Dead Gorgeous (A Mystery for D.I. Costello) (10 page)

The “space” didn’t take long to be filled. Angela couldn’t help being amused by the sheepish expression on Gary’s face as he came into the house behind Madeleine a short while later.

“I’ve been invited in for a coffee, Angie. I hope you don’t mind.”

Gary recognized, as Madeleine didn’t seem to, that having a junior officer coming in to her home on a social basis might not be what Angela wanted. She smiled to reassure him. “Not at all, you’re very welcome.”

“There’s a murder all over the front page today; Kirsty somebody… Is that the one you had to go and see to yesterday, Angie?” asked Madeleine.

“Yes,” replied Angela.

“What a stunner! She could have been a model.”

“Which is probably the only reason she made the front page,” said Patrick drily. “Sometimes I hate the way the media manipulates the news.”

Madeleine looked at Gary. “The way the media carries on is one of Dad’s soapbox things,” she said. She turned back to Angela. “Will you be doing a press conference?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Angela replied. “But you never know.”

“OK.” Madeleine’s nose twitched and she turned her head towards the oven. “Hey, something smells good. I’m starving!”

In the kitchen, out of Gary’s eyeline Patrick raised his eyes to heaven and gave a good-natured shrug. “It’s very nearly ready and you’ll spoil your appetite if you go drinking coffee this close to eating.”

“Oh… er…” Madeleine managed to look a little abashed and threw a quick, questioning glance at Angela and her father.

Angela picked up the hint and grinned at Gary. “Do you want to stay to dinner, Gaz?”

“That’d be great, thanks. If you’re sure it’s no trouble. We were talking about music and Madeleine’s got this CD that –”

“It’s all right; you don’t have to explain yourself. You two go and get comfy and have your chat about Vaughan Williams or whoever, and I’ll call you when the meal’s ready. We’re going to be joined by our parish priest.”

“Fortunately it’s a big lasagne,” said Patrick.

Gary and Madeleine disappeared into the living room. Angela went into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. “I must say your daughter’s a smooth operator,” she said. “If I was wearing a hat I’d take it off to her.”

Patrick looked up from where he was pouring two glasses of wine and smirked. “She gets it from the old man; charm personified.”

Angela laughed and embraced him. As she pulled away again she saw the newspaper lying on the worktop. Patrick followed the direction of her eyes. “It’s true, though, about Kirsty, isn’t it? Mind you, we saw that for ourselves at the mortuary this morning.”

As the melodies of Vaughan Williams drifted in from the living room, Patrick paused, looking down at the headline story, his face sad. “Those poor parents,” he muttered.

Angela hugged him again. “Come on, let’s get the table laid,” she said.

From his Richmond Hill penthouse, not too far away from Angela and Patrick’s home, Nigel Summers gazed out into the evening. This window offered a vista across some of the most expensive real estate in the country, and beyond that gave
glimpses of the river. He loved this view. For him it had come to symbolize everything he had achieved in life; and he had no intention of losing any of it. He knew his relationship with Kirsty could have done serious damage to his plans, and he felt very glad to have got her out of his life when he did. He admired her ambition, but she had no idea how to carry off the lifestyle.

She was shrewd, though, he had to admit. Especially if she’d managed to get Ian rattled in case she had some of his designs. Normally when Ian finished with a woman, he walked away without looking back, but from what Nigel could gather, he was still taking calls from her on the day she died. Nigel felt restless and uneasy; if he’d had his way, all connection with Kirsty would have been severed some time ago. Absently, as he turned the situation over in his mind, he drummed his fingers on the elegant French-polished console table. His gaze wandered from the view through the window to the silver-framed picture of himself with his mother; a similar photograph to the one on his desk at work.

Mother was always very understanding about his women; but he knew she wouldn’t countenance Kirsty for a moment, and Nigel trusted her judgment implicitly.

Sinking into his sumptuous sofa, tastefully upholstered in top-grain leather, Nigel felt for his CD player remote and let flow a soothing surge of Sibelius.
Oh well,
he mused,
Let’s hope the worst is over. If my name was going to come up in connection with that little trollop, it would surely have done so today when the police came to the unit
. But still his mind hovered stubbornly over the debacle of Kirsty, looking back now to that morning when the telephone call had come. He’d barely had time to lift the receiver to his ear when Ian spoke.

“Nigel, it’s Ian.”

And Nigel had been immediately alert, instantly detecting an indefinable quality in Ian’s voice that did not augur well.

“Morning, Ian. Is there –”

“I won’t beat about the bush. Something awful has happened over here… well, not over here exactly… it’s just awful…”

Fearing that the call would go contrary to Ian’s stated intention, Nigel interrupted: “What is it?”

“Kirsty.”

“Yes? What about her?” he prompted.

“Bad news, Nigel; I’m afraid she’s dead.”

Nigel gasped. “Dead…? Did you… you did
say
‘dead’, didn’t you?”

“I did. But it gets worse. She was murdered.”

“Ian! What on earth’s happened… I mean… do you know anything about it?”

“The bare facts only, so far; it seems she was found dead yesterday afternoon by her flatmate.”

“I… I… I don’t know what to say.”

“It doesn’t appear to have anything to do with us, but the police might want to interview those who knew her…”

“Good grief, yes! Whether it’s got anything to do with us or not, can’t you just see the headlines?”

“Oh yes.
Ivano King girlfriend found murdered
,” intoned Ian.

“Exactly! Whatever shall we do?”

“We’ll play it cool for a start,” replied Ian. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. We can’t be implicated. This isn’t going to rebound on us. We can relax as far as that goes. The whole world loves a good murder, and it won’t do any harm if Ivano King is seen to be a bit close to the edge. Nothing like a tragedy to set tongues wagging, and nothing like a bit of gossip to bring us to the forefront of minds that had almost forgotten us.”

“You’re right,” agreed Nigel, beginning to rally from the shock. “On the face of it,” he continued with a new note of optimism, “there’s no need for me to be questioned at all. I haven’t been involved with Kirsty for a while. I can rely on you
to be discreet, I know – but you’ll keep me fully informed, as things develop?”

“Of course,” said Ian.

He’d spent most of the day on tenterhooks, half-expecting some plod to appear in the shop asking for “a word”. He’d already worked out how to handle such an eventuality. “Of course I knew, Kirsty, officer. We had a little bit of a thing going for a while, but that’s been all over for ages.” Nigel had rehearsed the conversation. He’d be fully cooperative, his eyes wide, his face open and honest. He’d gloss over the fact that he was the one that dumped her. “Looking back, I think I just offered a stepping stone to something more high-profile, officer. She caught Ian’s eye, and she was off. Well, you can’t really blame her, can you? He’s got celebrity status, after all.”

Nigel heard no more from Ian until late that afternoon, when he called to say the police had been to the unit, interviewed the staff and seemed satisfied with all they had discovered. Nigel allowed himself a sigh of relief at this point.

As the Sibelius piece died away, the opening bars of Ravel’s
Bolero
filled the room. He’d keep his act on the back-burner but it seemed less likely to be needed, after all. He remembered, with a profound sense of relief, the moment he had taken the opportunity to destroy any sign of a connection between them.

It was the day, not long after taking her to the
Passionista
party, he’d earmarked for telling Kirsty he couldn’t see her any more. This had assumed an aspect of urgency when it had dawned on him that she had long-term plans for their relationship, which hadn’t been his intention at all. Still new to her job and wide-eyed at the famous names and showbusiness connections all round her, Kirsty had seemed both star-struck and naive. He hadn’t grasped the depth of her ambition. It wasn’t just about him, it was about living in his world – a high-
flying executive, celebrity-filled world. She saw modelling as the route to what she really wanted.

Kirsty wasn’t sophisticated, but neither was she stupid. Some of the things she’d said about the hiring of the models, for instance, showed that she had a cunning grasp of matters which surprised and – if he was being truthful – worried him. It was then that he realized she could make life difficult. She had to go.

She’d taken his announcement badly. A look of shock had been immediately followed by the appearance of tears. Her deep blue eyes overflowed. She even looked lovely when she was distressed. “Why, Nigel, why? We’re getting on so well. We’re good together. I thought we had something special. I love you. I don’t want to break up with you.” Then she’d tried to seduce him out of his decision with sex; it was the only bargaining counter she had, really; it always came back to that. She seemed to think if a woman gave a man everything he wanted in the bedroom, he’d give her everything she wanted out of it. That was where she showed her naivety.

He’d benefited from that last session of love-making, though. She’d gone all out to impress; he could still become a little breathless at the memory. And then, unusually for her, she’d fallen asleep, which is when Nigel had found himself alone in his living room with her mobile.

He’d been aghast at what he found in the phone. She’d kept every text they’d ever exchanged, not that there were many. But even those few were too many. He was honest enough to admit to himself that here, he’d been the naive one. He located his own number in her contacts list and deleted it. He then went meticulously through the phone and got rid of every possible thing which could link them. When she woke up and realized he hadn’t changed his mind, in spite of the good time she’d given him, she became tearful, and he knew he had to lay it on the line for her.

He’d played it straight. “Look, Kirsty, we’ve had a bit of fun; a laugh. But that’s all it was, and it’s over. It happens. Now, you’ve got a nice little job out at the unit. If you’re sensible you’ll just keep your head down and get on with it.”

The flash of awareness in her eyes as she listened to him, affirmed his intuition about the cunning quality of her nature, but she covered it very quickly with a tearful look of resignation. He almost admired her. In that instant he could see she knew the score. If she made a fuss, she would suddenly find herself without a job. She wasn’t the first woman who’d slept with her boss and had then become an embarrassment to be got rid of, and she wouldn’t be the last.

Had he entertained any lingering doubts about his treatment of Kirsty, her subsequent history would have reassured him. Not a month had gone by before he heard the first whisper about her and Ian. Well, of course, she’d think she had it in the bag now – Ian, the man behind Ivano King. And if she fancied a bit of rough, there was always her regular boyfriend who, so far as he could tell, she kept stringing along. Nigel smiled, settling further into his sofa as he considered this. Oh yes, that young lady knew exactly what she wanted and she went straight for it.

He still hadn’t got his head round her now being completely off the radar. It felt odd to think she’d gone. Happily, though, the police hadn’t even cast a look in his direction. And he knew Ian wouldn’t mention it. There was nothing left to link him with her at all.

Ian’s Porsche glided smoothly to a halt outside his front door; he sat for a few moments staring absently at the street. He felt as though he had been at work for much longer than eight hours and was completely drained.

He’d had no deep affection for Kirsty and, in any case, considered himself in control of his emotions, normally. The
traumatic effect of the day surprised him. Events themselves had been bad enough to begin with, but a couple of the tabloids had ferreted out his connection with Kirsty. Jenni had got rid of them efficiently, but he knew they would try again. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and made himself relax.

He let himself out of the car and stood up, stretching his long form slightly to ease the residue of tension. A delightful breeze came towards him from the river and he stood for a moment without moving to enjoy its refreshing coolness. After a few moments he moved across to his front door.

The blow seemed to come from nowhere. One minute he was putting his hand into his pocket for his house keys and the next, something hit him in the middle of his back with such force that he was unable to prevent himself from sprawling across the pavement.

He was just about to raise himself on his hands and look round to see what had hit him when he felt a sharp kick in his side. He half-turned and saw the toe of a boot swinging straight at his head. Instinctively he curled himself into a ball, pulling his head into his hands. This action protected him causing the next kick to miss the target and catch his elbow. He let out a cry that was half-expletive and half-shriek of fear. Someone yelled “Hey!” and he heard feet clattering noisily from the direction of the river. Peeping from between his arms he saw a pair of legs turn and run away from the noise.

Coughing and spluttering he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position and looked round for his assailant.

There was nobody to be seen.

The owners of the feet, a young couple, reached him.

“Are you all right?” asked the man, squatting down to Ian’s level.

“What happened?” asked his female companion, peering with a concerned expression into Ian’s face.