Dead Alone (7 page)

Jessie, Jones and P.J. emerged from the underground playground and walked back out into the hall.

‘Do you mind if I check her room?’ asked Jessie.

‘Whose?’

Was he being deliberately obstreperous, or just downright stupid? Unless he thought she meant Bernie’s room. ‘Your wife’s room,’ she said deliberately.

‘Sorry,’ said P. J. Dean. ‘It’s up the stairs, on the right.’

‘Would you mind accompanying me?’

‘Oh, okay. This way.’

‘I’ll wait in the car,’ said Jones, already reaching for the front door.

Jessie followed the billowing dressing gown up the stairs. At a half-landing the stairs split in two directions. A tall window reached up to the ceiling, giving an incredible view of their hundred-foot garden. The stone wall at the end backed directly on to Richmond Park.

‘The boys and I watch for deer,’ said P.J., pointing to the three pairs of binoculars on the table below the window. ‘You can usually find them in the vicinity of the Isabella Plantation. See, the clump of oaks over there on the left?’ P.J. was pointing out of the window now.

Jessie looked at her watch. ‘If you don’t mind …’

‘Shit! Sorry, I keep forgetting why you’re here.’ He shook his head. ‘Does that seem weird to you?’ His green eyes were staring into hers.

‘It’s probably shock,’ she said quietly.

‘You don’t really think that, do you? You probably think I’m a law unto myself, that my marriage was a farce and I screwed every backing singer that walked through my door.’

‘I’d like to see the room now,’ said Jessie.

‘I’m a good father to those boys.’

Jessie didn’t know what to say. He turned away from her and took the right-hand staircase two steps at a time. Jessie followed him along a galleried landing until they reached a corridor, at the
end of which was a set of double doors. There was a key in the lock. P.J. pushed both doors open wide and stood back. Jessie walked into the forty-foot bedroom.

‘My room is down the other end,’ said P.J., before Jessie could ask.

There was an awful lot of space for one small, insecure woman. Too much space. Immaculate. Soulless, like a hotel room. Huge white pillows were puffed up on a huge white bed, white sheets, white duvet, white bedspread. Thick white curtains were draped over an old boat mast; too long for the window, the material cascaded on to the white carpet. Jessie couldn’t decide whether it was virginal, marital or sacrificial. Whatever it was, this white, sunlit room was now a mausoleum. Verity Shore was dead, Jessie knew it, from the hairs on the back of her neck to the chill in her bones.

The walk-in wardrobe was the size of Jessie’s bedroom and bathroom combined. Row upon row of designer labels and stacks upon stacks of shoe boxes. Jessie was momentarily awestruck. Maggie would have wept at this sartorial altar. The sickly sweet aroma of Estée Lauder’s White Mischief emanated from the clothes.

‘Obscene, isn’t it?’ said P.J. ‘Half this shit, she never even wore. The arguments we’ve had about that.’

Jessie turned to him. He was walking slowly towards her, his eyes on his wife’s clothes. ‘I think she did it to shock me. The price tags. They all
came up on my credit card, of course. How can anyone spend twelve grand on a top?’ Jessie watched him close in on her and said nothing. ‘Where I come from, that could practically buy a house. I swear those shops saw her coming and licked their greedy lips. Talk about the emperor’s new clothes.’ He stopped walking, but continued to talk to his hanging hundreds and thousands. ‘Eventually I had to put a limit on any individual spend. Anything over a thousand and the bank rang me to verify it.’ He turned to look at Jessie. Those piercing green eyes a few centimetres from hers. ‘She didn’t like that one bit.’

‘Are you telling me your marriage was over?’

‘Not over, poisoned.’

‘By Verity?’

‘By everything, I suppose. My own stupidity, for thinking that she would change.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb and bent his head forward. ‘My own stupidity for believing that women like her married men like me for anything other than money and position.’ He laughed drily. ‘The oldest profession in the book.’

‘Talking like this is not going to give people like me a very good impression.’

He looked up. ‘But it’s the correct impression.’

‘P.J., you just called your wife a whore.’

‘No Detective Inspector Driver. I called myself a sucker.’ He turned to leave. ‘Do you mind? I can’t stand the smell.’

Jessie carried on through the dressing room to the bathroom. There were enough mirrors in that room to give anyone a complex. There was no hiding from self-scrutiny. Along one wall was a mirrored dressing table the size of a pool table. More cupboards lined either side of it. All mirrored, of course. Jessie ran her finger along the mirrored surface then looked at it. Not a speck of dust. This room was exceptionally clean. Suspiciously clean. Gleaming bottles of serum, scrub, toners and tonics lined up like an army. A fight against age. To the death. She approached the bath. It stood alone on a pedestal and it smelt of bleach. On the edge of the tub were more goodies. A family of Paul Mitchell bottles. Did women like Verity Shore wash their own hair? Jessie picked up a bottle and shook it. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Obviously not. For a second she pictured Verity Shore, an unhappy, over-indulged woman, lying amongst expensive bubbles in her big white pedestal bathtub, sipping from a shampoo bottle.

She put the shampoo bottle back with the others and returned to the bedroom. A large sash window on the far wall looked directly on to the flat roof of the garage. One big step up. Made easier by the presence of a conveniently positioned window box. The window pushed up easily. Silently. Jessie looked at the window box. No flowers. Well-trodden soil. Apparently P. J. Dean had less control of his wife than he thought. She took a digital camera from her bag and photographed the
footprints. Someone had been sneaking out after bedtime.

Jessie and Jones left the rock star standing at the doorway to his exorbitant mansion. Somehow the building did not reflect the man. He was still wearing his dressing gown. The boys had appeared either side of him. He put an arm around each. Jessie didn’t envy P.J. telling them.

‘Do you think he is involved?’ asked Jones once they were outside.

‘Instinctively, I’d say no, it seems too vicious for a normal man. But then I don’t suppose there is anything very normal about P. J. Dean.’

‘He has a lot of money, he could have paid someone,’ said Jones.

‘A simple overdose would’ve been more sensible.’

Jessie could see Bernie in a first-floor window, her arm around her tall son. Her shoulder came to his waist. How did such small women produce such enormous sons? He was as tall, maybe taller than P.J. and as well-built. Even the gardener watched them pull away. ‘P.J. was very candid about Verity, but clammed up about Bernie, that’s what sets my alarm bells ringing. I think there might be something going on between Bernie and P.J. The question is, has it got anything to do with Verity’s death?’

Jones rested his head on the headrest. ‘We still don’t know for sure that it is her.’

‘If we did, I’d have people all over that house.’
The gates opened automatically, Jessie looked up at the CCTV camera and resisted the temptation to wave. Then she remembered the window box and stopped the car. She climbed out and ran back up the drive. Barefoot, P.J. came to meet her.

‘The security tapes? Can I have them?’ said Jessie.

P.J. shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He turned round, saw Bernie and Craig in the window and pointed to one of the cameras. Bernie opened the window.

‘What?’

‘The tapes, can you get them for the inspector.’

‘As far back as they go please,’ said Jessie.

Bernie seemed hesitant. She looked at her son. Craig said something. Jessie couldn’t catch it, but whatever it was made Bernie relax. She looked back to P.J., gave him a brief smile and disappeared.

Jessie turned to P.J. ‘You say Bernie has worked for you for twelve years. How did you find her?’

P.J. scratched his short dark hair. ‘I heard she needed a job.’

‘How?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t remember now. Look, do you mind?’ he pointed at his feet. They were blue. ‘My feet are about to fall off.’

‘Fine. I’ll wait for the tapes, but you’ll have to answer all my questions eventually.’

‘If it’s Verity.’

‘Do
you
think it is?’ asked Jessie.

He didn’t answer her but his body language did. He ran his hands through his dark hair, gathered
his dressing gown around him and crossed his arms. Then he turned away and walked back to the house. A few minutes later Bernie came out with the tapes. Twenty of them. The handover was a silent one.

Jessie returned to the car.

‘What about a crazed fan?’ said Jones as Jessie climbed back in. ‘They’ve been getting letters.’

‘
If
they’ve been getting letters.’

‘You think that was a set-up?’ asked Jones.

Jessie hoped not. ‘Crazed fans kill with guns and knives. This is too planned, and very hateful. We were supposed to find her the way she was. Indistinguishable. The legs spread. The implants. What does it say about her?’

‘Not a great deal.’

‘Exactly.’ Jessie left the well-protected mansion in her rear-view mirror, the green gate sliding closed behind them. ‘Someone is making a brutal point.’

‘What happened to the boys’ real fathers? If she left them and took their kids, that’s a motive.’

‘I’ll check them out as soon as the ID is verified.’

‘Too busy being the has-beens of the future to look after their own offspring,’ said Jones.

‘A perfect sound bite. You should remember that for the press office.’

Jones started to laugh, it was an unfamiliar sound. ‘Wasn’t that surreal?’ he said, through the giggles. ‘And as for that bowling alley – God, how the other half live.’

Jessie joined in with the laughter. The tension from the previous hour erupting in a wave of hysterical giggles. Jones was clutching his stomach, gasping for air.

‘P. J. Dean in his pyjamas!’ exclaimed Jessie before another bout of giggling grabbed her. Jones was still clutching his stomach, gasping for air. Jessie looked at him. Jones wasn’t laughing any more.

‘Sir?’

He didn’t reply. He was bent double, hyperventilating, his neck quickly turning the colour of beetroot.

‘Hold on!’ Jessie put the sirens on, her headlights flashing blue and white. She put her foot on the accelerator and began to weave through the traffic. Jones’ breathing had slowed. He lifted his head and looked at her.

‘What are you doing?’ He groaned as he spoke.

‘One of the perks of the job. Ever noticed how patrol cars never get stuck in traffic? Don’t talk, just breathe. You’ve gone a very odd colour.’

‘You win. I’m sorry about the hairdresser comment.’

‘No, I mean it, you really have gone a very strange colour.’

Pain clamped around his stomach and Jones doubled up again. Jessie sped on to the nearest hospital she knew. She didn’t radio ahead. She didn’t think Jones would like anyone to know a senior officer was being admitted; news travelled fast.

When they arrived, she half carried him through
to A&E and at the desk quietly informed the nurse who he was. She filled in as much detail as she could. He’d been off-colour for some time, she suspected, but he never rested. Recently it had been getting worse and he had actually spent a day at home. As far as she knew it was stomach cramps, possibly appendicitis. A doctor came straight away. It was clear to everyone that Jones was now feeling worse. The hot, angry colour of purple had drained away, leaving his lips a pale grey and his skin bone-white. She left the doctor to it and took a seat in the waiting room.

Like most people, Jessie had an aversion to hospitals, so when a nurse offered her their tea-break room she gladly accepted. A pile of magazines was offered to her and hot tea with digestive biscuits. The simple things in life. She accepted them all. Research, she told herself as she began to read up on the lives of the rich and famous. Anything to keep her mind off the colour of Jones’ lips and P. J. Dean’s eyes.

Jessie walked along the corridor to her office carrying the twenty video tapes. PC Ahmet was sitting on a chair outside Jones’ door. She was about to ask him what he was doing there when Trudi came out of her office. She looked distraught.

‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ she asked, breathless and upset.

‘Oh, Trudi, no of course not. I’ve just left him. He asked if you would go and see him – only you, he can’t face anyone else.’

Trudi picked up her bag and coat, then put them down again. ‘What shall I do about …?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get a PC in here to answer your phone. You go, I’ll see to it.’

‘Thanks, DI Driver.’

‘Please, call me Jessie.’

Trudi backed out of the room. ‘Oh, DI Driver, there’s a woman to see you. She’s in Jones’ office.’

‘But –’ Jessie looked down at the video tapes. The autopsy was in an hour.

‘I know, but this is important. It’s Clare Mills.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to dispense with those,’ said Niaz, holding out his giant hands to receive the stack of tapes.

Clare was standing at the window, looking out. She was taller and thinner than Jessie remembered. It seemed like months ago that she and Jones had gone to Elmfield House to meet her. Poor Clare. Despite the promises, they’d already let her down. Jessie couldn’t explain why, either; murder was like that. Clare turned. She looked haunted.

‘Sorry to disturb you at work, I just wanted to give you this.’ Clare handed over a black-and-white photocopy of a newspaper article. ‘It’s amazing what these machines can do with old photos and stuff.’

It was a child. The face of a child. Blurred like
an ultrasound scan, but distinguishable nonetheless.

‘Frank?’ asked Jessie gently.

‘I found it a while ago. It’s from an old local rag, God knows why they were interested in Dad’s funeral, but I don’t care, at least I have this.’

‘Look, Clare, I –’

Clare straightened up. ‘I know, you’re busy, you’ll let me know. I just wanted to give you that and explain something about Mum …’ Clare hesitated.

‘Go on …’

‘She didn’t mean to kill herself. Not really. Have you ever stayed awake for three weeks, not eating, nothing but hope to keep you going?’

Jessie shook her head.

‘I have. Another great fuck-up in a history of almighty fuck-ups.’

‘Sorry, I’m not with you,’ said Jessie.

‘I was told they’d found a boy called Frank in care. Obviously, he was a man by then. He had no recollection of his family, but he was the right age, came from the right area. I thought maybe it was him, maybe he’d remembered his name even when everything else around him changed. I did. This Frank was in a mental hospital, which figured. It took three weeks for the paperwork to come through so I could go and see him. I didn’t eat or sleep; I sat and prayed it was my Frank. Finally I went to the hospital to meet my brother …’ She paused. Jessie swallowed nervously. ‘He was black.
The boy they thought could be my brother was black. Oh, social services were sorry, somehow my colour had been overlooked. If I’d had the strength, I would have killed myself that day. I would have killed myself even though all I want to do in this pitiful life of mine is look my brother in the eye and tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let them take him away. I’m sorry I didn’t protect him from those grown-ups who told me they knew best. I’m sorry that he doesn’t know what amazing parents he had, who loved each other, and who loved us. And more than that I’m sorry I didn’t go up and check on Mum sooner.’

Suddenly Verity Shore’s self-obsessed, insecure, drug-taking antics didn’t seem so pressing. Jessie folded the picture of the boy and put it in her wallet then walked Clare to the canteen. Despite Jones’ request, Jessie confessed to seeing Ray St Giles on the telly. They agreed it was a sorry world that took known hooligans and criminals and made them into celebrities. Even if they were reformed, which Clare clearly doubted was the case for Raymond Giles, the hard-man angle was the linchpin of their marketability. There was no point denying their past. That past was the only reason they were on television. Clare told Jessie that Raymond Giles also frequented the news studios. Appearing on
London Today
any time a ‘gang’-style shooting took place so he could give his ‘expert’ opinion.

She was so quiet, so unassuming most of the
time, but when Clare talked about Ray St Giles, the anger blazed from her.

Niaz was still sitting in the corridor when Jessie returned.

‘What are you doing, Niaz? Haven’t we got enough on our hands?’

‘DI Ward told me to leave.’

‘Did he now? Why?’

‘Because I am “a useless piece of pedestrian shite who is good for nothing except beating off”. By which I believe he was referring to the act of masturbation and trying to tie it in with the redundant term of beat officer and thereby be humorous and rude at the same time. He failed on both counts.’

‘Did you tell him I’d transferred you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he know about the implants?’

‘No.’

‘Verity Shore?’

‘No.’

Jessie smiled. ‘And the medical records?’

‘They’re on their way. DC Burrows organised it.’

‘Good. Get their bank details too.’ Niaz nodded. ‘Now, follow me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She opened the door of the CID room. It suddenly went very quiet. DC Fry had clearly been enjoying centre stage. Some of them had the decency to look embarrassed. Not Ward, he just threw himself straight in.

‘What the bloody hell have you been doing? Helicopters, divers, the River Police – do you know how many suspicious deaths we deal with here? We haven’t got the resources to play Sherlock Holmes with every sad fucker who washes up on the banks of the Thames. Jesus, we probably pull out two a month. It could have come from anywhere. I hear you even got the SOCOs down there. A body can wash up fifty miles from the crime scene, if that is what it is.’

Jessie looked at her watch.

‘And what the fuck is he still doing here?’ Ward jabbed a finger in Niaz’s direction.

She had planned to do this privately. But to hell with him.

‘Initial tests on the bones reveal that they have been soaked in a sulphuric acid. Two silicone implants that survived the acid bath were found in the vicinity of the body. They belonged to Verity Shore.’

‘Shit! The jellyfish.’

‘Yes, Fry, the jellyfish.’ Jessie turned back to Mark. ‘This morning DCI Jones and myself went to P. J. Dean’s house, where we were told by Mr Dean that his wife has been missing for five days. There is to be a full postmortem in an hour at Charing Cross Hospital, which I, as acting Senior Investigating Officer will be attending –’

‘Hang on, you’re the SIO? What about the guv’nor?’

Jessie continued talking over him. She’d stuff
his insubordination right down his fat throat. ‘DCI Jones has been admitted to hospital with a burst stomach ulcer. He has put me in charge. I’ve written my team down here. Please have an incident, evidence and briefing room set up for when I return from the postmortem, which I am hoping will give us absolute confirmation that the remains are indeed Verity Shore.’

Silence.

‘PC Ahmet will shadow me and DC Burrows will be my second-in-command. Both will be accompanying me to the hospital now. Thank you.’

‘What about me?’ asked Fry. This was a big one, he wanted to be there.

‘Oh yes, DC Fry, thanks for reminding me. Niaz, give those tapes to DC Fry so he can start watching. These are the security tapes from the Dean residence. You see someone leaving, clock it; arriving, clock it; any deliveries clock it, number it, and show me when I get back.’

‘But –’

‘Okay, Niaz, Burrows, you’re with me.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ they said in unison.

Jessie returned to the corridor. It was the first time she could ever remember shaking on the job.

‘Where are those medical records, Burrows?’

‘On their way by bike.’

‘Is that safe?’ asked Jessie as she marched down the corridor.

‘They’re experienced drivers.’

‘Yes, but how are they with large offers of cash?’
Her breathing was returning to normal with every step she took away from Mark Ward. She glanced quickly behind her, didn’t see the press officer spring from a side office, and accidentally sent her flying. Kay Akosa fell back and skidded a few yards on her well-rounded rump before coming to a stop.

‘God, I’m so sorry.’ Jessie helped her up.

‘Don’t you look where you’re going? Didn’t anyone tell you not to run in the corridors?’

‘Yes, at school, when I was twelve.’

Kay Akosa withdrew her hand and brushed it against her other one. Kay had a reputation for being a tyrant, reducing nervous new recruits to tears over their expressions when caught on camera policing a picket line. She’d call them in over their hairstyle, acne, facial hair, weight. Verity Shore wasn’t the only one expected to be image-conscious. These coppers barely had enough money for a beer and a packet of pork scratchings, let alone trendy hairdressers, beauty salons, facials. When Jessie had first appeared at West End Central they needed someone to do a piece to camera outside the building. She could recall Kay Akosa’s fateful words: ‘You’re pretty, you’ll do.’ It wasn’t even a matter for the murder squad. Jessie had refused. She and Mrs Akosa had not shared a canteen experience since.

‘We’ve had every major paper in the country calling about unconfirmed reports that Verity Shore has drowned. What do I tell them?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And one paper knows you were at P. J. Dean’s house this morning.’

‘Shit!’

‘So?’

‘I have nothing to tell you.’

‘I can’t tell them nothing. Nothing won’t do.’

‘We don’t know who we have in the morgue. So no comment.’

‘They already know a body was found.’

‘Fine. So they know as much as we do.’

‘But –’

‘I’ll come to the press office as soon as I know more.’

The woman leant back on her heels and crossed her arms. ‘Where’s Jones?’

Jessie ignored her. She, Niaz and Burrows walked away.

‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the debacle with Jami Talbot,’ Kay called out after them. No one turned around.

‘Have you ever been to a postmortem, Niaz?’ asked Jessie when they reached the car park.

‘No.’

‘Well, you’re in luck. My first was a woman who’d been raped and then strangled and left in a ditch for two weeks. This will be a breeze. Sally said they’d been busy, so there will probably be bodies piled on top of each other on the surrounding tables. It’s cold in there, but I don’t think we’ll be long, so you should be okay. They’ll give
you a mask, shoe covers and a green surgical coat.’ She turned to him. ‘You all right with this?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Right. Let’s go.’

The bones lay on the convex stainless steel table, tilted slightly to where the feet should have been. It allowed the running water to drain away with all the excess mud and silt that the departing tide had left. It was the cleanest PM she had ever seen. The photographer clicked. The pathologist listed what was missing. A few small bones that had been found in the nearby mud were brought in from the evidence room. Most had been matched to the skeleton. One had not.

‘Cause of death, unknown. Hairline crack in cerebral vertebrae, recent, could have been caused by being hit over the head. Then again, the body could have been dropped after death. Impossible to say. Female, yes, age between thirty and forty. Early signs of osteoporosis and calcium deficiency. Childhood fracture on the upper arm, almost invisible, nearly missed it. The most interesting thing about this case is the acid test my colleague Sally Grimes did early this morning. She was on site with DI Driver, neither of whom would accept that this was some old drowning victim. The tests are very revealing. Sally, would you like to explain?’

Sally stepped forward.

‘Good afternoon, everyone. The initial test showed that sulphuric acid dissolved the flesh and
internal organs, but secondary tests picked up traces of ammonia. Although ammonia could not have done the damage that the sulphuric acid did, it is the reason why the bones are so white. It bleached them.’

‘Like peroxide,’ said Jessie.

‘Peroxide is a much weaker form of ammonia, but yes, in principle they’re the same.’

Jessie looked at the remains of the bottle-blonde with big tits. The implants were in a jar. If Niaz hadn’t found the other implant, they would have had a difficult job on their hands narrowing the field. Verity Shore was not alone. There were many like her. It didn’t need to have been her specifically. It could have been anyone.

‘Do you know who it is?’ asked the pathologist.

DC Burrows’ pager bleeped. He looked at Jessie. ‘Those records are here.’

‘Go.’

She looked back at the pathologist. ‘If the records show a childhood break, then that is Verity Shore. If no break, then someone wants us to think that it is Verity Shore. It could be either.’