out I was right.’

Jessie led Jones to one of the tables where her jellyfish lay, oozing over a square glass plate. A borrowed microscope stood close by. Jessie got the equipment in place, then stood back.

‘Have a look.’

Jones came up shaking his head. ‘I hate to tell you this, but that is no jellyfish.’

‘I know.’

‘What is it then?’

Jessie stepped back and crossed her arms. ‘A partially dissolved silicone implant.’

‘Breasts?’ he said incredulously.

‘One breast, to be accurate. And, being pedantic, a fake.’

Jones closed one eye and lowered his head back down to the microscope. ‘What are the letters and numbers on it?’

‘Part of a security barcode. It’s an American brand. A very recent model. Cosmetic surgeons started coding silicone implants several years ago after too many went missing. Can you imagine – a black market in fake boobs? Anyway, to have got to its current skeletal state, the body this belonged to would have had to start decomposing eighteen months before this type of implant was even invented. This is not a typical river DOA.’

Jones frowned.

‘At first the pathologist thought the body had been cleaned, or preserved. Possibly even left as a joke.’

‘Joke?’ asked Jones suspiciously.

‘By med students,’ said Jessie quickly. She was no snitch. ‘Now I am convinced it was acid we could smell. It explains the disfigured implant and the fact that the bones were so clean. This is a serious crime.’ She handed Jones the preliminary photos. He held one up. It was an aerial view taken from the helicopter. The white arch of the ribcage rising up from
the mud, the dirtier leg bones splayed wide, covered in silt.

‘But you didn’t know that when the body was called in. What were you doing on the river, Jessie? Hardly a stiff for the murder squad, was it?’

The pause was a fraction longer than a second. Too long. ‘I had nothing else to do,’ said Jessie. ‘Thought I needed to accumulate some field experience.’

‘Nothing to do? What about the Mills case?’

‘I thought that’s what you were doing. I couldn’t reach you all day.’

Jones involuntarily rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling for bristles. Jessie had never seen him with anything resembling a five-o’clock shadow. He was the closest-shaved copper she knew. He was studying her. Closely.

‘So this,’ he said, waving the photo in the air, ‘has nothing to do with the five calls from Mark Ward yesterday?’

She retrieved the photos and put them back in her file. ‘I thought you said you didn’t speak to anyone.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Oh, well then, no, I doubt it.’

He nodded in that all-seeing all-knowing way of his. Jessie held her ground.

‘So what now?’ he asked.

‘See what the lab results tell us, then try and match the part of the code that hasn’t been destroyed with the manufacturer. They will know
the surgery it went to, and we can take it from there.’

Jones looked exhausted. ‘What about the Mills case?’

‘I’m on that too, sir. Did you know that Raymond Giles has a cable show?’

He nodded. Jessie was put out.

‘We concentrate on Frank,’ said Jones sternly. ‘Not Raymond. He’s done his time. Am I clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The door to the evidence room opened. It was the PC from the river. ‘Morning, ma’am, sir. I thought you might want these before I resume my post on the river.’ PC Ahmet passed her the Personal Description Forms. ‘I think this will turn out to be more helpful, however –’ He held out a Tupperware container. ‘I put it in my sandwich box.’

‘What?’ asked Jessie.

‘The jellyfish I saw. Those SOCOs didn’t pick it up, so I thought I would. Call me particular, but since when did you find jellyfish in the Thames? They are saltwater creatures – medusoid coelenterate, to be precise.’

Jessie smiled at Jones, took the box from Niaz, emptied the deformed implant on to another glass plate and brought the magnifying glass over it. Finally she looked up, smiling.

‘You are brilliant, Niaz.’

‘So it isn’t a jellyfish?’

‘No. It’s one of a pair of silicone implants. With
the two, I think we now have the full barcode.’ She took a pen from her back pocket and wrote out the number from the first and then added the one from the second. The middle three numbers overlapped. She stood back. ‘We’ll soon know who she is.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘How behind is LA?’

Jessie’s mobile rang. It was Sally Grimes, the pathologist. ‘Sulphuric acid. The bones were drenched in it.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Will that wipe the smile off your DI’s face?’

‘Yes.’

‘Congratulations, Detective Inspector.’

‘Thank you. One more thing, Sally – would sulphuric acid dissolve silicone?’

‘Depends how long it was exposed to the acid.’

‘Same length of time as the body.’

‘Partially probably. Maybe totally, depending on the make. No doubt you’ll be wanting a
proper
Home Office pathologist to do the tests at the postmortem.’

‘Will you assist?’

‘If you insist.’

‘I insist.’

‘Leave it to me then.’

Jessie looked at Jones. ‘Acid.’

‘I gathered. But does that necessarily mean the bones and the implants belong to the same person?’

‘One of them fell out of the chest cavity.’

He weighed it up in his mind. Jessie needed this one to cut her teeth on. And silence those doubting Toms. ‘Well, they belong to someone, let’s find out who.’ Jessie was watching him, her large hazel eyes full of concentration and excitement. Jones continued: ‘I’ve a friend in the LAPD, you can start there.’

Jessie smiled. ‘Thanks, boss.’

‘You’d better start taking notes, Detective Inspector. Looks like you have a murder investigation on your hands.’

‘PC Ahmet, would you do it? I’ll get you a temporary transfer.’

‘It would be an honour.’ He smiled broadly.

‘Right then, follow me.’