Dead Alone (23 page)

Jessie woke up hot and confused. She heard a stifled cry, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Outside or inside. Animal or human. Man or boy. Jessie sat up and opened her eyes and ears to the night. She heard the noise again. It was human. Male. Child. And he wanted his mother. Jessie threw back the fat feathered eiderdown and padded across to the door. The curtains in the corridor weren’t drawn: shadows from the trees outside slid across the wall, the moonlight picked out the round white face of Ty, standing stock-still in the middle of the passageway. He was staring straight at Jessie.

‘Mummy?’

‘It’s okay, Ty. It’s Jessie, I’m here …’ She crouched down to his eye-level and pushed the sodden hair from his face. He didn’t move for a second. Jessie thought the boy might still be asleep, but suddenly he lurched forward and threw his soft arms round her neck.

‘I had a bad dream.’

‘It’s okay now.’ Jessie could feel his wet cheeks on her neck. She held him tight and rocked him gently. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, as visions of bleached bones danced in her head. After a few moments Ty’s muscles slackened and his breathing evened out. Taking their combined weight in her legs, she slowly lifted him up and carried him back to her room. She fetched the torch from her bag and put it in Ty’s small hand. ‘Now you’ll know where you are,’ she said.

There was a rustle of blankets and the squeak of mattress springs.

‘I couldn’t find the light switch,’ said Paul in the dark. ‘I heard him crying, but I couldn’t find the light switch.’

Jessie held Ty in one arm and felt along the wall. When the light went on, Ty lifted his head off her shoulder and looked at Jessie with enormous, disappointed eyes.

‘I thought …’ Ty’s voice trailed off. Jessie knew what he thought. He thought his mother was carrying him to bed. The light had dispelled that dream. Night-time could do that, it could trick you. It was a beautiful, malicious trick because it was so real.

Jessie told them a story until both their chests rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. She waited quietly. Neither boy moved. Ty still clutched her torch in his hand. She left it there, dimmed the light, and
quietly opened the bedroom door. She jumped when she saw P.J. standing in a jumper and boxer shorts.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw the light on and wondered if they were okay.’

He was whispering, she lowered her voice to match his. ‘They’re fine. Ty had a bad dream.’

‘Was he in the hallway? I often find Paul and Ty standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. Ty sleepwalks and Paul goes and finds him.’

Jessie crossed her arms in front of her. Her vest and shorts seemed to have shrunk.

‘So what was going to happen in your story?’

Jessie opened her mouth. ‘You sneak! You listened.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed to be doing such a good job of calming them down. Thanks.’

‘I’ve given Ty my torch in case he wakes up again.’

‘You didn’t bring a bag, but you managed to bring a torch?’

‘I’m a police officer, there are some things I always bring along, just in case.’

‘Even to parties?’

‘Especially to parties.’

They were walking back to her room. ‘What else do you always bring along?’

She put her hand on the door knob. ‘Handcuffs.’

‘What else?’

‘Plastic freezer bags, a Bic biro, some Tampax
and lip gloss. That’s about it.’

He was inches from her. She didn’t move.

‘We should finish that conversation,’ said P.J.

‘Not now,’ she said. Too dangerous.

‘Please.’

He followed her into her room. This was bad, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to stop it. P. J. Dean didn’t kill his wife. Anyone could see that. Surely?

He ran his hand down her arm. ‘You have such incredible skin.’

‘Please, don’t. I can’t do this,’ she said.

‘What can I do to persuade you that I’m not involved in this? All I want is a bit of normality, something secure.’

‘You think I’m normal?’

‘No, I think you’re exceptional.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘You make up stories, you play cowboys and Indians in the woods and you eat disgusting jam tarts to make a boy feel better about himself. I may as well admit that the backless dress in which you looked incredible may have had some impact, but not as much as the sight of you in waterproofs and wellies today on the lake. I know that much, Jessie Driver, and I know I’d like to know much more. What I don’t know is how to convince you that I’m worth knowing too. Give me a chance.’

She stared at him. Was she so intoxicated by those green eyes that she couldn’t see sense?

‘I know what you want to know, Jessie. So ask me the question, and I’ll give a straight yes or no answer. But don’t ask me to explain. Not yet. I’m already breaking my word as it is.’

Her eyes were so accustomed to the dark she could see the worry line embedded between his eyebrows. His eyes had darkened to the colour of a stormy sea. Jessie didn’t want an answer. Not then. The truth was, she didn’t want to think about Verity Shore or the life of any public figure. She wanted a moment for herself. Didn’t she have that right? P.J. pulled her closer. He put his hand through her hair, ran it down the back of her neck, over her jaw. Murder victims had one right left to them, to have their murderer caught. Until that happened, she didn’t deserve a moment.

‘Are you Craig’s father?’

His thumb rested on her lower lip. He pressed it slightly then pulled his hand back. He looked right at her, inches away, she could feel his breath on her.

‘No. I am not Craig’s father and I am not, and never have been, in love with Bernie.’

He pulled her towards him and then she closed her mind and let her senses take over.

At six thirty Jessie woke up in bed alone. Her mind was racing and her conscience was cloudy. In the kitchen she made some peppermint tea and stood
at the big glass wall looking out over the water.

‘Hey, sis.’

‘Hey, Colin. What are you doing up so early?’

‘Those kids have shot my body clock to pieces, thought I’d go on a run. You exhausted them yesterday, they’re all still asleep.’

‘The loop?’

‘Yeah, you coming?’ She nodded. Run. Run away. And don’t think.

The loop was a five-mile run along the water’s edge, up a hill, then across the brow of the surrounding hills where the view was breathtaking and the world was yours. Bill liked to run. Terry liked to jog to music. And Colin liked to talk. Which they did, all the way round, except for up the hill, where they just heaved and spat in turn. She told him about Ty waking up in the middle of the night. She didn’t tell him anything else. By the time they got home, sweaty, hot and jubilant, Colin had run the guilt out of her. They kicked off their running shoes, unsteady on their legs, exhaling puffs of air. Jessie bent over to touch her toes and saw the headline of the
News of the World
upside down at her feet.

Jessie stood up too quickly, the blood drained from her head and she lurched forward.

Pop sensation Jami has suffered a horrific attack in her own home. The ordeal started when Jami put the key in the front door of her beautiful Chelsea townhouse. A masked man grabbed her round the mouth and throat.

‘I felt something cold against my neck and I thought, this is it, I’m going to die.’

Jessie shook her head. There was a picture of Jami’s bruised face. Another of a broken china clock.

Next the cold-blooded killer forced her inside and proceeded to strangle her. ‘As my life flashed past me, all I could think of was my family, friends and fans. Just then I heard my grandmother’s voice shouting at me, “The clock, the clock!” She’d left it to me in her will, it was on the hall table. I was on the verge of blacking out, but she gave me the strength to pick it up …’

Jessie put the paper down. ‘This is bollocks. The killer has never left a mark before. Why start now?’

‘Why would she lie?’

‘Oh, Colin, bless you. I’ve met her, she is some piece of work, she would do anything to get a headline. She’s manufactured this, and she’s not going to get away with it. This time I’m going to get her on wasting police time, when I’ve finished with her, she’ll wish she never left her fucking tap-dancing class.’

Colin let the swear word slide. ‘Does this mean you won’t stay for lunch?’

‘I shouldn’t have stayed for dinner.’

‘But you’re glad you did?’

Jessie smiled. ‘Yes, I’m glad I did.’

He poked Jessie in the ribs. ‘Thought you might be.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Let’s just say too much red wine makes me sleep badly.’

Jessie’s stomach lurched. ‘I told you, I found Ty in the corridor …’ She retreated into the kitchen and started running the cold tap.

‘Yes, you told me about Ty, you told me about the story, but you didn’t tell me about –’

‘Shh,’ said Jessie, turning the tap off. ‘I think that’s my phone.’ She followed the noise to the sitting room, where her phone lay charging on a side table. It was Jones. He must have seen the Sunday papers.

‘I tried you at home,’ said Jones, sounding terse.

‘I’m still at my brother’s house. It was too late to leave last night, they’d already cooked supper. I’m coming back today.’ She didn’t want to feel guilty, she was entitled to a break. But she did feel guilty. She hadn’t come away for a break.

‘Tell me Mr Dean and his children did not stay with you.’

She could have lied. They hadn’t, after all, stayed with
her
. They’d stayed with her brother and sister-in-law.

‘Jesus, Jessie, this is too complicated a case for you to –’

‘It’s all right, sir. I’ve got it under control.’

‘Got
what
under control, Detective?’

She thought about him touching her. Him leaning forward. Pressing his face against hers. His hands moving over her skin.

‘I’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning,’ she said.

‘I want you in earlier than that.’

‘Do you want me to do something about Jami Talbot?’

‘What about Jami Talbot?’

‘You haven’t seen the papers?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s not why you called?’

‘No, Jessie, I called because you asked me to discover who Craig’s father was. Or do you already know the answer?’

Jessie’s chest hollowed, remembering last night’s close conversation in the dark. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘I still trust your judgement, Jessie, and I’m sure P.J.’s explanation was convincing, but right now I’m focusing on Craig.’

‘Craig?’

‘I agree that it doesn’t make P.J. more or less of a suspect. The set-up probably suited him quite well. I guess that P.J. is more concerned with the younger boys than Craig.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not with you.’

‘Craig wants that kind of attention for himself.
Think about it. He had a key to the house on the river, he’s implied that he was sleeping with Verity, he says he was trying to help her, but Verity isn’t alive to corroborate any of that. What if he isn’t the brooding love-sick teenager? What if it’s part of the act, and his trips up and down the drainpipe weren’t to help Verity but to harm her?’

‘Why?’

‘Why? I would’ve thought that was perfectly obvious. Verity stood in the way of his mother and father. Craig wanted his family back together again, out in the open, like normal people. With Verity dead, Craig could have a proper dad, not just one on paper. Anyone can get hold of a birth certificate. Craig has probably known for years, or maybe Bernie told him – either way, it’s natural for a boy to want to know who his father is. P.J. wasn’t going to solve the situation. A divorce meant losing the boys, so Craig took charge. He’s young, I know, but he has an obsessive personality. It takes one to plan a murder like this. Time and money and opportunity, he had all three and he knew Eve Wirrel. She was the perfect way to take the limelight off the family. She even lived on his cycle route. You must agree, the fact that Craig is P. J. Dean’s son changes things?’ Jones waited for Jessie to respond. ‘Jessie, are you still there?’

There was still no response from Jessie.

‘Jessie, I know you like the boy, but put your personal feelings aside. No more special treatment for that family, not even P. J. Dean – especially not
P. J. Dean. He got a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant. It’s no different from the shit we have to deal with day in, day out. Dress it up, dress it down, it’s still the same old shit. Jessie? Hello, can you hear me? Jessie? Damn these mobile phones.’

Jessie threw her dress and high heels in a bag, left P.J.’s clothes with Colin and was racing past the cooling towers of Sheffield when P.J. appeared, crumpled and disorientated, for breakfast at ten.

Taking a deep breath, Jessie pushed open the door to the incident room. Her team were waiting for her, alert, expectant. The room smelt of caffeine and gossip. For a split second conversation stopped, mouths hung open, then everyone moved at once, trying to resume an air of normality and failing. Attack, the best form of defence.

‘I know that you’re all thinking P. J. Dean is involved in these murders. And you may be right. It is now common knowledge that he and Bernie have the motive, the means and, if it weren’t for a watertight alibi, he’d be our number one suspect.’ Someone put their hand up. Jessie ignored it. ‘However,’ she said loudly, ‘there are aspects of Verity’s death that could be seen as clues pointing to Eve Wirrel.’ Group puzzlement. ‘Firstly, the remains of Verity Shore were found below a stretch of bank frequented by an art club. Secondly, the
body had no hands, head or feet, the extremities that Eve Wirrel never painted. There were rumours of a lesbian affair between the two women. Both women were bled to death. Bled dry. Like the public have been by them. It could be a message. As irresponsible as it was of me to move P. J. Dean and his stepchildren to another safe house, it would be equally irresponsible of us not to look into the clues left at the scene of Eve Wirrel’s death. So, we keep our minds open. This is what I want you to do.’ She pointed to a DC. ‘Search the internet for any information on Richmond. The name, the park, the area, the Isabella Plantation especially. We now know that Eve Wirrel was bisexual, let’s find out who else she saw. I’m told it’s a long list. Remember, despite her anarchic protestations, she was the daughter of a baronet. Examine all avenues.’

‘What about the Cary Conrad investigation?’

‘I’m on top of that.’

‘And what about P. J. Dean?’ asked Burrows.

‘You on top of that too?’ said Fry, grinning.

Jessie didn’t miss a beat. ‘We bring him in for questioning.’ Reaction oscillated through her audience.

‘I’ll get on to it right away,’ said Burrows.

Jessie poured herself a glass of water and drank it, drowning out the nausea.

‘Any forensics on that boat?’

‘Niaz is still investigating that.’

‘Taking a bit of a punt, aren’t you, boss?’

Jessie had an overwhelming desire to slap Fry
across the face. But rising to him would only make it worse. ‘I want every single photograph of Verity Shore in one pile, Eve Wirrel in another, and Cary Conrad a third, I want the parties they went to and the guest lists of those parties entered into a computer. Cross-reference them. Are you getting my drift?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘You’re looking for a serial killer who is culling celebrities he or she doesn’t think deserve their status.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘But not a probability.’

‘No, Fry. Probability is what has got the Force into the mess it’s in today.’ Tense laughter scattered through the room. ‘And you can tell DI Ward I said that.’ Jessie picked up her notes and left the room. Bastards.

Burrows caught up with her on the way to her office. ‘Dean won’t be back until tomorrow. He wants to know if you can go to his house for the interview. Apparently his housekeeper isn’t there and he doesn’t want to bring the boys here.’

‘No.’ She carried on walking. ‘He’s taking the piss.’

‘He implied we would sneak to the press, guv. He doesn’t want the boys to be scared by the cameras.’

‘What about using a nanny?’

‘He doesn’t want to leave the kids with a stranger.’

‘How very convenient.’ She was too angry to think effectively.

‘What do you want to do, boss? If he isn’t under arrest, we can’t force him to come here.’

‘Send a WPC and social services there tomorrow. Jones can interview him.’

‘Won’t he be expecting you to give him a going over, ma’am?’

Jessie stopped walking and looked at Burrows. ‘I thought those children were in danger,’ she said. ‘Someone had left a skull at their gate. It wasn’t public information, Burrows. What was I supposed to think?’

Burrows shrugged. ‘Hey, I’m not passing judgement.’

‘Like hell you’re not.’

‘All right, boss, I’m sorry about the facetious comment.’

Jessie suddenly felt as if she’d been in a boxing ring. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said quietly.

Burrows spoke in a soft, consoling tone. ‘Yes, you did. Don’t make another. If you hide from this now, Mark and his lot will eat you for breakfast. You’re right, it could have been Verity’s skull. Continue to put that message across. And for God’s sake, don’t act like you can’t face P. J. Dean.’ Jessie closed her eyes, embarrassed but grateful that a lower-ranking officer was putting her straight. ‘Go to the house, boss. There are bound to be a few things you need to look at again. I’ll bring Dean back here.’

She looked at Burrows. ‘I’m sorry I let you down.’

‘You haven’t. Yet.’

Jessie closed the door of her office and leant against it. She’d done herself years of harm by falling for the neatly orchestrated package that is P. J. Dean. The spin. The fluff. The image. He’d lied to her, that was all she could think about. He’d lied to her in the middle of the night, and as a result she’d –

‘Hard weekend?’

Jessie swung round. Mark sat in her chair, his feet on her desk, his arms stretched out behind his head. Jessie stared at the sweat patches on his shirt. He was loving this.

‘What are you doing in here?’

‘You have to do something for me.’

Jessie laughed sarcastically. ‘Good thing you didn’t join the diplomatic corps.’

‘I always wanted to be a groupie, actually.’ He smiled, baring yellow teeth and a gloating mind. ‘And you are in no position to refuse, since it was you who stormed in on St Giles and got him all rankled.’

‘I had reason to –’

‘I don’t give a shit, Driver. Because of you I can’t go and speak to the leech myself. Your snitch – I need to talk to him.’

‘This is my case. Jones has no right telling you.’

Mark shrugged. ‘First of all, this isn’t to do with your case. Second of all, don’t be so sure it
will be your case for much longer.’

Jessie swallowed her furious retort and kept her arms firmly by her sides. Her brothers had taught her how to fight. Mark wouldn’t stand a chance. The idea of him flat on the floor with a broken nose was too tempting. He must have read it on her face because he pushed himself back against the wall. ‘Still, I’m not really interested in your extracurricular activities. It’s Ray St Giles I’m interested in. Trust me, I wouldn’t ask for your help unless it was absolutely necessary. We can’t all go running off with pop stars, some of us have real cases to solve. Some of us actually care about the victims –’

‘Get to the fucking point.’

‘Oh dear, lovers’ tiff, was it?’

‘Simply a natural response to bores. So, if you wouldn’t mind …’

He sat up. ‘Fine. Ray St Giles was fucking Veronica Mills. It went on for years – five years. Eventually she got pregnant and gave birth to Frank. Poor sad Trevor Mills had no idea, thought the baby was a miracle. Some fucking miracle. Anyway, Ray was a man possessed. He wanted Veronica and Frank for himself. He expected Veronica to leave her daughter behind with Trevor. But Veronica wouldn’t leave Clare. Then Trevor got shot. Veronica couldn’t live with the guilt and what the truth would do to her children, so she hung herself.’

The strength in Jessie’s legs left her. She sat down abruptly. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘This guy who works for St Giles, call him, find out if there is a St Giles junior lurking about. A prodigy. A son and heir. You didn’t come across one by any chance, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t come across much, did you?’

The fight left her. Poor Clare. She leant over and picked up the phone on her desk. ‘So that’s why social services changed the names of those children. It was to protect them, after all.’

‘Not necessarily. No one except Irene knew that Frank was Ray’s son.’

‘But if no one knew, why change the names?’

Mark Ward tapped the side of his head three times. ‘Now you’re catching on.’