Beautiful Death (8 page)

Jack nodded guiltily. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Scotland. A spot of fishing, spot of hiking, and a lot of eating, drinking and sleeping.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, believe it or not, I have women in my life too, except they’re really everyday — you know, almost boring.’ Jack knew his friend was going to say more but stopped himself, probably out of respect for Lily. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. It was unfair to put pressure on Geoff to protect him.

Geoff sighed loudly. ‘No, I’m sorry, Hawk. I feel gutted for you. Listen, one more condition to my “collusion” in this.’

‘Go on.’

‘I want you to see one of the counsellors.’

‘No bloody way.’

‘That’s not negotiable, Jack. I said condition, not suggestion. I don’t mean one of the usual ones. That’s too close for comfort. There’s a couple of clinical supervisors we bring in from time to time — one bloke, one woman. I haven’t met either of them — but I hear they’re both tops, both in private practice but consult to the Met as needed. Choose one, make an appointment and let me know when that appointment is before I go on leave on Friday. I will diarise it and you will keep that appointment. And when the DCI Deegans of the world come hunting for you, we’ll be able to show that we followed all the right protocols. Now be a good boy, Jack, and do as I say or the deal is off.’

‘I’ll do it today.’

‘Thank you. And Jack?’

‘Yes?’ he said, standing up.

‘Pay attention to the psychiatrist. It’s important. You need help — even if you don’t think so right now. I’ve known you too long and this is going to knock you around. Promise me you’ll not just pay lip service. Talk it through with the professional — it may assist you to get through this sanely.’

‘I promise I will.’

‘Good.’ Geoff stood as well. ‘In the meantime, whichever one you choose will send a report back to me on what style of therapy might best suit you and then the Met can allocate you the appropriate counsellor.’ He ignored Jack’s sigh. ‘Listen, it will be an initial clinical assessment, that’s all.’ He smiled. ‘And if you turn out to be a head case that needs sectioning, I’ll sign the papers for you.’

Jack smiled sadly back at his friend.

‘Watch your back, Jack. Deegan hasn’t finished with you. He’d love nothing better than hanging you out to dry.’

‘He can’t on this, right?’

Geoff shrugged. ‘You’re right that you’ve followed protocol and DPS could have no gripe other than it’s unwise to continue with the case, but so long as you don’t step outside the law, Jack, you can probably follow this through. Just don’t give them an excuse to nail your arse to the floor. What about Sharpe? You need to tell him.’

‘Do I?’

Geoff nodded, then looked up at the ceiling as though thinking it through. ‘Okay, not immediately — but you need to tell him. It’s not right that he doesn’t know and if he should find out you’re going to lose a very fine weapon in your arsenal.’

‘How long?’

‘Ten days max,’ Geoff answered without pause. ‘As it is I don’t know what excuse you can give him for waiting that long, other than the truth.’

‘Right. Thanks, Bear.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Geoff said, giving a brief ironic grin. ‘I’m sorry for you, Jack.’

‘I know.’

They walked out of the pub, calling thanks to the barmaid.

‘I’ll walk you to the tube,’ Geoff said.

‘No need. You get back.’

‘Right, call me — I want to know what’s happening — but mainly because I absolutely despise hiking and your phone call might save me from it. Just my luck to date a bloody health freak.’

It was Jack’s turn to offer help. ‘Text me when you want the call.’

Geoff gave him a fierce hug. ‘Take it easy, Jack. If it all gets too much, pull out, okay?’

Jack shook his head and turned to leave, then paused: ‘There’s a sicko out there cutting faces off people. I won’t stop — can’t stop now — not until I’ve got him behind bars.’ He lifted a hand in farewell before striding off down Earls Court Road, losing himself among the crowd thronging the main street of ‘Little Oz’.

7.

He admired his handiwork again in the polaroids. It was a real shame about Lily — she was a truly lovely woman — but ever since he’d been shocked to learn about the other man in her life he’d known something had to be done. Funnily enough, the affair he could forgive because she was still a single woman and his ordered mind permitted her to act accordingly. No, it was not the fact that she was sleeping with someone else, it was her choice of sleeping partner. A senior policeman! He couldn’t allow that to continue and he suspected, despite wedding bells, that Lily was not ready to let go of her handsome officer of the law, who had the potential to wreck his dream. And he was too close now to that dream . . . much too close. So when the enquiry came through that so suited Lily, the decision was not so much easy as inevitable; and the money pure cream on the top.

He looked again at the photo of the woman. Damn near perfect! He was a god amongst demigods. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the familiar
stirrings of desire. It was always like this. Arousal was easy when he was in control, when he was showcasing his wizardry. He was a magician, though no one but a select few yet understood his brilliance and how his particular form of magic was about to unleash itself on the world to slay the pretenders, who could only aspire to his feats. He stroked himself, sighing gently with anticipated pleasure, before downing the contents of the crystal Scotch glass. He felt the fire erupt through his gut and fuel the flames of a new fire of lust that now needed to be sated. He carefully put away the photos, then picked up his mobile and dialled a familiar number.

‘Hello,’ answered a smoky, accented voice.

‘It’s me, angel. How free are you?’

She chuckled deeply. ‘How long?’

‘A few hours.’

‘How many?’

‘Two of you, no three. Can you bring the boy?’

She laughed again. ‘What time?’

‘Now. I’m ready now.’

He heard her whisper something before she came back on the line. ‘So are we. Are you picking us up?’

‘I’ll send a taxi. Don’t dawdle. Come in the back way.’ He rang off, dialled another number and ordered a taxi, giving the despatcher the pick-up and delivery addresses. He poured himself another Scotch, settled into the sofa and turned on the television to distract himself from his suddenly demanding erection. He flicked through various channels until a familiar face beamed out her thousand-watt smile at him.

‘Ah, Stoney, there you are,’ he murmured, wondering whether she had a few more teeth than necessary in that huge mouth of hers.

‘Welcome everyone,’ she said, ‘today we’re
coming to you from Bluewater in Dartford, Kent, which is the second biggest shopping centre in Britain as far as retailing goes. And it’s one of the largest supercentres in Europe with something in the order of 330 outlets.’

He felt she was shouting, but then Stoney always sounded over-excited. Was he the only one who minded?

‘I’m standing in the Upper Gallery, the Rose Garden, and it’s
very
impressive. What’s even more impressive is that today it’s a busy Friday with the shops already filling up and I suspect someone in one of those shops would like to
Turn Back the Clock
! What do you think?’ She grinned into the camera. ‘Shall we go and find them?’

‘Them?’ he repeated with disgust. ‘You’re an illiterate idiot as well, Stoney.’

‘Come on, let’s find him or her,’ she continued, as though she had heard him. She beckoned to the camera and the familiar theme of the program sounded and the show cut to an ad break.

There were four ads before Stoney was back, the smile even wider if that was possible. She looked pretty hot in her jeans, high boots, white shirt and pale pink hoodie. Her tan, flawless make-up and perfectly styled, highlighted golden hair all helped. Next to her stood a woman, no doubt deliberately chosen to appear appropriately troll-like, he decided, especially when standing next to the glamorous Samantha ‘Stoney’ Stone.

‘I have here with me Jenny Rawlins. Jenny’s a single mother of four, she’s a nurse and she’s absolutely desperate to
Turn Back the Clock
.’ Each time she said those four words — the title of the show — she accentuated them.

He sneered. ‘Well, she would look 106 with that brood . . . but nothing that we couldn’t fix. What a set-up!’ he told the TV over Stoney’s voice.

And yet she burbled on. ‘Forgive my bluntness but may I ask how old you are?’

‘I’m forty-eight next birthday, which is in about three weeks,’ Jenny admitted.

‘I see. And how old do you feel, Jenny?’ Stoney continued, even more bluntly, he felt.

‘About sixty,’ she replied and laughed at her own joke; her kids joined in the merriment although one teenage boy looked embarrassed. The fact was his mum did look sixty, he probably thought.

‘Fair enough,’ Stoney said, mugging at the camera with mock horror. ‘How old do you think others reckon you look?’

Jenny shrugged. This was a tough question, the man decided. ‘You’re damned either way,’ he cautioned the mother of four.

She played it safe. ‘Oh, well, I probably look every one of my years but I reckon if I had a bit more time for myself . . . you know, to take better care of myself, then I could look better for my age.’

‘A diplomatic answer,’ he said to Jenny.

‘What with four kids, and I’m a single mum, my mortgage, working shifts . . . I’ve no time to do much for myself,’ she continued.

He put his head to one side and pulled a face that feigned sympathy. ‘You’re bleating now, Jen; at least before you were trying to be honest.’ He waved a finger at her as he sipped the Scotch. Her skin was dull, her complexion discoloured by age spots and probably too much cheap holiday sun in earlier years on the beach at Majorca. ‘And I think you smoke, don’t you, Jenny?’ he asked, making a soft tut-tutting
noise. ‘And you had quite bad acne as a teenager, I suspect.’

‘Well, come on,’ Stoney said, oozing energy and enthusiasm, dressed like a teen, looking about twenty-five but probably edging into her late thirties. ‘Why don’t we go and find out what age people really think you look.’

Jenny looked suddenly coy. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

As if she hadn’t responded, Stoney talked over her. ‘And then we’ll
Turn Back The Clock
for you with the help of our expert team. I promise you kids,’ she said, trying to involve them all of a sudden, ‘you won’t know your mum! What do you think, Melissa?’

Melissa, who looked to be the eldest, shrugged. ‘I like her like she is. She’s Mum.’

That obviously wasn’t the answer Stoney wanted from the teenage girl. ‘I think your mum desperately wants to
Turn Back the Clock
,’ she said, leering again at the camera, making sure no one missed how clever she was to be able to keep repeating the program’s title, ‘and we can help her. Come on!’

Another ad break began and he drained his glass, checked his watch. They’d be at least another fifteen to twenty minutes, he imagined, even if the taxi had arrived straight away to pick them up.

Stoney was back, dragging her newest, bestest friend into shops and through the covered mall, leaping at unsuspecting shoppers and thrusting a microphone into their faces.

‘Tell me, sir, how old do you think this woman looks?’

‘Er, fifty-five or so?’ He didn’t know whether to smile or look embarrassed.

‘Thank you, sir. We’re just getting an opinion, thank you. Madam . . . madam, sorry to interrupt
your shopping but can you give us just a moment and tell us how old you think Jenny here is?’

‘How old, you say?’

‘Yes. What age does she strike you as being?’

The woman took a moment. ‘Well, obviously I’m no mind reader but I reckon she’s in her mid fifties.’

‘Thank you,’ Stoney said, a smile pasted on her face permanently. She gave Jenny a sympathetic glance and they moved on.

One hundred answers were sought, although mercifully not all were shown . . . only the vaguely amusing ones, such as when a youngster thought Jenny was ‘A hundred and fifty three,’ which won a shriek from both women, and an old man said that he didn’t care how old she was, he’d give her one.

After one more ad break, Stoney was back and commiserating with Jenny. ‘Okay, my love,’ she said, condescendingly, ‘we’ve averaged out the answers we got from one hundred people and the age they’ve put on you is . . . are you ready for this?’ Jenny nodded bleakly. ‘Fifty-seven.’

Jenny looked ready to weep.

‘That’s a decade older than you are.’ Stoney explained the obvious to Jenny. Clearly she believed the poor woman to be feeble-minded or unable to count.

‘You’re a bitch,’ the man grumbled.

‘But now, Jenny, don’t panic, because we’re going to
Turn Back the Clock
!’ Stoney yelped. So did he, but in a louder voice, and with a mocking tone. ‘And I reckon you’re going to be thrilled as you shed some of those years you feel have been added to you unfairly. Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Jenny replied.

‘Follow me, boys,’ Stoney said to the camera.

‘We’re off to a clinic. It’s where something magical will occur and soon you’re going to see Jenny looking a lot younger than she looks today. Don’t go away . . . we’ll be right back!’

He drained his third Scotch, rechecked the time and began thinking about what he would do with his playmates. It was the middle of the afternoon but he was horny at any time of the day, not that he could ever admit that given his position and standing and — now he sighed — his marriage plans. His girlfriend’s family was very wealthy, and traditional, meaning there could never be much bedroom action before marriage. But he had not planned to marry her for hot sex — he could get that any time he pleased from Claudia and her friends. No, he’d planned to marry because it would look good in the society pages. To maintain his reputation he needed a perfect wife, perfect family. He hadn’t been born here but he felt British, even though everyone still considered him foreign. His looks, his accent — they were not British, no matter how hard he tried to fit in.

He placed the empty Scotch glass on the table in front of him and gave himself five more minutes. After a commercial for teeth-whitening toothpaste, Stoney returned. This time she was in black jeans tucked into flat boots that came halfway up her calf. Her very slim legs looked great in the ‘spray-painted’ trousers and a tan leather jacket was pulled over a fur-trimmed cardigan that she’d undone just far enough for viewers to be able to peep at the perfect cleft between her breasts.

‘Welcome back, everyone. Remember Jenny? She’s a single mum with four kids, she works shifts, she needs a holiday and more time to take care of
herself.’ A particularly unflattering photo of Jenny appeared onscreen as Samantha Stone spoke. ‘We met Jenny fourteen weeks ago when she looked like this.’ The screen flashed back to the day Jenny had been recruited in the supercentre at Bluewater, although cynical viewers would conclude she’d met up with Stoney and her team a lot earlier.

‘Well, folks, meet Jenny now!’ Stoney made a big ‘ta-da’ gesture with her hands. The view shifted from Stoney’s taut body to a svelte Jenny, resplendent in a floaty long black skirt with heeled boots, and a pale lilac knit top.

The man began clapping, counting off all the procedures he imagined Jenny had undergone to achieve this look. Stoney obliged by echoing them, excitedly explaining everything from laser-brasion to the porcelain veneers used to achieve Jenny’s new, overly bright, all too even smile. Her formerly dull hair had been coloured, cut and blow-dried professionally into a shorter, straighter style that on its own took years off her.

He watched Stoney drag a much leaner Jenny about the shopping centre, subjecting her to the same humiliating question and answer session — but this time with positive results.

‘Thirty-nine, Jenny. Thirty-nine!’ Stoney shrieked into the camera. ‘That’s what the average of one hundred answers put your age at. How do you feel?’

After Jenny had stopped screaming and caught her breath, she replied. ‘Ecstatic. This is unbelievable. It’s a whole new lease on life for me.’

The story became even more sugary when the audience was told that Jenny’s estranged husband had returned to the family home and Jenny’s bed, after more than a year apart.

‘I’m not telling porkies, am I, Jen?’

‘No, no, you’re not,’ she admitted, blushing. ‘David and I are back together. We’re going to give it another go.’

‘What did he say?’

She beamed. ‘He said it was like being with a different woman. And the thing is, Stoney, I
am
different. Not just how I look, but I feel different.’

‘In what way?’

‘I’m more confident, I’ve got more energy, I love going out, love getting dressed, love going shopping,’ she said, looking around her. ‘I’ve changed jobs. I’m not doing shifts any more; I’ve got more time for the kids and to be a good wife.’

Stoney looked deep into the camera and her eyes were misty. He scoffed at her mock sincerity.

‘That’s a beautiful ending to our tale. Now let’s meet the team who created our storybook princess. Just outside Hertford, in a sleepy hamlet, is a wellbeing clinic called Elysium. And . . .’

He saw the back security light switch on before he heard a knock at the door and the sound of a car driving off. Damn. He’d wanted to watch the clinic featured, even though he’d seen it many times previously. He sighed, hit the button on the remote and switched off the plasma.

He let the girls in. They each kissed him briefly.

‘Frosty vodka in the fridge, other delights upstairs. Get hammered!’ They squealed their delight, pulling off coats and hats, gloves and scarves in the kitchen. A dark, wide-eyed boy followed them in. He looked no more than fourteen. The man didn’t care how old he was, although Claudia assured him he was old enough.

‘Hello again.’

The boy nodded, but said nothing as he stood awkwardly at the kitchen bench watching the women grab glasses and pour neat, 100 per cent proof vodka brought from St Petersburg, into glasses.

‘Want one?’ the man asked. The boy shook his head. ‘Okay, how about a Coke?’