Dead Alone (25 page)

Harris showed Jessie to a table. ‘Are you all right? I heard about the accident.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘Bad news travels fast,’ said Harris. They were in a coffee shop near Cary Conrad’s house. ‘In my youth these sort of conversations were had over a pint, not a cappuccino.’

‘You sound like Mark Ward.’

‘I know your fellow DI. His own worst enemy, that one, but he isn’t as bad as he comes across.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ said Jessie suddenly. Accidentally. ‘I was going fast, I admit, but my brakes failed because someone had greased the wheel rims with lubricating oil.’

‘Not Mark –’

‘No, of course not Mark. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘You haven’t told anyone? Jones?’

Jessie shook her head.

‘Who do you think did it, then?’

Pick a card. Any card. ‘I don’t know,’ said Jessie. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about the options.

‘Know thine enemy, Driver – a vital rule, if you are going to survive this game.’

‘Thanks, that thought did come to me while I was upside down at thirty miles an hour, somersaulting my way through Hyde Park.’

‘Any injuries?’

‘No. I learnt how to roll on a skydiving course with my brothers. Never thought it would come in useful.’

‘Action girl.’

‘Obviously not.’ She stuck a spoon in her overpriced steamed cow’s milk. ‘Harris, what would you say to having this conversation the old way, over a pint and a large whiskey?’

Harris chose a table in the corner, away from the daytime drinkers and the clutter of men in suits. He had photos of an obscene nature. Definitely not images to be seen over coffee and a poppyseed muffin. On Cary Conrad’s home computer they had found, encrypted, a number of extraordinary images. They found others that had been looked at and then deleted. Even those images had left their mark on the computer’s memory.

‘Seems you were right about the fetishism.’

Jessie could not believe her eyes. Cary Conrad was lying beneath the Perspex bowl of a boxed-in toilet while an unknown accomplice defecated on his face. From the angle of the photograph, Jessie could see this seemed to be bringing Conrad enormous pleasure. Jessie turned the photo over.

‘It explains why he purchased that old, unmodernised house. No doubt delighted the council had stuck a grade one listing on it. He couldn’t change it. He told his friends it was like living in a
museum – not that he had many friends. I believe his wife knew nothing of this, though you can never tell how blind people are prepared to be.’

Jessie didn’t need to imagine what that felt like.

‘It’s incredible what people do behind their spouse’s back,’ said Harris. ‘I’m beginning to think this isn’t what we thought, the third victim. Conrad’s just a sad man caught in the act. Not suicide, mind. It was damp down there, the knots could have slipped. Except –’

‘He needed someone to lower him in.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What about this missing private secretary?’

‘He was due leave. No one knows what the arrangement was between him and Conrad. He’s travelling somewhere in Asia. We’re tracking him down.’

All someone needed was the information. Jessie explained that Verity Shore’s house was also listed. As was the church that Eve Wirrel managed to alter from the inside. It was a cobweb-thin link, but it was a link. They were all celebrities and somehow their deaths had exposed the area of their lives the camera never saw and the papers never printed.

‘Any forensics in the house?’ asked Jessie wishfully.

‘Nothing. Clean as a whistle. What about yours?’

‘Nothing. Not a mark. Invisible, even to CCTV.’

‘If this person is going to kill all the famous
people with peculiar habits, there won’t be many left.’

‘Perhaps that’s the point. Except, Cary Conrad didn’t bleed to death like the other two.’

‘You don’t think drowning in your own faeces is enough of a point?’

Jessie couldn’t help it. She started laughing. Harris joined in. It was simply too revolting to comprehend. Humour and draught lager, safer ground.

A crowd of people had gathered at the top of the stairs. Mark Ward was bringing in his big catch. Raymond St Giles. Mark showed the compact and angry TV personality into an interview room. When Fry knocked on the door to interview room two, Mark gave him a suspicious look but let him stay.

‘I want a fucking lawyer. Do you know what this will do to my reputation if it gets out? I’m a reformed fucking character, and this is police harassment.’

‘We just want to talk to you about the death of Trevor Mills.’

‘Who?’

‘The man you served nine years for killing.’

‘Oh, that Trevor Mills. What about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, Ray, along with his wife, Veronica.’

‘My friends call me Ray. You can call me Mr St Giles. What is it you really want? Tickets to the show? I can arrange that, front row and all. Bet that’s what’s galling you, eh? You don’t like the thought of me becoming a star. Well, get used to it, boys. I’m on a trajectory that you cannot curtail.’ Ray looked around the room. ‘Any words you lot don’t understand, I’ll explain. All you need is a good teacher. I had a great one in the nick, taught me a lot.’

‘Remorse, Ray, did they teach you that?’

Ray tapped out a cigarette. He pulled a Dunhill lighter from his pocket and lit it. A few long drags and he dropped the partially smoked cigarette in the plastic cup. It fizzed in the cold tea.

‘Just tell me what the fuck this is about.’

‘Do you feel remorse for Trevor Mills?’

Ray didn’t respond.

‘What about his wife, Veronica? Beside herself, she was. Hung herself from the wardrobe. Heard she got about a bit. Never understood why she topped herself, if she had so many men waiting in the background. Unless they were all married. Perhaps she was on the game. She always had lovely clothes. She was probably overcome with …’ Mark Ward paused, watching Ray’s knuckles whiten, ‘… remorse. What do you think, Ray? If an old whore can feel remorse there may even be a chance for you. You’ve gone very quiet, Ray. Are you feeling all right?’

Ray’s eyes turned to ice. Fry felt the coldness of
his stare as he looked at every single face in turn. When it came to his turn, Fry looked at his feet.

‘Is there anything else?’ Ray said in a soft, hard voice. ‘Only I’ve got a lunch at the Dorchester. An old pal of mine has written his memoirs, two hundred grand for the book rights. Sorry.’ He rose to leave, sliding his packet of fags and lighter off the table in one swoop.

‘How’s your son?’ Mark asked when Ray had reached the door.

Ray turned back. It was a full minute before he spoke again. ‘Fine, thank you. How’s yours? Oh yeah, forgot – you don’t have any kids.’

‘How kind of you to remember.’

‘It’s my job to remember who’s who in the police force. Wouldn’t have complained so much if that lovely DI Driver had brought me in. Wouldn’t mind doing a few rounds in the ring with her. She boxes, did you know that? Very sexy. Must be hard, Ward, having a peer half your age who looks that good. Perhaps she’ll have an accident on that bike she loves so much, then you’ll be free of her. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ward?’ His eyes still navigated the room, taking in the opposition. ‘How long you been DI now? Twelve years, isn’t it? That’s a pity. And no kids.’

‘Does he look like his mother or you?’

‘Who?’

‘Your boy. Not really a boy any more. What is he – twenty-eight?’

Ray didn’t move.

‘Pity he didn’t get more of his mother’s genes. She was attractive, that’s why all the lads liked her.’

‘What the fuck do you want with Alistair’s mother, eh?’

‘Alistair? Oh, sorry, Ray, must have got you confused. I was talking about Frank.’

Ray St Giles’ eyes paled. ‘Who’s Frank?’ he asked. A little too late.

‘You don’t know? Perhaps we should talk to Alistair about it instead.’

‘Leave him alone. I’ll get my lawyers on you if you so much as fucking look at him.’

‘Doesn’t he know you killed his mother?’

‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’

‘How did you find him, Ray?’

Ray had one hand on the doorknob.

‘Probably best he didn’t know his slut of a mother,’ said Mark.

The knuckles whitened.

‘Still, every family has the odd skeleton. It all comes out in the end. The press would love a story like this, especially since your new-found fame. Bet Alistair wouldn’t mind knowing the truth either.’

‘Alistair’s mother is dead.’

‘Yes, Ray, we know that. Your trigger-happy handiwork did that for her. Funny how even slags can stick by their old men.’

Ray carried on, ignoring Mark’s taunts. ‘She died three years ago from cancer. Her name was Alice Gunner, she worked in one of my clubs, earning money for medical college.’

‘Yes, Ray, I’ve read the beautifully constructed birth certificate. Another useful little sideline, wasn’t it, documentation? Ray St Giles father, Alice Gunner mother, gave birth to beautiful baby boy called Alistair at St Mary’s Hospital, Reading. Very nice piece of work.’

‘That is the truth.’ He spat the words.

‘Really? Funny Alice and Alistair never lived in the area. What did you do? Set her up somewhere nice in the country while you did your time?’ Mark looked at Ray. ‘We know everything.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. Stealing babies is a crime, Mr St Giles, even if the child’s mother was a slag.’

Ray took a step towards Mark. ‘I know where you are getting this information from and it will stop.’

‘You go near –’ Mark stopped himself.

Ray laughed. ‘You have nothing. And now, thanks to your splendid incompetence, I have everything. You should have done your homework before you called the likes of me in. I’m a professional when it comes to gleaning information.’ He looked around the room once more. ‘Look it up, if you don’t understand.’ Then he left.

‘Shit,’ said Mark.

‘You’d better warn Irene,’ said Fry.

‘He’s playing with us. Frank is Alistair, of course he bloody is.’

‘Still, just in case, you’d better warn Irene.’

Mark looked at him. ‘One fucking word of this
to Driver and I’ll have you transferred to Traffic.’

Fry knew then he’d tell Driver everything that had happened. Verbatim. ‘Too late,’ said Fry. ‘DI Driver’s already put me in for the job. You two aren’t as different as you think.’

Jessie walked through the revolving doors of the Pall Mall club and stepped back in time. Everything from the wooden panelling to the reverent hush emanated old money. Men sat in high-backed leather chairs reading the
Financial Times
while sipping pink gin. It was not yet twelve.

She was informed that Christopher Cadell was waiting for her in the visitors’ bar. The one place women were allowed. Jessie found him in a corner. A waiter was removing an empty crystal glass and replacing it with a full one. As Mr Cadell lifted it to his lips he noticed her approach and rose to introduce himself. Jessie wondered whether it was nerves or alcohol that made him quiver. According to the information from the WPC, Christopher Cadell had been a social alcoholic for years. His career as a documentary maker had floundered as a result, though he blamed short-sighted superiors rather than inebriation for his downfall. Fortunately, his wife had become increasingly wealthy and he had retreated to his club safe in the knowledge that Henrietta would pick up the bill. Divorce was not an option. This Jessie knew was because
the Dame set great store by reputation. They had now been unhappily married for thirty-nine years. Joshua, who arrived after six years, had obviously not made it any better. Jessie was still working out how to bring up the subject of infidelity and murder when Cadell leant forward in his chair and spoke.

‘No doubt you want to ask me about the dead girl.’

‘Verity Shore?’

‘Yes. Verity.’ He said the name as though he hadn’t spoken it before.

‘You were having an affair with her when she died?’

‘No. It was over. At my age these things don’t last long.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘Through my wife. She hated Verity, thought she was stupid. Henrietta doesn’t like stupid people, she finds it insulting they breathe the same air as she does.’ Christopher took a sip of gin and tonic. Then another. He was handsome, or had been. The spider’s web of broken blood vessels criss-crossed his cheeks and nose. He was shorter than Joshua and had brown eyes. So did Henrietta. Jessie wondered where Joshua’s dark blue eyes had come from.

‘Mr Cadell, how did you know that I was here about Verity Shore?’

‘If that dreadful man on television knew, I rather thought the police would soon enough.’

‘Is that why Henrietta went on the show, because he was blackmailing you?’

‘Nothing as dramatic as that. Though of course she’ll never let me forget it. You would have thought this was the first time she’d ever done anything she considered beneath her to promote a book.’

‘Why didn’t you come forward?’ asked Jessie.

‘It’s not for me to do your job, is it?’

He seemed completely unfazed by her arrival. ‘We’ve met before, Mr Cadell. At the film premiere party, in the corridor by the ladies.’

‘Did we? I can’t remember.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I’ve been to so many.’

‘Did Ray St Giles tell Henrietta about Verity?’

He smiled meanly. ‘There would be no sport in it, if she didn’t know.’

‘So you told her?’

He shrugged. ‘Not exactly, but she does like checking the credit-card bills. What else would I have been doing on Monday afternoons in Dukes Hotel?’

‘Mr Cadell, Verity Shore was killed by someone who knew what she was really like. A lover, or perhaps the lover’s aggrieved wife.’

‘Henrietta? Aggrieved?’ He spat when he laughed. ‘You’ve got the wrong wife. All she cares about is her position and her precious son.’

‘
Her
son?’

Christopher looked muddled for a moment, then clicked his finger and ordered another double Bombay Gin and tonic.

‘Is that why you flaunt your affairs, Mr Cadell?’

‘There is something you should understand about my wife, Inspector. When she puts her mind to something, whatever it is, she always gets it.’

‘And your wife wanted a child.’

‘More than anything. She couldn’t understand why she could succeed where others had failed but couldn’t do what millions of women did every day. It drove her mad. When she discovered it wasn’t her fault, she was over the moon. It was my fault, you see, not hers. She was still perfect.’

‘So she had an affair?’

Christopher Cadell spun the ice round the glass before sucking the last of the gin out of it. ‘If it had been that, I might have understood. But it wasn’t, it was an exercise. She fucked her way around the intelligentsia until she got pregnant. Obviously that was less degrading than a visit to the IVF clinic.’

So Joshua was all hers. Henrietta didn’t even have to pretend to share him.

‘But not for you?’

‘What do you think?’

She had humiliated him. So now he humiliated her.

‘She always wanted more,’ said Christopher, staring into his empty glass. ‘Joshua was never going to criticise her. He would never rave about her one minute, then slate her the next. He had to love her. She made pretty sure of that.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Cadell?’

Christopher picked up the wine list and scanned it. Finally he looked up. ‘I think a bottle of claret, don’t you? Just to wash a sandwich down.’

‘What did you mean about Henrietta and Joshua?’

‘Didn’t you come here to talk about that woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well.’ He snapped the wine list shut. ‘I know when she died, and I was here. The club will verify that.’

Jessie sat back in her chair. ‘You seem to know more than we do. Because of the state of the body, we can’t tell exactly when she died. Thank you for your alibi, but it isn’t quite enough. There is still the motive.’

‘What motive? She was just some silly girl. I’m sorry she died, but it really has nothing to do with us. Henrietta and I play a nasty little game, but it is only with each other. No one else gets hurt.’

‘That isn’t true, I’m afraid, Mr Cadell. What do you think it does to Joshua to see his father drunk, feeling up women, humiliating his mother?’

‘Joshua doesn’t give a shit. You think his mother would miss the opportunity of telling him how ineffectual his father really is? He’s known for years. So, as I said, this is merely a nasty little game between us. It’s kept us going for years.’

‘Mr Cadell, did you know Eve Wirrel?’

He shook his head. ‘And neither did Joshua.’

‘Joshua?’

Christopher stood up. ‘My table is ready. Sorry, but women aren’t allowed in the dining room.’