Dead Alone (11 page)

‘Must be fun working for P. J. Dean. Like living in the pages of
Hello!
’

‘I don’t read
Hello!
,’ she said bluntly.

‘How long have you worked for P.J.?’

‘Twelve years.’

‘Before he married Verity?’

‘Yes.’

She reminded Jessie of Clare again. Guarded. Monosyllabic. ‘Did you like her, your boss?’

Bernie eye’s locked on Jessie for a brief moment, then slid sideways to their resting place over Jessie’s shoulder. ‘I tried to. But I failed.’

‘But you like P.J.?’

She grew with the long inhalation, then shrank again. ‘Yes.’

‘How did you get the job?’ asked Jessie.

‘He offered it to me.’

‘Where were you on Friday?’

Her back stiffened. ‘I did the weekend shop in the morning at Waitrose on the High Street, collected some cleaning, then came home and made some lunch for P.J. and three or four others in the
studio. Picked up the boys; P.J. came and did homework with Paul, then they all watched
Aladdin
while I made supper. We usually eat early in the kitchen with the boys.’

‘Sounds like domestic bliss.’

Bernie said nothing.

‘Does Craig eat with you too?’

‘Yes.’

‘On Friday?’

She looked to the door. The way out. Exit. Escape. It was a subconscious gesture. A tell. And Jessie had seen it.

‘No.’

‘No? Where was he?’

‘After-school club. He’s training to be a mechanic, spends his life in the garage.’ The fondness for her son was evident. ‘He’s usually back by ten.’

‘Usually?’

‘He had a puncture.’

‘Is that so?’

The weekend had continued in much the same vein. Bernie looking after P.J. and the boys, Craig largely absent, and Verity wholly absent. Bernie got up to leave.

‘Does Craig see his father?’

She stared at the door again. Took a deep breath. ‘No.’

‘One more thing, Bernie. Why did you lock Verity in her room?’

Bernie stood stock-still. There was that minefield
again. One wrong step. Boom! It’s all over.

‘Acting on the boss’s orders, were you?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Really?’ said Jessie. ‘What was it like?’

‘She was sick, we tried to take care of her.’

‘So you both keep saying. Okay, that will be all. For the moment.’

The door closed behind her. She didn’t hear footsteps for a while, but when she did they were firm and purposeful. From the noise erupting in the kitchen, the boys were glad to have her back. All three of them.

‘She is lying,’ said Niaz firmly, surprising Jessie. He’d been taking notes so quietly even she had forgotten he was there.

‘I don’t know about lying, but she is nervous about something. What about P.J.?’ she asked.

‘Simple. He wants you to like him,’ said Niaz.

‘I think Mr Dean wants everyone to like him,’ said Jessie, slightly unnerved by Niaz’s comment.

‘That is what I expected you to say, ma’am.’ He smiled in that enigmatic way that made him look as though he held all the secrets of the world under his thick head of hair. The door swung open, and Jessie turned away from Niaz. An anxious-looking P.J. carried in a tray, followed by an equally anxious-looking Paul. Jam tarts. How very surreal, she thought, looking at P.J. He smiled at her. Back on the charm offensive.

‘I hope you like them,’ said Paul.

‘They look fantastic,’ she said, examining the
plate, then Paul. He was a beautiful child, all private thought and earnest word.

‘Paul is a monster cook. You should taste his cheese on toast. We’ll have to get you round for a Paul special.’ P.J. had a habit of making her want to forget her reason for being there, sink into the sofa with tea and tarts and play Trivial Pursuit with the family. She had to bring back the image of those bleached bones lying on a stainless steel tray and remember that only a week ago this boy’s mother had been living and breathing. She may not have been happy, but she was alive.

These poor fucking kids, thought Jessie. The seven-year-old watched solemnly as she picked up the sticky concoction. She couldn’t, wouldn’t play this game.

‘I’d like to talk to Craig now,’ she said, still holding the jam tart.

P.J. pulled back again. ‘Right. I’ll go and get him,’ said P.J. Paul looked torn, Jessie felt terrible. None of this was his fault. She bit enthusiastically into the tart and chewed.

‘Wow,’ she said, ‘these are really good.’

‘Bernie helped,’ said Paul. ‘But I did the rolling-pin bit.’ He smiled, looked up at P.J., took his hand and followed him out. It left her feeling slightly odd. Such mixed feelings made for poor detection.

‘Little Paul has the bone structure of his mother. Strong genes,’ said Niaz.

‘Stronger hopefully,’ said Jessie. ‘Niaz, could
you leave us, please. I’d like to do this next interview alone.’

Craig was thin like his mother, but tall, almost as tall as P.J. He had sandy blond hair that lay flat against his forehead, covering the remnants of poor pubescent skin. His large, pale brown eyes darted between her and the floor. He’d been crying. His thick, dark eyelashes stuck together in mini triangles. His upper eyelids were swollen and pink. She could see salty tear-tracks on his cheeks. He was the first person she’d seen who was mourning the death of Verity Shore. Perhaps anywhere.

‘Craig, I need to ask you some questions, so we can find out what happened to Verity. These things are never easy. Take as much time as you like, don’t worry about being brave. Not everyone can be brave all the time.’

He nodded his understanding.

‘You ready?’

He nodded again.

‘When did you last see Verity?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Where?’

‘She was getting ready to go out.’

‘You were in her room?’

‘Mum was with the boys. Ty – he’s the youngest – had fallen over.’

‘Did you often help with Verity?’

‘She wasn’t like normal people, she needed a lot of looking after.’

‘What was wrong with her, Craig?’

Craig thought about this for a while. ‘She was … sad.’

Jessie noticed the tears rise in his eyes.

‘She had the boys, though,’ said Jessie.

‘Mum was always with them. All because of one silly accident.’

‘What accident, Craig?’

‘It wasn’t her fault.’

‘Your mum’s?’

‘Nooo,’ he wailed, frustrated. ‘It wasn’t Verity’s fault. She didn’t realise they were playing in the shed, that’s all. She didn’t realise. After that, they wouldn’t let the boys near her unless someone was there. It made her sad. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘She had you.’

He couldn’t reply. Or didn’t want to.

‘Are you going to miss her?’

A thick tear dropped over his lower lid. He didn’t wipe it away.

‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’

‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

His chin dimpled. He shook his head. ‘No.’ The tears kept coming, he still didn’t wipe them away.

‘Did she love you?’

‘Some …’ His breathing became more ragged. ‘Sometimes.’

‘When you climbed into her room?’

His head jolted like a charge of electricity had been shot through him. He looked terrified.

‘It’s okay, Craig. I’m not going to tell anyone. This is between you and me.’

He bit down on his lip and nodded.

‘And what about the pool house? Did you meet there, too?’

He was visibly trembling.

‘It’s okay, Craig, no one else knows. And as long as you want it that way, it will stay that way. But I think you should tell them how you feel. This is too much for you to carry alone.’

He stared at Jessie blankly.

‘When didn’t Verity love you?’

He sniffed loudly. ‘When she wasn’t herself.’

Jessie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘When P.J. and Bernie gave her pills, is that when?’

He looked at her again, wide-eyed.

‘I know about the pills, Craig. We found the hiding place. Do you know what they were?’

‘Sleeping pills, to make her ill and drowsy and sick.’

‘Is that what Verity told you?’

The boy nodded. ‘If they’d just left her alone, she’d have been fine.’

Jessie shook her head. ‘No, Craig, she was ill. The pills your mother and P.J. gave her were to wean her off her addictions. That’s why she was sick, because she was still drinking.’

Craig nodded. A trickle of comprehension making its way through the guilt, pity and sorrow.

‘Then she found a way of not taking them, didn’t she?’

Craig nodded again.

‘Why did she hide them? Why didn’t she flush them down the loo or throw them away?’

His eyes darted towards the door.

‘They checked?’ she said quietly.

He nodded.

‘Even the loo?’

‘They listened,’ he whispered. ‘She had to get away from them. That’s why she disappeared. I didn’t want her to, I worried about her when she left the house. I tried to stop her, but she said it was like living in a prison. She needed help.’

‘You helped her, didn’t you?’

‘Yeesss,’ he sobbed.

‘It’s okay, Craig. You were just helping your friend.’

‘I had toooo.’ He continued rocking. ‘No one else wooould. I had to, she neeeeeeded me.’

‘You brought things to her room at night, didn’t you?’

‘Yeeeessss.’

‘Vodka?’

‘Yeeeessss.’

‘Where did she go, Craig? When she left you on your own, where did she go?’

‘Baaarrrrrrrrnes …’ It was a long, low-pitched howl. ‘It was horrible …’

Bernie opened the door. Craig didn’t look up. Jessie signalled to the WPC to keep Bernie where she was.

‘A house in Barnes?’

He nodded.

‘What’s the address, Craig?’

‘P.J.!’ shouted Bernie.

‘I don’t knoooow.’ He wailed. Sobbing into his hands.

‘Think.’

‘I can’t.’

‘He says he doesn’t know.’ It was Bernie. Craig looked at her. ‘He is a minor. You’re upsetting him. P.J.!’

‘Craig, this is important. Where is the house?’

P.J. tried to get past the WPC. ‘What house? What fucking house?’ P.J. heard a noise behind him, he turned. ‘Upstairs, boys. Now.’ He looked back at Craig, who was beginning to rock backwards and forwards, and then over to Jessie. ‘What the hell is going on, Inspector?’

Jessie ignored him. She leant closer to Craig. ‘Please tell me where the house is,’ she said softly.

‘He doesn’t know,’ shouted Bernie.

‘What house? I want you all to leave. You’re upsetting Craig.’

Jessie turned abruptly. ‘No.
You’ve
been upsetting Craig. You kept Verity a prisoner in that house. Who did you think she was going to ask for help? Her sons? You didn’t let her near her sons!’ She took Craig’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Craig, you have done
nothing
wrong. Just tell me where she went. It’s important.’

‘Leave. Now!’ shouted P.J.

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ said Bernie angrily.

Jessie walked towards Bernie and P.J. ‘What, like you don’t know anything? Because I tell you, I’ve had enough of your little charade.’

‘Get off me,’ Bernie screamed at the WPC.

‘How dare you talk to Bernie like that!’

‘Something has been going on behind that security gate of yours and I want to know what.’

‘
SHUT UP
!
ALL OF YOU
! You don’t care, none of you care. She’s dead. Dead. Dead!’

Jessie went to him. ‘I’m sorry, Craig. It’s okay to be upset.’

He sobbed for a while, then turned to her. ‘I don’t know the address,’ he said. She believed him. ‘But I can show you.’

‘No!’ shouted Bernie. But it was too late to silence her son.

Ray felt the stage lights burn above him, and he basked in the heat. All eyes were on him. Hanging off his every word. Smiling at the swooping camera. The easily pleased eager to please. Ray turned back to Danny Knight, his pate was shining in the spotlight, his eyes were gleaming. The arsehole had been waiting for this moment all his life. At last he was in the limelight. However his fifteen minutes were up.

‘You have described a living nightmare. Looking after Verity must have been hell,’ said Ray. Danny
was nodding enthusiastically. ‘I suppose we have to ask you why you stayed? If Verity Shore was as dreadful as you say, why put up with it?’

The audience shouted ‘yeah’ and ‘you tell him’. No one liked a sneak, even if they loved the tales they were telling.

‘The perks were good,’ said Danny. ‘And they paid a high price for …’ he paused, the caked-on smile cracked.

‘Your discretion?’ asked Ray softly.

‘Um.’

‘Loyalty?’

Ray could feel the collective mood swing away from the bald man. They were his. And only his.

‘It seems to me that while Verity Shore may have been a pitiful character, while she may not have stood up to any close inspection, while she may have been injecting and smoking anything she could lay her hands on, she was also being ruthlessly exploited herself – and not only by those in her employment. Do you think that is true?’ Ray knelt down by the magazine editor. The one who had used Verity’s image on three hundred and seventy-two separate occasions.

‘No. She knew what she was doing.’

‘She obviously didn’t. Everyone has done stupid things when under the influence.’

‘She wasn’t inebriated during all those photo shoots. She didn’t have to take her clothes off, no one made her. She chose to.’

‘What do you think of her now, personally?’

‘Sorry for her, I suppose. She was a mess, wasn’t she?’

‘But you used her as a role model for the readers, the very young readers, of your magazine. Aren’t you, too, guilty of exploitation?’

‘As I said, we were not aware of the drinking and drugs when we used her. She was a perfect role model: she’d had a dream of being rich and famous, and her dream came true. We had no reason not to believe what her press people were telling us.’

‘Are you sure about that? I have statements from several freelance photographers claiming she was always half-cut on photo shoots, that everyone knew to supply miniature vodka bottles whenever Ms Shore was being photographed.’

The woman blustered. ‘I’d never heard that.’

‘You are in charge of the magazine
Gimme Girl
, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I can’t be at all the shoots.’

‘Sure, but I knew about it, and I wasn’t there.’

The editor had the good sense to say nothing, there was nothing she could say. Ray looked at the camera. ‘It seems that everyone has taken their slice of Verity Shore. You could almost,
almost
, feel sorry for her. Then again …’ Images of the Caribbean photo shoots, the shopping sprees, the backless glittering designer dresses appeared on the screen. ‘Maybe not.’ The audience cheered. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all we have time for. Thanks to the audience, thank you to our guests – Danny
Knight;
Sun
gossip columnist Raffi; ex-wild child Amanda; James, paparazzi photographer; and, lastly, the editor of
Gimme Girl
magazine, Tiggy Bleeker. I’d like to leave you with images of the last photo shoot Verity Shore did for
OK
: “At home with Verity”.’ Each shot was such an obvious product placement that the audience started calling out the brand names as the images changed.

‘Playstation!’

‘Gucci!’

‘Fisher-Price!’

The clapping rose in a crescendo.

From the control room Tarek watched the three sign men jab their placards at the audience.
PLAYSTATION
.
GUCCI
.
FISHER-PRICE
. They flipped the boards over, dramatically, in unison:
APPLAUSE
.
APPLAUSE
.
APPLAUSE
. The audience obeyed enthusiastically. They stopped chanting and started clapping. St Giles waved and smiled. The megalomaniac freak had signed his own death warrant with that little performance. Finally he’d been outdone by his own ambition. He’d be lucky if he got digital after this, no one was going to touch him with a bargepole. He would disappear to the sound of complaints. Tarek said a silent prayer of thanks, then glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Alistair was standing silently with his back to the wall with a strange, sly smile on his face.

Ray came bounding into the office. ‘Watch the
master at work, Tarekey boy, watch and learn.’ He lit a fag and inhaled deeply, then removed the gold cross he habitually wore under his brightly coloured button-down and kissed it. ‘We fucking did it! This is it, I can feel it. What did it look like from the edit suite?’

‘Perfect,’ said Alistair.

‘Tarek?’

That amused Tarek. Ray always wanted his judgement on the show. Alistair’s didn’t seem to count for much.

‘They’ll never air it,’ said Tarek. ‘Never.’

Ray grinned at him. ‘Course they won’t – if they know. But we aren’t going to tell them. Are we?’

‘What are you going to show them then? What are you going to say you recorded?’

‘Don’t you worry your little turban about that. Oh, don’t look at me that way. Think like a Portakabin, you’ll stay in a Portakabin. I’m coming up in the world. You want to stick with me son, or I might not take you with me to the big fat world of Four. Right, where’s that make-up girl? By the way, Tarek, everyone else is on for this. Everyone. Aren’t they, Alistair?’ Alistair nodded. ‘All paid-up members. Anyone blabs, and I’ll know it was you, Tarek. Now, I like you, we’ve come quite far together and I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you. So keep your head down, and stay safe.’ Ray grinned maniacally. ‘This is it. What a bit of luck that bint turned up on the bank of the Thames, eh, Alistair?’

Alistair grunted his agreement.

‘I’ve always said it: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ Ray patted Alistair’s shoulder. ‘Eh, Alistair?’

This time Alistair didn’t respond.