Dead Alone (21 page)

Mark Ward walked through the archway that led to the Woolwich Cemetery. The cloudless night had left the ground hard with frost. The death certificate said Gareth Blake’s short life had ended on April 11th, 1979. It was a destitute place. Crumbling under the weight of desertion. A place for the poor and forgotten. Or were they just lost, as Clare had said on that long and fruitless journey to Sunderland? He thought of Clare, walking up and down the pathways, reading every gravestone until she found her parents. Always on the look out for a Frank Mills. Waiting to stumble across his final resting place. He’d been a healthy boy, she’d said.

Gareth Blake had been healthy too. Right up
until his sudden death of pneumonia. It had been bugging him. The child had never previously been ill. In fact, according to the records, he was a perfect child. In care, wasn’t that an oxymoron? No temper tantrums. No need to discipline. No psychiatry records. Almost as if he wasn’t there. Until his sudden death. Mark found the year: 1979. He began to walk slowly along the line of graves: January 2nd, January 29th, February 9th, April 11th. Gareth Blake. RIP. He knelt down and brushed the dead leaves away. They crumbled at his touch. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Could have been Frank, he supposed. Now they’d never know.

The spiked shells of fallen beechnuts cracked beneath their feet as Jessie and P.J. picked their way through the wood.

‘Your brother and sister-in-law are charming,’ said P.J. ‘Do you all come from up here?’

‘No. They moved after they were married. Kate is a sommelier. One of the best in the business. Her father owned wineries, she picked up the trade. Now they sell to private clients and hotels. She’s a bit of a superstar, really.’

‘None of the others married?’

‘God, no. Imagine trying to compete with Kate.’

‘Or you.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, look at you –’

Jessie heard a twig snap to the left of them. She pointed.

‘Hey, boys!’ shouted P.J.

‘Shh, don’t let them know we’re coming. We’ll be ambushed and it’ll all be over in seconds. Here, have this –’ Jessie picked up a boomerang-shaped stick.

‘What for?’

‘It’s your gun, of course. We’re the cowboys.’

‘We are?’

‘A little imagination, please.’

P.J. put himself in a manly stance. Jessie giggled. ‘You look constipated.’

He tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Why, thank you, ma’am.’

‘Don’t you play games with the boys?’

He immediately came out of his sheriff pose. ‘Yeah. Playstation.’

‘What about Craig? Did you play with him when he was younger?’

P.J. looked uncomfortable. ‘Not really.’

‘Well, you’re in for a shock. Here you have to make your own games.’

P.J. put his hands on his hips. ‘You are really quite annoying.’

‘My brothers would agree.’

‘Colin tells me you climb mountains.’

‘It’s a psychological flaw, reaching the same peaks as they can.’

‘Which mountains?’

‘Kilimanjaro.’

‘No?’ said P.J. mockingly.

‘Mont Blanc. On skis.’

‘Now you’re showing off.’

‘The Eiger.’

‘That’s vulgar, Jessie Driver, truly vulgar.’

‘Touché,’ said Jessie.

‘Attack! Attack!’

‘What?’ P.J. whirled round.

‘Oops, I think we’ve been found.’

P.J. and Jessie stood back to back. Four children streaked across the glade chanting Indian war cries. They had put bird feathers in their hair and Ty was wearing an old Hiawatha wig.

‘Throw down your weapons,’ shouted Ellie.

‘What weapons?’ whispered P.J.

‘The gun.’

P.J. dutifully obeyed.

‘Now you are our prisoners, you have to do exactly what we tell you.’

‘What do you want?’

‘We are hungry. You must go to the rich farmer’s house and steal Coca-Cola and flapjacks and chocolate crispies.’

‘I can make those,’ said Paul.

‘Can you?’ asked Charlotte, impressed, lowering her stick.

‘Let’s go and make some now,’ said Ellie.

‘Yeah!’ said Ty and Charlotte.

‘How about a whole picnic to take on the boat?’ said Jessie.

‘An Indian picnic,’ said Charlotte.

‘Yeah!’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ said P.J., crouching down by Paul.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not sad.’

The four of them dropped their weapons and ran howling back to the house. P.J. turned to Jessie. ‘That was a lucky escape.’

‘You have no idea. I’ve been caught by those two before, they can think up unimaginable things for their captives to do.’

She was about to walk away, when P.J. grabbed her arm. She turned back. His hand slid down her forearm and held on to her hand.

‘What?’ she said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice and the panic out of her head.

‘There is something I’d like to do.’

He pulled her nearer. I really must stop this, thought Jessie. He put his arms round her and squeezed her tight. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled into her neck. ‘Thank you for letting me bring the boys here.’

The goose pimples spread like falling dominoes down Jessie’s arms, but she kept them resolutely by her sides.

The kids – cold, wet and happy from a long day of unimaginable freedom – were put in the bath by Kate. P.J. glowed. Jessie kept forgetting why they were there. But then Saturday prime-time television pulled her three hundred miles southward and threw her back in the Thames, the stinking
mud, the fizzing bones. It was Ray St Giles. Jessie closed the door of the den and stared at the television.

‘You know him?’ asked P.J.

Jessie didn’t answer.

Colin examined the television page. ‘
Confessions of a Celebrity
with Ray St Giles. You don’t want to watch this, do you, Jess?’

‘How low will this man sink?’ It was P.J. and he too was staring hard at the picture.

‘They’ve got a girl on. I think she was in a band, went solo and, well, here she is.’ Colin turned up the volume.

‘… I don’t want to be next, do I? I mean, if there is some madman loose. So I thought I’d confess, then I might not be on his list.’

‘On whose list?’ asked St Giles, as if he didn’t know what she was referring to.

‘The Z-list Killer.’

The audience burst into applause. At last a killer who wasn’t going after their daughters, wives, sisters. It was only a matter of time before they started hunting through the pages of
OK
and
Hello!
for the next victim. Whereupon Mr St Giles would undoubtedly be ready with a piece of revealing footage and a best man speech for the victim. Was this the new strain of reality TV?

‘So, you’ve been in the music business for seven years, a successful band member and now with a platinum-selling solo record behind you. What is it you want to confess?’

The camera swung round to zoom in on the singer.

‘She can’t sing,’ said P.J.

Colin and Jessie looked at him.

‘I’m telling you – had her in the studio. Verity could sing better than her, and Verity couldn’t sing at all.’

The girl was still chewing her lip. Afraid.

‘Come on, tell old Ray.’

‘I can’t sing,’ she whispered.

The audience gasped. Genuinely shocked.

‘Stupid fuckers,’ said P.J.

‘Language,’ said Colin, out of habit.

‘Sorry, but surely they knew. There is a reason why these people don’t sing live.’

‘My voice is electronically adjusted by a computer. I am contractually forbidden to sing live. Anywhere. Not even in the bath at home, in case one of the staff hear.’

‘That must be terrible, living a lie.’

‘God he’s a creepy bastard,’ said P.J.

‘Language,’ said Colin.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Jessie.

‘He tried to get Verity and me on his cable show, said he had information. Blackmailing fu—. Sorry.’

‘What happened?’

‘I called his bluff.’

‘And?’

‘And Verity died. Ray St Giles aired the programme but left me out of it. I had the lawyers on to him by then, but he nailed Verity. After everything
I did to keep her out of the press, that little swine goes and blurts it all anyway. And as for that backstabbing, money-grabbing Danny Knight – I could kill him.’ He was staring at the TV. Colin and Jessie exchanged glances.

‘Turn it off,’ said Jessie.

‘Saturday-night prime time. The man is going to be bigger than Noel Edmonds.’

‘How does he have such a hold on people?’ asked Jessie, of no one in particular.

‘He probably has video footage of her actor husband doing nose-up off some blonde’s thigh. They’ve decided to sacrifice her career to save his. Hers was pretty much over, anyway.’

‘Nose-up?’ asked Colin, confused.

‘Cocaine,’ explained Jessie.

‘That’s horrid.’

‘No, that’s life,’ said P.J.

‘Not my life,’ insisted Jessie’s brother.

‘No,’ said P.J. ‘But it’s mine.’

‘What did he have on you, P.J.?’

‘Nothing. It was Verity. She’d been seen in a hotel with some man. I don’t know who, so don’t ask. I didn’t bother to find out.’

But Jessie knew who. Dame Henrietta Cadell’s husband. A woman who, according to her son, liked her reputation just as it was. Not that dissimilar to P. J. Dean.

‘I’d better leave you to it,’ said Colin, retreating.

‘Why did you tell me the affairs were nothing more than rumours?’

‘Most of them were,’ said P.J.

‘I have quite a lot of evidence to the contrary. And you are beginning to look like the jealous husband.’

P.J. laughed spitefully. ‘Jealous? Of Verity? Come on, she was pitiful. The only stupid thing I have done is to try to protect her. Ray St Giles knew everything about her: he knew about Eve, he knew Verity was high, he knew everything that Danny Knight knew. It was an open secret. I should never have bothered.’

‘So it was true – Eve and Verity?’

P.J. nodded his head silently as he watched St Giles prance around the stage. The audience was just beginning to chant his name when P.J. reached for the remote control.

‘St Giles.’

‘St Giles.’

‘St Giles.’

Mark Ward had been sitting outside 7 Elwood Lane for two and a half hours when finally he saw a woman in her mid-fifties walk down the street. From the bulge under her mac, Mark guessed she was carrying money under there. A lot of money it seemed by the way she walked. Fast. With her shoulders raised and her eyes searching the street. He sunk low in his car and waited; he didn’t want to startle her. He had done his research on Irene. She was actually more than the owner of a salon. She was the owner
of several. Quite an empire she’d built up along Commercial Road. She let them all, bar one. The one she began in. The one she went to every day and served the same women she’d been serving for years.

He waited until she’d been in the house for ten minutes, then he rang the bell.

‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Inspector Ward. I’d like to talk to you about Clare Mills.’

‘Badge, please.’ The copper letter-box cover popped open and a bony hand emerged. Mark handed over the wallet.

‘Stand back a bit, so I can get a proper look at you.’

Mark took two steps back and wished everyone was as conscientious as this lady. But then not many people had as much to protect as this lady.

‘What colour is Clare’s kitchen?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Look, anyone can fake ID these days, so answer the question or you’ll be conducting your interview from the pavement.’

‘Yellow.’

‘Job?’

‘Road sweeper.’

‘All right, Detective, you can come in now.’ A chain slid back and the door opened. ‘Serve the local community and make a pot of tea,’ said Irene. ‘I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m knackered.’

Mark walked through to the living room with the tea on a tray. He’d even put some biscuits on a plate. Enlightened self-interest. He was starving.

‘Blimey, I said make tea, not make yourself at home.’

‘I thought you looked like a lady who’d want things done properly.’

‘Well, you thought wrong.’

Mark poured the tea and sat back on a chair opposite her. Irene had her shoes off and her feet stretched out in front of her on the sofa. She had good legs. Even now.

‘What can you tell me about Clare’s parents?’

‘Nothing that you don’t already know. I’m sure Clare has told you everything.’

‘Now I’d like you to tell me the rest. Stuff only friends talk about.’

‘Like?’

‘Like how was her marriage?’

‘Like marriage.’

‘Clare seems to think it was blessed.’

‘That’s her prerogative.’

‘So it wasn’t?’

‘What marriages do you know round here that are blessed?’

‘Why did it take them so long to have Frank?’

‘Look, Detective, why do you want to dig up all this stuff now? They’re dead and buried, and Clare can believe what she wants to believe. Give the girl that, at least.’

‘You are saying there were problems.’

‘I’m saying leave it be.’

‘I think that belief is killing her. She can’t move on.’

‘Better the devil you know.’

‘So you reckon the truth could kill her?’

‘Perhaps. What is truth, except what you perceive it to be?’ Irene rubbed a bunion absently. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not stupid, and good sense tells me that if Clare has come to the conclusion that Frank is dead, well then, it’s for the best. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I know you’re not stupid. Quite a little empire you’ve built up around here.’

‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

‘It means I’ve been doing my research.’

Irene didn’t say anything. Mark shifted in his seat. This was not going to be easy. Irene wasn’t some old pushover. She’d been burying secrets all her life. But he needed answers and only she had them.

‘Clare doesn’t know that you signed her and her brother over to the social services, does she? She doesn’t know that Veronica had given you power of attorney in case of her death.’

Irene didn’t move.

‘Clare maintains that her mother didn’t know what she was doing when she hung herself on the day of Trevor’s funeral. Seems an extraordinary coincidence that she’d signed the relevant papers two days before.’

Irene still did not move.

‘Come on, Irene. What was Veronica so frightened of? What was she hiding?’

‘Where did you get that information?’

‘Never mind what I know, what do
you
know about Frank? I found a grave this morning. Gareth Blake. Born the same day as Frank Mills. That name mean anything to you, Gareth Blake?’

‘No.’ Irene leant forward to put her cup and saucer on the glass-topped coffee table.

‘Ray St Giles?’

China clattered, Irene looked up. She recovered quickly.

‘What do you think? He murdered Trevor. He was a tyrant in these parts until they locked him up. Harassing shopkeepers, preying on young girls, fixing the races –’

‘Young girls like you.’

Irene didn’t say anything.

‘Like Clare’s mum?’

‘Yeah, girls
like
us.’

‘Trevor was out of work for a long time. Must have been tough with no money. Clare showed me the photos you gave her. Looking a million dollars – her words. How was that then, if Trevor wasn’t earning anything?’

‘We worked. In my salon. Well, what became my salon.’

‘Clare told me you started by sweeping up and making tea. Would have been around the time those photos were taken. Veronica had a kid, a husband. You telling me your measly wages paid
for those fur coats and jewellery?’

‘It was all costume.’

‘I don’t believe you. I think you knew Raymond’s mob, went down the clubs, picked up a few perks, drinks, the odd present. Just the way you both looked would have been enough. I should know, I’m from the same era. But your mate Veronica got in deeper, didn’t she? Started sleeping with one of the bad boys. Who was it, Irene?’

Irene wiped her eyes. ‘This is no good. If you know what those times were like, then leave them be. Veronica is nothing but dust, Clare is living, let her be. This would kill her.’

‘So I’m right?’

She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

‘Who was she sleeping with?’

‘I’m tired of all this.’

‘Who was it, Irene?’

She continued to stare into the void of the blank television screen. ‘Tell me, please.’

He heard the electronic pop of the television as it came to life. He glanced at Irene. She had the remote control in her hand, she was staring at the screen.

‘Irene, talk to me.’

The programme was coming to an end. The audience were chanting. Mark sat up.

‘St Giles.’

‘St Giles.’

‘St Giles.’

Mark turned his head, looked at Irene, his
mouth open. The chanting continued. Her eyes slid sideways to meet his, then returned to the television set. She lowered her head and began to weep. Mark moved across the room and put his arm around her shoulders.