Dead Alone (15 page)

Tarek drove Ray’s BMW to the American Car Wash. Ray offered no explanation for the fact that he had to use one key to open the door and another to start the ignition. Obviously one or other of the mechanisms had been replaced. Which implied one thing to Tarek. Stolen. Reformed character? Was everybody blind, or did they just enjoy telling their friends they’d met an East End
gangsta
. It didn’t matter that he was a murderer, he had a gold necklace, a sharp suit, and a ring with his name on it. Tarek stepped out of the car and told the attendant what he wanted. Wheel wash? Tarek glanced down at the aluminium spokes. The car was encrusted with mud. His boss must have been on a foray into the country. That, or he’d been dumping bodies. Quite frankly, nothing would surprise him.

‘The whole works,’ said Tarek. ‘Hot wax, the lot. I’ll be over the road, having a coffee.’

He didn’t mind Ray’s little errands. They used to entail waiting around in some forgotten corner of London for a man in a black leather jacket and soft-soled shoes. Brown envelopes. Information. Power. That had stopped when Alistair Gunner turned up. Now it was Alistair who met all the soft-soled men. Ray St Giles, daytime television’s
own J. Edgar Hoover. Richard and Judy had better look out. Now that he’d seen the files, Tarek knew where Ray was going with this.

Tarek ordered a coffee and opened the newspaper.
The Times
had a feature about St Giles’ show on Verity Shore. Reading it, he experienced the same feeling of disquiet that had crawled through him when he’d first heard the identification of the body on the Thames. St Giles had been compiling a file on the ‘celebrity’ since she had refused to go on his show. He’d been mad when ‘the little tart’ refused. Ranted about how she thought she was too good for him, but he knew a few things about her and he wasn’t going to stop until he had her begging to be allowed on his show. St Giles wanted a big, fat slice of Oprah’s world. And Tarek was beginning to believe that he would do anything to get it. The
News of the World
would call what St Giles had a ‘dossier’. Ray called these files his chips. To play on the roulette table of celebrity. The prize was fame and fortune. The best the losers could hope for was obscurity. Ray St Giles was not a man for whom obscurity was an option. Tarek had listened to him drunkenly boast about his first fights in the boxing ring at the age of seven, of discovering a natural affinity with violence that was spotted by the local debt collectors. He’d always wanted to be somebody. The really frightening thing with St Giles was that most men of his ilk fabricated the lion’s share of their stories, but, with Ray, you knew the lion’s
share was what he kept quiet. Even when drunk, he was never out of control. One suspicious death and Ray was closer to realising his dream. Verity Shore’s death was very convenient. A convenient death was the same as an altered car lock to Tarek. Something was not right.

The car was shining in a brief shaft of sunlight. The boot was open and one of the attendants was hoovering inside. Its contents were piled to the left of him: a plastic petrol container; a can of oil; a spade; a cardboard box; one golf shoe, left foot. Tarek returned to the box. Curiosity was going to get him into trouble, he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. He lifted the lid. Inside was a head. It actually made him jump. Only two days ago Ray had been on about finding Verity Shore’s head. He was determined to be the one that found it. But this was a glass head. Hollow. Or had been. Tarek lifted it up. It took a few moments to work out what was inside it. When he did, he nearly dropped it. It was shit. Human shit by the looks of it. Tarek didn’t need to see the signature to know who the artist was. Ray’s new project.

Five boys. All born on the same day. All sharing the same fate: Social Services. Clare stared at their names. She couldn’t believe it. Five names. Five possibilities. Five leads, when she’d only ever had
one. Hope. She’d written each one out. Black marker pen. White card. Keep it simple. Because it was bound to get messy. She’d taken down her drawings from the kitchen wall and tacked up the five names in their place. Under each one was the information DI Ward had given her. What care homes the boys had gone to, the names and addresses of their foster parents, the other homes, the other foster parents. Backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and down, forwards and backwards, as confused little boys became angry young men. Three had police records. One had been sent to a youth offenders’ unit. Not a great advertisement for children’s homes. There were no current addresses for any of them. Only one had been officially adopted, and there was no current address for him on file.

Any of them could be Frank, but, as DI Ward had been at pains to point out, maybe none of them was. She unfolded the photograph of Frank on the day of the funeral. Looking so solemn. She didn’t want to be reminded of the day, just his face. She couldn’t remember a photographer being at the graveyard, but then she didn’t remember much about the day. Except the sheer look of horror on her mother’s face when her father was lowered into the ground. Veronica Mills had fallen to her knees and clawed at the soil. She and Frank had stared at their mother – helpless. Hopeless. Somebody else had to help her up. Those dirt smudges on her mother’s knees had
taunted Clare from the back of the wardrobe. Somebody else had to cut her down.

The desk sergeant buzzed Jessie’s desk. There was someone to see her. Jessie walked past Niaz, who held a phone to his ear with one hand and waved a piece of paper at her with the other. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We are still interviewing artists’ models and checking the boatyards’ records. All individual sales paid for by cash within the last six months. What news of Cary Conrad?’

‘I’ve arranged a meeting with the investigating officer. Could you organise a river search? Burrows can help you with the paperwork.’

‘You expect to find the head?’ queried Niaz.

‘No. The head is lying dormant, but I have a sinking feeling it will turn up somewhere. No, I want the river searched for a boat. Sinking it would have been easier than pulling it out of the water and taking it away by trailer. One person couldn’t carry it out.’

‘With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t even know if the remains were transported by boat. It wasn’t long ago we were searching tunnels and digging up the house in Barnes to find a link.’

‘I know. I was supposed to do that. It was supposed to delay me. And it has. But I’m back on course. It has to be a boat.’

Niaz was not convinced, she could tell from the way his olive eyes retreated into his narrow skull.

‘If you can think of another mode of transport that could get those remains on to the mud, make no noise and leave no mark, tell me.’

He remained silent.

‘I’ve got to go, someone is waiting for me.’

Jessie buzzed herself out and saw Maggie sitting in the waiting room.

‘Oh, hi.’

Maggie beamed at her. ‘Were you expecting someone else? Someone slightly more famous, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Liar! You licked your lips.’

Jessie swore silently at her as the ears of several PCs honed in on them.

‘Come on, Clouseau,’ said Maggie, ‘I’m taking you for a coffee. I have news.’

‘Don’t tell me Denise van Outen has died in a freak yachting accident and you’re up for the
Big Breakfast
.’

‘Jesus, you’re behind the times. She left the show ages ago. Anyway, you shouldn’t be saying such things, what with the current mood of the nation.’

‘What mood?’

Maggie took Jessie’s arm and they walked out of the station, through the car park and to the café that Jones liked so much. Jessie wondered whether Maggie had dropped in just to see the jaws drop. PCs all around them followed them with their eyes.

‘You’ve got to start reading the tabloids, honey. Ray St Giles, the new man of the people, has gone to the press with a dire warning to all those untalented wannabes out there. Honestly, I’m off to buy pepper spray immediately.’

‘What are you talking about? And, anyway, you’re talented.’

‘A little slow on the uptake there, Jessie, but I’ll let it pass.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘No. Because of Ray St Giles, bookies are taking odds on who will be next.’

‘What?’

‘Everyone knows she was dipped in acid, that she was ID’d by her tits and that she had no head. Brainless, big-titted blonde is decapitated and left spread-eagled on the mud – this is no accidental overdose. Next comes Eve Wirrel – it’s too poetic for words. And now Cary Conrad –’

‘What have you heard about him?’

Maggie smiled. ‘So it
is
true.’

Jessie put her finger to her lips. Maggie winked. ‘Are you working on it?’

‘Not directly, but I’m in the loop. A DCI Harris is in charge. Sounds nice on the phone. I’m meeting up with him as soon as the autopsy is done. And, Maggie, accidental death cannot be ruled out. Not a word of this to anyone.’

‘What happened to him?’

Jessie sighed.

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘Of course I trust you. The thing is, no one really knows what happened. Yet.’ That wasn’t true. The game-show host had drowned in his own shit. How he got there was what DCI Harris was trying to find out.

‘It is quite thrilling though, isn’t it?’ said Maggie. ‘You should take a walk down Oxford Street, Jess. The masses are jubilant, it’s like a Royal Wedding out there.’

‘Who have the bookies got down on the list?’

‘Where do you want me to start?’ said Maggie dramatically. ‘All members of male, female and mixed manufactured bands, especially the ones that look pretty and mime to cover versions; the whole plethora of Barbie-doll presenters; It girls; those awful posh titled boys; any former wild child; most footballers’ wives; models who’ve decided to be anything other than models – all the usual bollocks.’

All Jessie could do was shake her head in dismay.

‘What is really worrying people is if they’re not on the list. No one from
Hollyoaks
or
Big Brother
made it, for instance. Understandably, they’re gutted. They are below z-list – z minus. Which, as we know, doesn’t exist, and if they don’t exist in the media, they don’t exist at all. Oh, what shall those poor, untalented exhibitionists do now?’

‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. They would prefer to be thought of as a potential murder victim than not at all.’

‘I think there is some jostling to be the favourite, the Red Rum of the z-minus creatures.’

‘How does shit like this spread so fast?’

‘Think of Jill Dando – people have been expecting this.’

‘You are sick.’ They ordered drinks.

‘It doesn’t take a genius to work it out and any gaps in the press, Ray St Giles has filled. He must have a spy in your department,’ said Maggie.

‘I’m going to have to have words with the personable Mr St Giles.’

‘Careful, he isn’t a nice piece of work.’ They took a seat in the window. ‘You don’t want to know what my boss offered me to get you to do an interview.’

‘You’re joking. How do they know you even know me?’

‘The film party. Sweetheart, you are a great-looking girl in tight leather pants. People saw you talking to Dame Henrietta Cadell, a woman known for her love of violent ends. A few days later you’re on national TV leading the most exciting murder investigation this world has seen since O. J. Simpson did a runner with the LAPD in hot pursuit. People in television are paid vast sums of money to notice things like that.’

‘No one knows if the deaths are linked, or, as I said, if Cary Conrad’s death is suspicious.’

‘Drowned in his own shit – that’s not suspicious?’

Jessie’s mouth dropped open. ‘How do you know this?’

Maggie tapped the side of her nose. ‘I, too, have my sources. Anyway, the powers that be want you on the box, with your pouty lips and irritatingly high cheekbones and wash’n’go hair. Quite frankly, I’m getting a little pissed off.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘For
Watchdog
, I said I’d bring your head on a plate.’

Jessie laughed. Maggie fished a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket. ‘Instead of hating you, which by rights I should, I’ve come here with gifts from the Orient.’ She waved the piece of paper at Jessie. ‘Guess what it is.’

‘Jeffrey Archer’s DNA.’

‘Better. The direct line to the showbiz editor of the
News of the World
. Sweetheart, he is a goldmine, a veritable fountain of knowledge. I met him last night at a party and thought he might come in useful. You’re not going to get the information you need ploughing through endless
Hello!
magazines. You want the unprintable stuff. Trust me on this, I know my people.’

Jessie took the piece of paper.

‘Right, I’ve got to go, there’s a producer I need to give a blow job to at twelve. Keep your fingers crossed, this would be a big break.’ Maggie smiled. ‘Love you, see you later – and ring that bloke.’

Jessie called out after her: ‘I’ll give him what I know in exchange for his dossier on you.’

Maggie turned first, smiled later.

‘Joking,’ said Jessie. ‘Hey, Maggie, did you ever
get another threatening letter?’

‘Oh, hon, you don’t have to worry about me. I can look after myself.’

‘Can I have it?’

Maggie blew her a kiss. ‘You worry too much.’