Dead Alone (17 page)

The senior investigating officer, DCI Harris, was a man close to his fifties, with sparkling blue eyes and the manner of an East End lad on the make. Jessie liked him immediately, not least because he had bothered to inform her personally that Cary Conrad was dead. Though the body had been discovered on his patch, he wanted to form a joint investigation following the recent deaths of Verity Shore and Eve Wirrel. Such collaboration was rare in a field where statistics kept departments separate.

Jessie walked up the uneven stone steps of the listed house and was immediately taken to the basement. She didn’t need long down there. They retreated to the living room and sat on a velvet sofa surrounded by reproductions of pre-Raphaelite paintings.

‘The woman who called us turned out to be his missus,’ said Harris. ‘Cary Conrad kept her and the kids hidden from his public. Bloody disgrace, if you ask me. Thought his fans wouldn’t like him if he didn’t come across all camp and queer. The mind boggles.’

Jessie nodded while she looked through the autopsy report on Cary Conrad.

‘Ever watch his show?’

‘No.’

‘
Supermarket Sweep
sort of thing, apparently. The housewives love him.’

‘Sir, you know that Verity Shore and Eve Wirrel both had a major artery cut. But not Conrad.’

‘Yeah, but like Eve Wirrel, there is no trace of
another person and no forced entry. This could easily have been made to look like a kinky game gone wrong or suicide, and he is a celebrity.’

She’d told Harris about the painting hidden behind Eve Wirrel’s wall and he’d shown her another secret door, a trap door. Into the underbelly of fame.

‘Eve Wirrel was drugged. Conrad’s bloodwork is clear,’ said Jessie.

‘So was Verity Shore’s, wasn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say clear, more like addled. But you’re right, there was nothing that would have put her out like Eve Wirrel.’

‘Because only Eve Wirrel died in a public place. She had to be kept quiet. And there are burns on Conrad’s wrists and ankles, suggesting he struggled for at least a few minutes.’ Jessie thought of the black-and-white picture above Eve’s bed.

‘My guess is,’ continued Harris, ‘Cary Conrad didn’t usually get that close.’

It was an unimaginable way to die. ‘How’s his wife?’ asked Jessie.

‘Beside herself, naturally. Thinks her husband has been murdered.’

‘Any history of fetishism?’

‘No. But, as I’m sure you know, the spouse is always the last to find out. Not that I’m speaking from experience, mind.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it, sir.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘Let’s compare notes, but I should tell you, I
have very little at the moment.’

‘Now, now, Driver, don’t say that. I hear you are a woman of exceptional talents.’ It took Jessie several seconds to realise he wasn’t being sarcastic.

‘So, are we a team, DI Driver?’ Harris held out his hand. Jessie took it. ‘Good, because I am sure these deaths are linked.’

Jessie pulled out the photograph that she had taken from Tarek. It was the Eve Wirrel head. Harris frowned. ‘Is that …?’

‘Yes. Another choice offering from Eve Wirrel. I didn’t know she worked with human faeces until today.’

‘Another link?’

Jessie shrugged. ‘It’s possible. We’re still looking for Verity Shore’s head. But I think we should keep this information to ourselves.’

‘Too right, or we’ll have a panic on our hands. Every bit-part actor from
The Bill
will be begging for protection. You know those types – Jesus, do they have an inflated sense of their own importance!’

Ray St Giles smiles for the cameras, his pale blue eyes glistening in the spotlights. ‘Good evening and welcome to
Today with Ray
. Eve Wirrel, the daughter of Sir Edward and Lady Fitz-Williams – landed gentry, ladies and gentlemen –’ he winks, then continues: ‘is dead. The art world, usually a
dour bunch, are split down the middle. Did she take her own life or did someone take it for her? Do they mourn the loss of this young talent or celebrate her bravery? You know me, audience, I’m a fairly straight-down-the-line kinda guy and, the thing is, I don’t have a clue what these art buffs have been talking about. We did a poll down the local shopping centre and it turns out that not a lot of you get it either. We showed people pictures of well-known contemporary pieces to get a feel of what the nation thinks about all this modern art.’

The face of Ray St Giles splits into a thousand squares and melts away. The Bluewater Shopping Centre appears on the screen.

‘Here in the studio, we have replicas of the pieces of art we were showing to the shoppers.’

The first offering – a mannequin with a female top half and male bottom half and a stack of raw beef on its head – is greeted with a collective groan from the audience. Next comes a fish bowl. The preserved goldfish are stuck to the outside. There is a giant cotton reel and a tiny button, a grey canvas with an off-centre orange square painted on it. There are others, but the real eye-catcher is the seven pairs of soiled Y-fronts.

St Giles smiles at the camera. ‘We couldn’t get the female staff to give up their own possessions, but our dedicated technical lads were all willing, with promises of many beers after the show, to donate their own masterpieces for the sake of art.
This is the Ray St Giles version of “A Particularly Heavy Week” by the late, great, Eve Wirrel …’

Jessie watched the footage of the shoppers: some grimaced, others laughed, one man berated the waste of tax-payers’ money and one pretty young girl eloquently denounced the lottery as a poor man’s tax which was being spent on wealthy men’s excesses.

‘Actress,’ said Tarek, who had returned to the station to watch the programme with Jessie. ‘Notice, no sign of Shit for Brains? You think this is bad,’ he said, seeing her face, ‘wait for the next bit.’

St Giles is introducing an ‘expert’. A Mr Bloomberg.

‘Mr Bloomberg, please explain to us mere mortals the importance of these works which sold collectively for £7.2 million, £4 million of which came from the National Lottery.’

‘Well, first and foremost, we must conclude that their importance is being demonstrated by you, right now, in the very fact that you are debating them on national television. Art of this calibre is indefatigable. It lends balance and purpose to a sometimes naïve world. It reflects this naïvety, yet at the same time repels it.’

‘Yes, Mr Bloomberg, but what does that
mean
?’

A titter escapes from the audience.

‘It means that these pieces reflect us, society.’

‘Because we are naïve?’

‘Sometimes?’ Mr Bloomberg smiles. He is being enigmatic. The scholars like that.

St Giles walks up to the mannequin. ‘So, what the artist is saying here is that if we eat beef we may turn into a lady-boy?’

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaa. No. Of course not.’

‘So what then?’

‘Jez Tamoikay, the creator of the original, takes everyday objects and belittles them through an action. You have to look back over his work to fully comprehend where he is going. This piece is proclaiming that promiscuity, the routine and nonsensical coupling of male and female bodies, will produce a germ in society that consumes as well as nourishes the growing fascination with sex. In this case, the germ is beef, its sickness reflected in the capitalist, anti-environmental world of the franchised fast-food chain and, of course, human vCJD. It is not clear where he lays the blame, only that it is cause and effect.’

‘Oh,’ says St Giles. ‘I see now. Thank you, Mr Bloomberg, for explaining that so clearly. And what of Eve Wirrel’s work?’

‘She liked to shock.’

‘And?’

‘Well, as a nation we are renowned for our reserve, our predisposition to shy away from all that is considered overt, demonstrative, explicit. Yet we scour the tabloids for titbits and tantalising tales. I think she was merely playing on that.’

‘So rumours that she was a talentless exhibitionist are unfounded?’

‘Absolutely. No one can deny that her mind was a creative nucleus and her talent as an artist was the vessel for such thinking.’

Ray frowns. ‘Eve Wirrel. Did she jump or was she pushed? After the break, meet our next guest, Eve’s old art teacher. Perhaps she can shed some light on the creative nucleus that was Eve Wirrel.’

‘Where does he find these people?’ said Jessie, muting the TV for the commercial break. It was habit. She did it at home. If television companies jacked up the volume for adverts, she would rebel by muting them. Volume control was key.

‘He hasn’t even shown any remorse that the woman is dead.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t care, so long as he gets noticed. He knew how she had died before the press did, I’m telling you, he knew.’

‘How does he get all this information?’ asked Jessie.

Tarek shrugged. ‘If you follow someone long enough, you’ll discover their weaknesses. If Ray isn’t behind this, then who is? A madman? A grieved starlet? It’s too contrived for that.’

Jessie turned to Niaz. ‘What do you think?’

‘He is very chippy, isn’t he? He resents everyone who has become any form of public figure. But he is ignorant and our killer is clever. He made a barbed comment about Eve’s parents, but
everyone knows that anyone with the name Fitz is no more than the descendant of an illegitimate offspring of the king. Hardly something to be proud of. These murders are graphic but subtle, too subtle for the likes of Ray St Giles.’

‘Don’t be fooled, he got two masters degrees and a doctorate while in the nick. One of those was in social history, the other was in mathematics. He isn’t the thick thug you think he is. I told you, don’t underestimate him,’ said Tarek.

Burrows knocked on the door. ‘Can I have a word?’

Jessie left Tarek and Niaz watching the television.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Burrows. Jessie explained Tarek’s fears and told him about the dossiers St Giles had on Verity Shore and Eve Wirrel. It was possible Cary Conrad was in the files too, Tarek had only glimpsed them and couldn’t remember. Burrows dismissed her theory. ‘He’s spent nine years in the nick, why would he want to go back there?’

‘Because maybe he doesn’t think he will. You and I both know that we cannot put an accurate time on either of the deaths. We have no witnesses, no real motive, it would be hard to prove anything beyond reasonable doubt right now. These killings are all about planning. Tarek says St Giles has information on people, and he’s certainly had the time to plan. Nine years of educating himself and learning every trick in the book.’

‘But why, boss?’

She didn’t know why, she couldn’t even imagine why, and that was the weakness in her argument.

‘Do you want to know what the boys think?’ asked Burrows. Jessie nodded. ‘Forget Cary Conrad. He drowned in his own shit, we’ve seen worse fetishes than that.’

‘His death reflects a vice, like the others, and he kept his wife hidden. She was the secret. And then there are the properties. All listed buildings.’

‘Come on, ma’am. If you manipulate anything enough, it will fit the profile.’

‘The sperm-bank joke I can handle, the strap-on even, but that I find insulting.’

Burrows was not in an apologetic mood. ‘I spoke to a mate who works for Harris. They’re going through Conrad’s computer, and they must be pretty sure they’ll find something otherwise they wouldn’t go to that expense. His private secretary, a bloke, seems to have gone on extended leave and forgotten to leave a forwarding address. Cary Conrad is confusing the issue. The issue is P. J. Dean. It’s the only answer. In fact, we were wondering why you hadn’t brought him in.’

Jessie crossed her arms and looked away.

‘He’s got the money,’ said Burrows. ‘And his drug addict, money-spending wife was shagging Eve Wirrel. Public humiliation was on the cards, and possibly the loss of those boys you say he cares so much about.’

Jessie looked at Burrows. ‘I hear you – I do – but I don’t think he did it.’

‘Then why not bring him in?’

‘I’d rather get a court order and have a look at Ray St Giles’ files.’

‘You’re not serious …’

The door to the office opened. It was Niaz. ‘Ray’s on again,’ he said.

‘We have to talk about this, ma’am.’

Niaz remained in the doorway.

‘Later,’ pleaded Burrows.

Jessie looked over her shoulder. ‘I’m doing
Crime Watch
. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Then she returned to the TV and watched as Ray St Giles tore Eve Wirrel apart.

Brown nylon carpet crackled against her sensible, rubber-soled shoes. Every brushed-aluminium door handle was the perfect conductor for the electricity she was gathering as she followed the neat little arse of the production assistant. Another spark erupted from the end of her finger.

‘Nervous?’ asked the twenty-year-old TV doll clutching a clipboard.

Crime Watch
. Live audience. Nick Ross. ‘No,’ said Jessie. I’m
fucking
nervous. I’m so fucking nervous I’m generating wattage.

‘Wait here, I’ll come and get you when they’re ready. You can watch the programme in here, but
keep the volume down.’ Jessie took a pair of high-heeled boots out of her bag. The TV doll looked her up and down. ‘It is detective inspector, isn’t it?’

Jessie’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s what it says on my badge.’

The girl bounced out of the room, taking her customised combat trousers and pink trainers with her. Was Jessie getting older or was everyone getting younger? Cockier? And better dressed? Jessie ran her fingers through her hair, it was sticky with the make-up artist’s hairspray. She changed into the boots that would lift her to the commanding height of 5’11” and waited, trying to remember to breathe. Eventually she was shown on to the set. Foreign only in its familiarity. Nick Ross was summing up Eve Wirrel’s murder. As promised, he had not mentioned Verity Shore or Cary Conrad; Jessie didn’t want to fan Ray St Giles’ fire. ‘… And here is Detective Inspector Driver from West End Central CID.’

‘Good evening. Eve Wirrel went to Richmond Park some time last Wednesday, we believe with her killer. They ate a rudimentary picnic, hidden in which was the drug Rohypnol. Having fallen unconscious, Eve was left in the Isabella Plantation to die. We want to hear from anyone who was in the park who may have seen her. And we would also like to talk to a cyclist who was in the area early on Friday, October 11th, at around six a.m.’

‘You have a map to show the viewers where she may have been?’

‘Yes.’ Jessie turned to the board behind her, then remembered that this wasn’t a briefing room and turned back. She stood like a weather girl, pointing out Eve’s house, where she was found, and the routes victim and murderer might have taken.

‘You also want to talk to any models that posed for her.’

‘Eve was working on a collection of drawings of men when she died. We are asking those we have not yet contacted to call the number at the bottom of the screen – in confidence, of course – so we can eliminate them from our enquiries.’

‘So, to recap,’ said the presenter, ‘if you were in Richmond Park on Wednesday the fifteenth, or have modelled for the artist, please call this number. Now, over to Fiona for an update –’

‘Going to camera two,’ said the voice in Jessie’s ear. ‘Five, four, three, two, one. You’re off air.’

Nick Ross turned to Jessie. ‘Very good. If you weren’t a copper, I’d worry about my job.’ He smiled and turned away. The TV doll appeared from behind a mess of wires and cameras and beckoned her over. Jessie breathed a sigh of relief. She could go home and shake alone.

Maggie jumped up from the low sofa in the reception area of the BBC building and hugged her.

‘You were brilliant! Really, you came across so calm, so Poirot.’

Jessie peeled the identity sticker off her leather jacket and screwed it up between her fingers. ‘You’re sweet for coming. Take me somewhere and get me very pissed now.’

‘You didn’t look nervous at all. That Nick Ross couldn’t take his eyes off you. Honestly, you’ll be after my job next.’

‘Not enough entrails in your line of work,’ said Jessie as they were bundled through the revolving door and out into the purple-tinted London night sky. ‘I want martinis and I want many.’

‘Let’s go to Claridge’s, live it up a little. After all, it’s your second TV appearance in a week. We’ll get some sucker businessman to pay – with all that studio make-up and the tight suit, you could be a professional.’

‘Why do I know you’re not talking about a lawyer or a doctor –’

‘Or a copper. Jessie Driver, a fucking detective inspector, on the telly, solving murders like she said she would. I can’t believe you’ve done it, can you?’

‘No,’ said Jessie honestly, as she hailed a cab. She hadn’t done anything yet.

The heads of blood-red roses filled the low, square vases, the leather seat swallowed her and the candles reflected a thousand flames in the cut-glass deco mirrors that hung on the wall. A skinny waiter arrived with the second round of vodka martinis.

‘I’m only just beginning to feel normal,’ said
Jessie, lifting the glass to her lips with a steady hand. ‘I don’t know how you do that every day and live. It’s terrifying.’

‘From the girl who’d wrestle an axe-wielding homicidal maniac to the floor. Cheers. Now don’t look round, but there is a man at the bar who keeps looking over, and after surreptitiously studying him I am reluctant to report that it is you he is ogling like a bloodhound and not me or my L’Oreal hair.’

‘I thought you were over that?’

‘Only temporarily. Wait until I’m really famous – I’ll make sure Joshua Cadell never types a word again. As for his mother, she makes me look like an amateur. She only went and used all the information about my new programme on France to get herself in it. She called up the producer and told him it was my idea, so I can’t even be pissed off. She’s a pro. I’ll be stuck with them both for a week.’

‘Don’t you think it’s weird, that Joshua goes everywhere with his mother?’

‘If you’re only ever going to be known as one thing, you may as well get used to it and cash in.’

‘Which is?’

‘Dame Henrietta Cadell’s son. Oh my God, he’s coming over.’

‘Who?’

‘The man from the bar.’

Jessie mouthed the word ‘no’ but it was too late. Maggie gave him her TV personality smile and reeled him in.

‘Look, I’m very sorry to disturb you, I don’t normally do this but, um …’ He looked at Jessie. ‘Did I just see you on
Crime Watch
?’

‘Yes, you did,’ said Maggie.

‘Thought so. That’s so weird, you look exactly the same.’

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ said Maggie maliciously. The man did not seem to notice.

‘It’s an amazing case. I mean, it’s huge.’

Jessie took a protracted sip of martini and nearly choked.

‘Policemen don’t normally look like you,’ he said.

‘Except in Bangkok,’ said Maggie. Jessie kicked her.

‘My mates won’t believe this. We were in the office watching you. I mean, you know,
Crime Watch
 …Well, it’s good to see it, just in case. Anyway, could I have your autograph?’

Maggie spat out her drink and howled with laughter. ‘Autograph! Autograph – Jesus, I would have been less shocked if you’d asked her for a quick one in the gents. Sorry, my friend doesn’t give autographs.’ She turned to Jessie: ‘Do you?’

Jessie shook her head then looked at the now crimson man. ‘Sorry. It’s police procedure.’

He backed off. ‘Of course, sorry. Good luck, I hope you catch him.’

‘Who?’

‘The Z-list Killer.’

‘The who?’

‘Oh, there are some gags, you know, going around the internet. Anyway, sorry to disturb you. Bye.’

‘Bye,’ said Jessie. ‘The Z-list Killer – I mean, really.’

‘I told you,’ said Maggie dramatically. ‘It’s gripping the nation.’ She watched the man return to the bar. ‘I can’t believe it. He didn’t even recognise me.’