Dead Alone (16 page)

Jessie turned the bike into a run-down TV studio car park. The security man on the gate pointed to her destination; she knocked on the door of the Portakabin and went in without waiting. Ray St Giles was sitting in a large leather swivel chair behind a desk.

‘What the fuck –’

‘Police,’ said Jessie. ‘I’d like a word.’

‘Jesus Christ, I’m busy. Can’t it wait?’

Jessie looked at the heels sticking out from under the desk. ‘Perhaps she should have a tea break.’ Ray St Giles didn’t move, the feet retracted under the desk. ‘Now,’ said Jessie, raising her voice.

‘Go on then, fuck off,’ said Ray, pushing his chair back to let the girl crawl out. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen. The door closed behind her.

‘Habit I picked up in the nick,’ said Ray, standing up and zipping his fly. ‘Hey, I know you. You’re that detective off the telly. Looking for an expert to appear with you on
Crime Watch
?’ He smiled, revealing his now familiar crooked teeth.

‘You’ll have to get them capped for Hollywood,’ said Jessie.

‘I was thinking gold, meself.’

‘Good choice of colourway,’ said Jessie, walking slowly round the cabin.

‘You come here alone, Inspector?’

She turned to look at him. ‘You, Mr St Giles, are causing me a bit of bother.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I like to help the police any way I can.’

‘We’ve had the switchboard jammed with calls from media darlings who are demanding police protection. As if we don’t have enough to worry about when the American stars come over to grace theatreland with their presence.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help you.’

‘They seem to think they are the targets of a hate campaign.’

‘Sweetheart, I’m only telling the public what the police already know,’ said Ray.

‘You are creating panic, and panic doesn’t help my job.’

Ray tapped out a cigarette and lit it. He blew smoke rings at her and shrugged.

‘I had an agreement with the press to keep certain details out of the public eye until a later date.’

‘I’m not the press.’

‘Where did you get your information, Mr St Giles?’

He smiled. ‘You can’t keep good gossip quiet in this town, Inspector. If Verity Shore could have,
she would have filed the story herself.’

‘She has children.’

‘Wrong. She had accessories.’

‘You don’t like her type, then?’

‘Armed robbers make for strong moral fibre compared to the likes of her.’

‘Water finds its own level, Mr
Saint
Giles.’

‘An affectation I added when I became a free man. It sort of has a nice ring about it when the audience start chanting.’

‘They chant, do they?’

‘They will.’ He smiled again, passing his icy blue eyes over her taut, fit figure. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you,
Detective Inspector
?’

He didn’t scare her. ‘Don’t go whipping up a storm, Mr St Giles. You’ll give yourself a motive.’

He stepped towards her. Jessie stood her ground. ‘Don’t go handing out threats like that, Detective Inspector, or you might just give me one.’

‘I am trying to catch a killer,’ she said.

He took her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it. ‘And I am trying to put on a show.’

Clare Mills stood on the raised flagstone doorstep and clutched her bouquet of flowers. Irene had provided her with her history, her antecedence. She wanted to tell Irene the good news first.

‘Hi, Clare. Come in. I’ve made a cake.’

‘We might have found Frank!’ She blurted it out. ‘Well, not me, Mark – DI Ward. In Sunderland. He’s agreed to meet me. DI Ward is driving me there tomorrow. He has no birth certificate. This is the first real possibility. He’s white. Like me.’

Irene was not smiling. ‘That’s um …’

‘Oh, I hope, I hope it is. Please be pleased.’

‘I just don’t want you getting your hopes up too high, Clare. You know what happened last time.’

‘This is different. DI Ward has been so kind, really. I didn’t like him at first, but gosh he’s …’ She took a bite of lemon cake. ‘You should meet him, he’s about your age.’

‘Think I’m a bit old for match-making.’

‘Rubbish, you look great. You and Mum were always the prettiest round here. I remember you both getting dressed up for Saturday night, looking a million dollars. I showed Mark all the photos you gave me, he was dead impressed.’

‘That’s personal stuff, Clare, I told you that.’

‘Sorry. But he said it could help.’

‘No, Clare. I’m sorry. They’ll just manhandle them and get fingerprints all over them. Treat them with no respect. Don’t do that again, Clare – promise. Don’t tell them private things. Your mother wouldn’t like it. They were proud, your parents. Proud and honest. I don’t like the idea of …’ Irene pulled Clare into her arms. ‘Sorry, love, I’ve been working too hard.’

Clare inhaled the smell of Elnett hairspray and shampoo. It was too painful for Irene, dwelling on the past. All that waste had wounded her in some ways more than it had Clare. Irene had lost her best friend of twenty years, she had a bosom-full of memories. They’d shared clothes, boyfriends, secrets. When Veronica’s mother had deserted her, she’d moved in with Irene’s family. That sort of devotion was rare at the best of times; where they grew up, it was extinct. Irene said she didn’t want some man taking her away from all that was hers. Her hair salon. The house in which she was born. Her friends. Her memories. It had been their playground, stomping ground, coming-of-age ground. And the ground in which Veronica, her greatest friend, was buried. Her past. What Clare missed was an imaginary past. She knew that. Her memories were vague, ethereal, dream-like. Except the day of her dad’s funeral, of course. That had always happened yesterday.

‘They’ve opened a noodle bar two shops down from the salon,’ said Irene. ‘I swear, we’ll be next. Someone will make me an offer I can’t refuse and I’ll retire. Travel. I always meant to travel.’

‘Maybe Frank and I could come with you?’

Irene smiled in that way of hers, with sad eyes. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

Tarek walked down Shoreditch High Street towards his flat. An
Evening Standard
seller barked from outside the train station:

‘
EVE WIRREL DIES FOR ART
!
EVE WIRREL DIES FOR ART
!
POLICE GET IT WRONG
!’

Tarek handed over thirty-five pence. Sat down on a bench and read:

The body of Eve Wirrel was found in Richmond Park by a man out running with his dog. Following so quickly on the death of Verity Shore, the police immediately treated her death as suspicious. They withheld vital information from the press and cleared the site where she died before allowing reporters in. However, we can now exclusively reveal that Eve Wirrel did in fact, DIE FOR ART.

Internationally renowned photographer, Anton Flame, a close friend and confidant of the artist, was summoned to Richmond Park by Eve Wirrel herself. She had told him where to find her and what to do. Unfortunately, her body was discovered by an unwitting member of the public who immediately called the police.

Anton Flame explains: ‘It was beautiful really. Each of her limbs pointed to four giant oaks on which she had spelt out the word DECOMPOSITION. Sadly the police decided to treat it like a crime scene and not a canvas, and began to do unspeakable things to the body. They had no respect for her, for what she stood for and what she was trying to do for the modern art movement. I am completely traumatised.’

Wirrel shot to fame with her controversial installation ‘A Particularly Heavy Week’, featuring seven pairs of soiled knickers, displayed at the Tate Modern. The police have yet to confirm whether she is the second
victim in a series of terrible murders that have struck at the heart of the nation’s celebrities or another of her headline-grabbing ‘installations’.

‘Bastard!’ Jessie threw the paper down on her desk. ‘Can we sue?’

‘No. He didn’t print a photo. But the article goes on to list the photographer’s artistic credits and mentions a website.’

‘Don’t tell me there are photos!’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Fry. ‘The PC searched him, I was there, but the conniving twat must have put the film down his trousers. Quite apt, I suppose, considering who the stiff was. Anyway, the pictures are on the website, fan-extremis.com. For a price, you can download them.’

‘I don’t bloody believe it. Why didn’t you show this to me yesterday, when the bloody paper came out?’

‘Sorry. Thought you’d have seen it.’

‘Can we stop it?’

‘Not quickly enough, no. You might want to get online. The photos have been seriously doctored.’

‘First St Giles and now this little bastard!’

‘What’s the deal with the game-show host?’ asked DC Fry, in a tone so ingratiating it made Jessie want to hurl him across the room.

She turned to him. ‘Tell Mark to come and ask me himself.’

Fry opened his mouth to protest as Trudi walked in. ‘DI Driver, there’s a young man to see you. I’ve put him in Jones’ office.’

‘Hang on, Trudi, I’ve got –’

‘This is important and I don’t think his nerve will hold for long.’

Jessie opened the door to Jones’ redundant office. A handsome man of medium build was strapping on a shoulder pack. As Trudi had warned, he was doing a good impression of someone preparing to take flight.

‘You going somewhere?’ asked Jessie.

He looked around the office nervously. His hair was slicked back, he wore designer clothes but he looked scared. Jessie leant against the desk. ‘Sit down,’ she said gently. ‘What can I do for you?’

He fell into the chair but remained silent.

‘You told Trudi you had information about the deaths of Verity Shore and Eve Wirrel.’

He nodded. ‘Can I talk to you in confidence?’ He sounded well educated. Intelligent. But still scared.

‘Well, that depends on what you are about to tell me. I’m not a priest, we sort of do the opposite with confessions here. But if you’re scared or need protecting because of what you know, then I can help you.’

‘I work for Ray St Giles.’

Jessie leant forward. ‘Go on …’

‘He hated Verity Shore for not going on his show. She refused to be a guest and he started
digging around to find some real dirt on her. And he did. I don’t know what, but he was suddenly very full of himself. Did you see the job he did on her?’

‘No, but I heard about it.’

‘We worked round the clock to get that show together. He already had the information, all we needed to organise were the logistics. He knew about that house in Barnes – don’t ask me how, but he did.’

‘Do you have proof ?’

‘I copied these, from the files. He keeps them locked up, but I recently worked out where he hides the key.’

Jessie flicked through the information St Giles had compiled. There were pictures of Verity Shore meeting a man by a brick wall. She was handing over money. It could have been any drug-swap down any back alley, disused courtyard or empty car park. Jessie guessed Verity arranged to meet her dealer when she was out on her shopping sprees.

‘Is it the house in Barnes?’ asked Tarek.

She doubted it. Though there was a high garden wall, there would be no reason to make the swap outside, and Ray would have had to have been inside the house to get the picture. There was detailed information about Verity’s antics at home with the boys, which according to Tarek’s notes included Verity screeching around the house naked, threatening to pour boiling water over herself.
There was another photograph; black-and-white, like the rest. This time it was Verity Shore checking into a hotel with an older man who was clearly not P. J. Dean.

‘Who’s this?’ Jessie asked, pointing to the man.

‘No idea,’ said Tarek.

‘He looks familiar,’ said Jessie.

‘Well, she wasn’t likely to shag any old bloke. He’s probably somebody important.’

Jessie couldn’t blame Verity for seeking solace elsewhere, but she also understood why P.J. had pushed his ruthlessly ambitious wife away. They should never have got together. Jessie knew from watching her brother and sister-in-law that making a marriage work was a full-time occupation. Verity and P.J. didn’t even do it part-time. Here was yet more evidence that Verity was sleeping around. Could P.J. really be the only one who didn’t know?

‘Who gave Ray all this information?’ she asked, holding up the file.

‘Danny Knight, before he had his fifteen seconds on the programme. Ray made him out to be a blood-sucking arsehole. Mr Knight is furious, keeps ringing up saying Ray ruined his credibility and harmed his chances of landing a book deal.’

‘Serves him right,’ said Jessie.

‘Mr Knight should watch out. Ray has a sidekick with a penchant for extracting information from people and then enforcing their silence. They all underestimate Ray. Don’t make the same mistake.’

‘What would happen if he thought you’d talked to me?’

Tarek didn’t have to reply. The look in his eyes told her everything.

‘We’ll get copies, then you’d better get these back before Ray misses them.’ Jessie looked Tarek in the eye. ‘You should leave your job.’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Will you be all right going back?’

‘I think so. What will you do?’

‘Well, Tarek, I need a little more than this. The police have to be very careful with people like Ray St Giles. Very careful.’

‘You think I’ve got this wrong, watch tonight’s show. He’s doing a programme on Eve Wirrel.’

‘I know. I saw his performance on the breakfast show yesterday,’ said Jessie.

Tarek stood up and walked to the window, then he turned back to her. ‘Yes, but how long has she been dead? He had one of her installations in the back of his car, in a box. It isn’t there any more.’

‘Proof?’

‘I took a photo with the car-wash attendant holding up that day’s paper, and I can bring you more. If that’ll make you believe me.’ Tarek handed over the picture. ‘I had it blown up.’

Jessie looked up at him. ‘Is that …?’

‘Nice, isn’t it? Guess what it’s called.’

Jessie waited. If it had anything to do with Cary Conrad, she’d never forgive herself.

‘“Shit for Brains”.’ He laughed. ‘Can you believe
it? She actually gets money for this.’

A lot of money, thought Jessie. More than the cable company could pay its presenters, if their offices were anything to go by.

‘You know I went to see your boss about this already?’

‘Did you?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Wasn’t it you? In the car park, keeping a low profile. All bundled up in a cap and brown leather jacket.’

‘Oh, no, you’re talking about Alistair Gunner. He’s Ray’s research assistant. The one with the penchant for extracting information. He’s certainly on the payroll, if you know what I mean. I’m sure they met in prison, which has done nothing to change either of them. Rumour is, Ray got away with many more killings than he went down for. And Alistair looks like a GBH man.’

Jessie’s response was noncommittal.

‘If you don’t believe me, watch the Eve Wirrel programme. Then tell me Ray isn’t the one gaining from all of this. Ambition is as good a motive as any. It’s all about money in the end.’

‘You really don’t like your boss, do you?’

‘He’s a racist, murdering, chauvinist bully and, trust me, if
that
was my motive for coming to see you, I’d be in here all the time.’