Dead Alone (6 page)

‘Please sit down, Mr Dean,’ said Jessie.

‘P.J., please.’

‘This thing is, the body is not in a good condition. To be honest, there isn’t much to identify.’

‘What do you mean? What happened to her?’

‘We don’t even know at this stage that it is her.’

There was a brief knock and the young woman from the entrance hall pushed the door open with her foot and carried in a large tray weighed down with coffee and pastries. P.J. was up in a second
to take the tray from her. She pulled a fold-away table from behind the door and P.J. lowered the tray. He sat back down while the young woman began to pour the coffee. She was short with dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. A good figure, Jessie noted, under the sweatshirt and jeans. She looked about twenty-eight. Young for a housekeeper. Young and pretty, if a little unkempt. Her eyes kept watch on P.J. as she poured by instinct.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

In keeping with P.J.’s previous instructions, Jessie and Jones remained mute.

‘I don’t know,’ said P.J. ‘The police were just telling me.’ He looked at Jessie. ‘Go on …’

Jessie nodded towards the woman pouring coffee for Jones. ‘Perhaps we should wait.’

‘Oh God, carry on. You can say anything you want to now; previous comments do not apply.’

‘Are you sure? This is quite delicate.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked the woman. ‘Is Verity all right?’

‘We found the body of a woman on the bank of the Thames yesterday morning,’ said Jones.

The woman dropped the spoon she was using to ladle sugar into P.J.’s coffee. She put her hand over her mouth and stared at P.J.

‘At this point,’ continued Jessie, ‘we don’t know the cause of death. There will be an autopsy at four p.m. today, and you are welcome to be there for the results.’

‘Oh my God, P.J., the boys.’ P.J. took the
woman’s hand. She stood up, still clutching his hand. ‘I’ve got to go and see –’

‘Keep this to yourself for the moment. They don’t know that it is Verity.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Do you?’

‘Not absolutely, no. Though I’m sorry to hear that no one has spoken to her since Friday.’

‘Tell them about the letters,’ said the young woman. ‘Tell them about the letters …’

‘What letters?’ asked Jones.

‘It was nothing.’

‘But, P.J.…’ The woman put her hand on his shoulder.

‘I think you should go and see the boys,’ he said sternly.

‘But –’

P.J. turned to Jessie. ‘The police have been here before. The boys aren’t stupid, they’ll know it’s something to do with their mother. It always is.’

‘Yes, sorry. Excuse me, I’ve got to, um …’ The woman was frowning and backing out of the room. ‘Sorry …’ Again, she didn’t finish her sentence, she simply bolted.

‘Who was that?’ asked Jessie.

P.J. watched the woman run through the bowling alley and back up the steps that they had come down.

‘When you say the body is not in a good condition, what exactly do you mean?’ asked P.J., ignoring Jessie’s question.

Jessie repeated the question. ‘Who was that woman, Mr Dean?’

‘Call me P.J. My father is Mr Dean. And I am not him.’

‘About the girl?’

‘Girl?’

‘The woman who brought in the coffee?’

‘Excuse me! You’ve just told me that my wife might be dead, I’d like a few more details, please. I want to know what happened to Verity. I want to know whether I have to tell those boys that their mother is dead!’

She let it go. For the time being. ‘Do you know why your wife would have been in Barnes? Do you have friends on the river?’

‘Define “friends”.’ He sounded angry. ‘It was drugs, wasn’t it? She was fucked and fell in, was that it? Was she hit by a boat? Is that why she’s in such a mess? I can handle it, just tell me.’

‘What sort of drugs did she take?’

‘I don’t know. She was clean for a lot of the time, then suddenly she would binge, go off the rails. I don’t know who she was with or where she went. I have done everything in my power to stop her, but she wouldn’t. Not for me, not even for the kids. She was unstoppable.’ P. J. Dean fiddled with his dressing-gown cord for a while. Jones and Jessie remained quiet. It was always a good idea to let the next of kin talk. People often talked when they were in shock. It was probably the truest insight they would have of P. J. Dean and Verity
Shore, before the others got involved. The advisers. Press managers. Image consultants. Lawyers. Producers. Staff.

‘I always thought it would end like this,’ he said quietly. ‘I just didn’t know when. She couldn’t cause herself any harm here, you see. I banned all drink and drugs from the house. No sharp objects. No deliveries went unchecked. She’d stay in bed for a few days after the binge, put herself through some sort of mini cold-turkey, then she was good for a few weeks. Played with the boys. Talked to me. Then she’d begin to feel housebound, she’d call up “friends”, photographers. It always started with the shopping. More and more parcels would arrive, then the drinking and then, well, she’d disappear for a few days. I couldn’t keep her under lock and key, like I do the beer in the studio. I even do stock checks so I’d know if she was stealing vodka. But she wouldn’t have jumped into the river, I’m sure of that. It would have been an accident.’

He went quiet for a while.

‘P.J., we’re pretty sure that whoever died did not do so by accident.’

‘Trust me, she was too selfish to kill herself. Whatever it may look like, it was an accident.’

‘What about these letters?’

P.J. sighed loudly. ‘Just the normal trappings of celebrity. Hate mail, death threats, pig’s blood.’

‘Sent to you?’

‘Well, us. Look, they don’t mean anything. They
come from bored, sad, disappointed people who feel angry at anyone who’s succeeded where they failed. There are plenty out there. They’re not serious. I wouldn’t put it past Verity to send a few to herself.’

‘Have you kept them?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said P.J. impatiently.

‘Well,’ said Jessie, ‘perhaps you should have taken them seriously.’

P.J. stared back at her. Iridescent eyes. Signature eyes. ‘Just fucking tell me, will you?’

She nodded briefly. ‘There was no head with the body.’

P.J. put his hand over his mouth, his cheeks blew out, he swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jessie.

‘I …’ He struggled for breath. Jessie watched. Waited. He stood up, walked around the high-tech room then sat back down. ‘Jesus, what am I going to tell them?’ He looked out to the bowling alley even though the boys had been taken upstairs. ‘You know, they’re great kids. Paul is very sensitive and Ty, he –’

‘Don’t tell them anything for the moment. Until we know more. Here’s my card, it’s got my mobile number on it. If she comes home, call me. If she calls, call me. If she doesn’t, we are going to have to question everyone in the house. So now will you tell me who lives here?’

‘Me, the boys, Verity …’ He lowered his head. ‘Bernie, she’s been with me for twelve years. She has a son, Craig. He’s seventeen.’

‘And the young woman who brought in the tray?’

‘That’s Bernie.’

Jessie was startled. The woman looked considerably younger than her. ‘
She
has a seventeen-year-old son? That boy I saw in the garage?’

‘She looks young for her age,’ said P.J., standing up again.

‘How old is she?’ asked Jessie, suspicious.

‘This has nothing to do with Verity,’ said P.J., sounding pissed off again.

‘How old, Mr Dean?’ asked Jones in his slow, deliberate way.

‘Thirty-two. Do the maths yourself. She is a very good woman, and a great friend. Her private life has got nothing to do with Verity. Do you understand?’

No. Jessie didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why P. J. Dean was more concerned with his housekeeper than the death of his wife.

‘We’ll have to question you too, Mr Dean,’ said Jones.

‘Fine. Give me a time of death, I’ll give you an alibi.’

‘Who said anything about alibis?’ said Jessie quickly.

‘Don’t insult my intelligence. I know where you look first. That’s fine, do your job. I certainly had a motive. I won’t hide it, I’d begun to detest Verity. She was a monster, entirely self-centred; whatever she had she wanted more – more attention, more
money, more fame, more handbags, more drugs, whatever. But I didn’t kill her, and I’ll give you an alibi to prove it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Jones.

‘Trust me, in this business, you are rarely on your own.’

‘P.J., is there anything you know about Verity that could help identify her? An old injury …?’

‘She has a tattoo, on her –’

‘I’m afraid that won’t help.’

‘Jesus. What did happen to her?’

‘We really don’t know yet.’

‘Um, confidential?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘She had six toes. On her right foot. She’d had the extra one removed, it left a small scar. I’m sure an expert would know.’

Jessie looked at Jones, who shook his head. It was a fraction of a movement. P. J. Dean had enough information for his imagination to play havoc with, he didn’t need to know his wife’s feet were missing too.

The door of the Portakabin burst open. ‘Well? Anything to say to me?’

Tarek paused. ‘That was a great show, Ray,’ he said timidly.

‘Bollocks. It was crap, another fat bird bleating on about why her skinny boyfriend shagged her
best friend. All you have to do is look at the best friend to know why. And as for that hooker whose pimp was her dad – Jesus, can’t you get me some fucking decent guests?’

Tarek chewed his biro. ‘You had Dame Henrietta Cadell.’

‘Whoop fucking whoop. Intellectual snobs, the pair of them. No idea about real life. No wonder her old man sticks his dick in everything; you’d need a ladder to mount her. These are not the sort of people who are going to endear me to the masses. Elitist bollocks, I want celebrities.’

‘Nothing very proletariat about celebrities,’ said Tarek.

‘That’s only because you haven’t met any.’ Ray was staring at himself in the shaving mirror he kept on his desk. He adjusted his gold cross.

‘Listen, Tarek, if we are going to have authors on this show, I want it to be Andy fucking McNab, got it!’

Not very likely, thought Tarek.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing. Your agent called, Trevor MacDonald is doing a Yardie special, needs an expert, was wondering if you’d do it.’

‘Course I’ll fucking do it, it’s got that Carol Vorderman on it. Now, she looks like she needs a good –’

‘And there is someone holding on line one.’ There was only a line one, but Ray liked the sound of that. ‘He wouldn’t give his name.’

‘Carol Vorderman, now that’s more like it. I’ll show her the joys of long multiplication.’ He picked up the phone and listened. ‘Hang on a second. Tarek, go and get me some coffee, will you? Not that instant shit either – the one from the machine. Put it in a proper mug with a bit –’

‘Yeah, I know.’ It was always the same when Ray wanted to speak to one of his – Tarek searched for a word – associates. Associate was a good word. Hood was another. He opened the door and stepped down the aluminium steps into a potholed and heavily weeded car park. Walking towards him was Ray’s research assistant. Associate. Hood. He was a strange bloke. Somewhere in his thirties, Tarek thought, though it was difficult to tell. He was short and thin, but there was nothing weedy about Alistair Gunner. He was built like a featherweight fighter and showed no fear of the man everyone else shied away from. He didn’t talk much, had no friends and seemed to shadow St Giles. Tarek and Alistair eyed each other. He wasn’t sure who was more suspicious of whom. All Tarek did know was that Alistair had an ability to discover things about people which would make the
News of the World
weep.

‘Morning, Alistair,’ said Tarek.

‘Ray in?’

‘On the phone.’

As always he just pushed the door open and walked in. No knock. No waiting for the summons. Bold as brass, walked on in.

‘Face down in the mud, eh?’ said Ray before Alistair closed the door on him. Tarek walked round the interconnecting Portakabins to the main studio and office building. Alistair Gunner had appeared one day from nowhere; he had no c.v., no experience in TV and no qualifications. But Ray St Giles had given him a job anyway. Just like that. Gunner had so much information on other people, Tarek found himself wondering whether he’d got something on the main man himself. They were close without being close, like a couple in an arranged marriage. Very occasionally, Tarek caught Ray staring at Alistair with a look of apprehension. It was as if he needed him around but didn’t trust him. Ray St Giles probably didn’t trust anyone.

In the shoddy reception area there was a coffee machine. Tarek put his own money into the slot and waited for it to regurgitate the pale, foamy drink. Somewhere inside the studio real programmes were being made. But not by him and not by the cable company that had put their trust in Ray St Giles and his shadow. Tarek carried the drink back and knocked on the door. Ray and Alistair were leaning over an open file. He’d seen the type of file before. Marked ‘Cadell’. In it, Tarek had glimpsed a photograph of a man in a pinstripe suit checking into a hotel with a young blonde. Shortly afterwards Henrietta Cadell’s agent had rung up out of the blue and offered her for the ‘Mother’n’Son’ slot. Whatever he might say, Henrietta Cadell was the sort of guest Ray would
pay good money for. Looking at Alistair’s shiny new leather jacket, Tarek guessed he had.

‘Tarek, get my agent on the line, tell her yes to the Yardie special, and tell her no more fucking supermarkets and cancel my talk at the young offenders’ unit. I’ve had enough of that shit. We are changing gear.’

‘Ray, you’ve got to –’

‘Just do it, Tarek. Who is paying your salary?’

Tarek picked up the phone. ‘This shitty cable company,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Alistair Gunner was staring at him with his cold eyes. Tarek needed another job. This one was killing him.