Dead Alone (8 page)

It suddenly dawned on the pathologist. ‘Verity Shore, that blonde who is always taking her clothes off? The one with the big knockers?’

‘Dyed blonde and breast enlargements. She was alive last Thursday.’

‘Good God,’ he said, looking back at the bleached bones lying on a plain of running water.
That was the worst-case scenario. ‘What’s the best you can hope for?’ he asked.

‘That these are old bones and Verity Shore is headline hunting.’

‘Nobody would go this far,’ said Sally Grimes. ‘Would they?’

No one replied. The publicity stunts by headline-hungry celebrities were becoming increasingly desperate. Getting pregnant didn’t do it. Getting pregnant, taking coke and throwing oneself down the stairs did. So it wasn’t impossible. Verity Shore might just be a more ambitious version of Jami Talbot. The door swung open. Burrows stood with the file in his hand. He was reading from it as he walked. ‘Twelve – fell off horse, broke arm.’

The pathologist took the file. Read it, flicked through some more pages, returned to the body. He looked up. ‘Verity Shore will get all the headlines she dreamt of. It’s her.’

Jessie was already out of the door. ‘Burrows, call Jones. Tell him.’ She peeled her green mortuary coat off as she walked, ‘Niaz, get two officers to P. J. Dean’s house now – whoever is nearest.’ Jessie hopped from one foot to the other as she removed her shoe covers.

‘You’d better call the press office,’ said Burrows.

‘Shit.’ She pulled her phone out and dialled a number. ‘This is DI Driver. If you’re listening, P.J., please pick up the phone. I was at your house –’

‘Hello.’

‘P.J.?’

‘The phone has started to ring – journalists. What’s going on?’

‘Get out of the house, take the kids somewhere safe. The press know we came to see you this morning, all hell is about to break loose.’

‘Shit!’

‘We may have been followed.’

‘Bullshit.’ Then he shouted. ‘There’s a fucking
SNITCH IN MY HOUSE
!’

‘I gave you my mobile number. Call me when you are out of the house.’

‘So it is her?’

‘P.J., call me when you are out of the house.’

‘You think my phone is bugged?’

‘I’m thinking of the boys.’

‘Okay, okay, shit, I’ll call you back.’

Jessie slipped the phone back into her pocket. Burrows was watching her. ‘What?’

‘You know you may be protecting a guilty man,’ said Burrows.

‘Perhaps. But perhaps he’s innocent. And those kids certainly are. You know what the press are like.’

‘What if they do a runner?’

She tossed this possibility in her head. Niaz was already on his radio. She turned back to Burrows. ‘The press are already on to him. In five minutes’ time, that man won’t be able to take a shit without the world knowing about it. He won’t be going anywhere. Call Kay Akosa. We release a short statement: Verity Shore was found dead on the
bank of the River Thames at 06.05 on Tuesday morning. Her family have been informed and an investigation is underway to determine cause of death.’

‘That’s it?’

‘What does she want, gory details?’

‘Ahmet and you finding the jellyfish?’

‘No.’

‘It’s good stuff, boss.’

‘Do you want those kids knowing their mother was dipped in acid?’

‘They won’t read the papers.’

‘Come on, Burrows, those boys go to school, their classmates’ parents will talk about it, kids’ll overhear it, headlines glare at them at eye-level … What the fuck do you think they’re going to do, come to a mutual agreement not to discuss the case in their presence? The oldest is seven, he’ll be in the playground with much older boys and girls, who know full well they are Verity’s kids, that they’re rich. You think they’ll keep it to themselves? Get an injunction, whatever it takes – this information stays with us. If anyone goes to the press they lose their job, their pension, their fffu—’ She clenched her fists.

‘You can’t control this,’ said Burrows.

‘I can try.’

‘Boss, Verity Shore was dipped in acid and was ID’d by the fake tits she claimed she never had – you’re already out of control.’

Jessie didn’t want to hear it.

‘Don’t take on the press, boss. You’ll lose.’

She turned round. ‘What do I do, then?’

‘Throw them titbits, that way they’ll stay hungry for the story but not so hungry that they go looking for blood elsewhere.’

She stood her ground, but Jessie knew he was making sense.

‘It is a media-ruled world we live in. The tabloid press is judge and jury, you want them onside. Give them the tits, keep the rest, and tell P. J. Dean to keep his trap shut.’

‘It’s a fucking circus,’ said Jessie angrily.

‘No doubt about it. Just make sure you’re the one with the whip.’

She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, Burrows.’

‘No sweat, boss.’

‘Okay, tell Kay about the implants. But I want to see that press release before it goes out.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Niaz.

‘Get on to the water board. I want those sewage tunnels searched. I’m going to P. J. Dean’s house, find out what’s been going on in paradise.’

‘So you
do
think P. J. Dean is involved,’ announced Burrows.

‘I didn’t say that.’

Jessie stood in Verity Shore’s bedroom and stared at the window box. Chrysanthemums. Freshly planted. Hours old. Too new. Once again she lifted
her camera to her eye and took a photo, then she beckoned to one of the guys in plastic overalls. It was the guy from the shower. The ballsy guy. ‘Bring the window box in,’ said Jessie. ‘And make sure you get prints from all round this window, outside and inside.’

‘Sure.’

She turned to look at him. ‘What, no snide comments, defiant gestures?’

‘Actually, the lads and I were wondering if you’d join us for a drink after. Our way of saying sorry for being such twats.’

Jessie raised an eyebrow.

‘Dicks then.’

‘You buying?’

‘With all this overtime you’re earning us, we thought it would be rude not to.’

‘In which case, I accept your offer.’

He turned round and made a thumbs-up to the three men systematically working their way through Verity Shore’s private life.

‘Don’t forget the window box,’ said Jessie. ‘And check the drains for remnants of large quantities of blood.’

He put a hand to his heart. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he said, performing a slight bow.

‘Settle.’

He smiled. ‘Sorry.’ Stuck out his hand. ‘My name’s Ed.’

‘Ma’am,’ shouted someone from the bathroom. ‘Think you had better come and have a look at
this.’ Jessie walked through the wardrobe, back to the hall of mirrors. Two of the white-suited men were leaning over the tiled surround. Their presence only enhanced the bathroom’s tomb-like quality. One of them had prised off a tile. ‘I noticed it was loose when I knelt on it. Looks like someone has been stashing pills.’

Jessie peered inside. P. J. Dean had said all pills and booze were banned. Which meant Verity had resorted to subterfuge. Jessie had found the booze hidden in the shampoo bottles. And now they’d found the pills. She took a pair of tweezers from the cabinet and picked one out.

‘Looks like some bathwater got in. These are all partially dissolved,’ said the guy holding the removed tile. Jessie peered back in the man-made hole. ‘Wouldn’t they have dissolved into one big lump?’ she said. ‘Bag them all up, take them to the lab and have them tested.’

‘What do you think they are?’

‘Could be anything – amphetamines, antidepressants, painkillers, Ecstasy. P. J. Dean said she often took to her room, maybe this was what kept her entertained.’

‘I think we’re done here.’

‘What about the wardrobe?’ said Jessie. ‘Someone has to go through every single shoe box.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because they make good hiding places and it looks like Verity Shore had a lot to hide. Then we’ll go to the pub. And not a word of this
outside this building.’ They all gave their word, Jessie wondered how much it was worth. As P. J. Dean said, you could only trust people so far, everybody has a price.

Jessie left the house and walked round the back of the garage. There was a thick rainwater pipe, with two offshoots at different heights. And bins at the bottom. If there had been any footprints before, they’d been wiped away. Someone had been doing some tidying as well as some gardening. Jessie put a foot on the sturdiest-looking bin, grabbed the pipe, put another foot on a windowsill and grabbed the first offshoot with her left hand. A redundant nail gave her the third secure step, an over-spill pipe her fourth. Within ten seconds she was on the roof. She walked across the flat, sun-warmed asphalt to Verity’s window. The window box had been taken away, leaving two sturdy brackets. It was a big step up, but it wasn’t impossible. If needs must. She turned and leant back on the white wall, pulled out her phone and dialled a number.

‘Fry, it’s Driver here. What news on those video tapes?’

‘Bugger all.’

She nodded to herself. ‘Good.’

‘Good? I’ve been watching hours of the same image and you think that’s good?’

‘Yes. Didn’t want to tax you with anything too complicated.’

‘Look, ma’am I’m sorry about the –’

‘Forget it. Keep watching the tapes.’

‘What are you expecting me to find?’

‘Nothing.’

She snapped her phone shut, retraced her steps across the roof of the garage, and peered out over the garden. To the right of the house there was a building that looked like a pool house. Pools meant chemicals. Chlorine. Bleach. It all came from the same family. It also meant sun-loungers. Privacy. By easing herself backwards off the roof and clinging to the over-spill pipe, she could climb down with relative ease, even in the dying light. She felt for the nail. Perhaps not so redundant after all. The windowsill. The bin. The ground. Escape. But not to the outside world. Cameras would have caught her. No, Verity Shore found escape in-house. Provided, perhaps, by the adoring arms of a seventeen-year-old.

This house held secrets. Jessie could feel it. She walked across the clipped lawn, past the football goals to the pool house. The smell of chlorine got stronger as she drew closer. There was no key to this room. It was a big pool, but Jessie could have walked from one end to the other with ease. Not because it was a steady shallow depth, but because it was empty. Drained. Jessie called the forensic team. And the reaping began again.

‘Mark, thanks for coming to see me in this Godawful place.’

‘It’s all right, guv. I’ve been wanting a word with you anyway. That Jessie Driver, she gets –’ Jones put his hand up. ‘She’s running the department like a despot, circumnavigating the press office, she’s –’

‘A different sort of detective to you and me, Mark, that’s all, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t, in her own way, as good. I need you in charge in my absence, not whipping up a battleground. I’ve got something important for you to do.’

‘Police a pensioners’ march?’

‘Mark, come on, I’m too ill for your shit. You are a good man, don’t make me have to convince her of that.’

Ward shook his head. This pep talk touched the surface of years of booze, boys’ club, marital break-ups, bodies. He’d given the Force too much to be passed over for a girl half his age with none of his experience. ‘Whatever.’

‘Please?’

‘What was this important case?’

Jones passed over the file. ‘Find Frank Mills. Use whatever means, do whatever you have to, but find him.’

‘Thought you put Miss Open University on the job.’

‘It was a mistake.’

Mark opened the file. ‘Well, well, well, your old friend Raymond Giles.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I remember him going down.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And coming out.’

‘Exactly.’

‘He shot this boy’s dad, and the boy disappears?’

‘Exactly.’

‘He’d be how old by now …?’

‘Exactly.’ Jones closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mark Ward had gone. He’d slept for four hours.

Jessie let herself into the flat, put her helmet on the wooden floor and walked through to the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine open on the table and singing coming from the bathroom. Jessie poured herself a glass and walked to the bathroom, with her foot she eased the door open. Maggie was lying in bubbles up to her ears, smoking a fag, singing to Heart FM and sipping from a half-empty wine glass.

She stopped singing and looked at Jessie. ‘Hey, Morse.’

‘Hey, Anthea.’

‘Ouch. You’re late.’

Jessie put the seat down and sat on the loo. ‘Yup.’

‘Boy or body?’

‘Latter, sadly.’

‘Anything you can tell me about?’

The sigh was uncontrolled and came from deep inside her. Jessie shook her head.

‘Then can I rant?’ said Maggie.

Jessie took a slug of wine. ‘Rant away.’

‘Firstly, I want to kill everybody.’

‘Okay, but it’ll take some doing,’ said Jessie, smiling.

‘I have had it up to –’ she had no free hand, so kicked a leg out of the bath and promptly slipped – ‘here!’ Maggie was gurgling.

Jessie wondered if Maggie was already on her second bottle of wine. ‘What’s happened?’

‘You know that job I was up for – the Istanbul thing?’

Jessie crossed the proverbial fingers and waited.

‘The fucking Titled Tart got it. I am inconsolable. I am mad with rage.’

‘Who?’

‘That awful blonde, skinny posh bird who writes, ha, ha, for the
Mail on Sunday
. Lady Cosima Broome. She was at school with my sister, you know. Thick as pigshit. Just because she’s a size eight and her father owns most of Oxfordshire, she gets my job. Honestly, Jessie, I want to kill her. I hate them all. But I particularly hate her. I’m good at my job, despite what that bastard Cadell wrote.’

Jessie opened her mouth to respond. But she wasn’t quick enough.

‘We live in a mad, celebrity-obsessed, media-run, PR-polluted world. I went to college to learn how to present, produce and write pieces to camera. And I was fucking good, too. We went to
Trinity, Jessie. Trinity! Doesn’t that count for anything? Just when I think I have a chance of a boost, some fucking pseudo-celeb comes and pinches my spot. Jessie, I’m telling you they
all
do holidays. Some soap star has a new single out and the bright sparks at the PR company send them our way – and the precious little mite ain’t going to do Skegness. Journalists, It-girls, models, singers, actors, actresses, ex-
Blue Peter
presenters, anyone who wants a little career lift, comes calling. You know when they are going down for the count of ten when our producers pass on them and they end up on
Ready Steady Cook
. Jesus, it’s depressing. Why can’t journalists stay journalists, why do they suddenly want to be novelists, food critics and presenters? What’s with all this multi-tasking bollocks? I trained hard to be a presenter, what the fuck do they know? I mean, please, the Titled Tart? It is so insulting!’

‘Feeling better?’ said Jessie.

‘I need a celebrity shag.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘I know what I should do. Go on a miracle diet, pose naked for
FHM
, get engaged to Robbie Williams for five minutes and discover my father is really Jeffrey Archer. That should give me enough print to get on
The Big Breakfast
. Oh, and did I mention sleep with the producer?’

‘Several times.’ Jessie poured more wine into her flatmate’s glass. ‘But luckily you have more self-respect than all those dolly birds put together.
You’re good at your job, Maggie. I wouldn’t say so if you weren’t. You just have to persevere.’

Maggie gave Jessie an impenetrable look then sank lower in the bubbles.

Jessie thought about Verity Shore and her picture-perfect life. The camera lied. ‘Do you really care? Do you really want it that much?’

‘Yes. And so do you, otherwise you wouldn’t put up with the shit those boys in blue send your way. Ambition is what ambition is. Don’t kid yourself that you haven’t got it in body-bags.’

The door to Jessie’s bedroom creaked open. Maggie was pink from too hot a bath and too generous a drink.

‘Hey, Rebus,’ she said.

‘Hey, Fergie,’ said Jessie, looking up from the pages of
Hello!
.

‘Oh, that’s harsh.’

‘You deserve it.’

‘Sorry. I really should stop venting my anger on you, shouldn’t I?’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

Maggie threw herself on to Jessie’s super-king-size bed. ‘You love me really. Listen, Bill called earlier, wants to know whether you’ve got any time off. He’s in Egypt, right?’ Jessie nodded. Her brother moved around the world with Médecins Sans Frontières; he was a picture-book hero in her mind, one that made Indiana Jones look old and tired. ‘I think he has some plan to take a canoe
down the Nile. I said that’s exactly the sort of relaxing holiday you’d like after examining dead bodies. Perhaps I should pitch the idea of following him with a camera,’ said Maggie. Jessie shook her head.

‘Everyone wants to be on TV, even if they don’t admit it.’

‘Not Bill,’ said Jessie proudly. ‘He’d hate it.’

Maggie pouted. ‘Even if it was me …?’

Jessie smiled but said nothing. Bill found Maggie too pushy for his liking. Her lack of subtlety grated, and she always flirted with him. Jessie told Bill not to take it personally, Maggie flirted with everyone. She missed him when he was away.

Maggie picked up the magazines fanned out around Jessie. ‘You little closet!’

‘Research,’ said Jessie.

‘Like fuck it is. These are old, I’ve got the latest issues in my room.’

Jessie lowered the magazine. ‘It’s amazing you don’t swear on air.’

‘I’m a pro, honey. So what are you looking at?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh my God, you’re on the Verity Shore case! Jessie, that is brilliant! Why didn’t you tell me? Stupid question, I know, you can’t tell me anything. Does that mean you get to meet – oh my God, P. J. Dean! He is so sexy. He must be in one of these somewhere.’

Jessie pulled the magazine away.

‘Okay, I get the message. Just tell me one thing – is he as sexy in real life?’

Jessie smiled.

‘I knew it. Right, I’m going to some film party, you want to come? You don’t even have to change out of your fatigues, the lipstick lesbian look is in at the moment. Very
Matrix
.’

‘I can’t. But thanks for the compliment.’

‘Well, if you change your mind, here’s a spare invite. You can spy on the celebrities.’

Jessie stared at the picture of Verity Shore and her second husband. They were in a pool. The same pool that experts had been crawling all over that afternoon, looking for Verity’s remains. ‘I’ve got to work.’

Maggie leant over and gave Jessie a kiss. ‘Suit yourself.’

Jessie’s mobile phone rang. Maggie grabbed it.

‘No, Maggie!’

‘Please, let me say it, just once.’

‘No.’ Jessie took the phone. ‘Detective Inspector Driver.’

‘Hi. It’s P.J.’

She pointed to the door and Maggie retreated grudgingly. Jessie swallowed. ‘Where the hell are you? I’ve been dragged over hot coals for letting you out of my sight. You said you’d phone me straight back.’

‘Sorry. Had to get the kids away. Took a bit of time.’

‘You are still in London, aren’t you?’

‘I take it that it was Verity.’

‘Yes. I’m very sorry, Mr Dean. I wish you’d phoned me back sooner.’

‘It’s P.J., for fuck’s sake.’ There was a long pause. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘I’d rather not tell you over the phone.’

‘Are you still worried about being listened to?’

‘Actually, I’m more worried about you, your family, and what I have to tell you.’

She heard a long sigh down the phone.

‘It wasn’t an accident then?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Can you meet me now?’

Jessie glanced at her watch. It was nine o’clock. ‘Yes. Where?’

‘The middle of Hammersmith Bridge in half an hour. I’ll be on foot,’ he said.

It wasn’t until she saw the swirling mass of the Thames under the sickly orange haze that the location struck Jessie as odd.