Last Gasp (22 page)

Jess woke in the chair to the sound
of her mobile ringing. Checking it, she saw it was the same number as earlier
that evening. Then, she’d had neither the energy nor inclination to answer it.
But with everything that was going on, she supposed she ought to. She brought
the phone to her ear, and waited.

'’Jess?’ Hello? Jess, are you there?'

A woman’s voice. Familiar.
Tearful?

'Jess, it’s Rosanna. Please talk to me.'

Rosanna?

‘I’m here Rosanna. What’s wrong?'
She sounds worse than I
feel.

'I’m sorry if I’m- I don’t like to bother you, but-’

‘What is it, Rosanna?’

‘The last time we spoke. You told me to call, if I was
worried about Jamie?'

Jess remembered. The day he got the call from ‘Angie’. When
Rosanna spoke of his nightmares.

'When he left, he said something about you perhaps needing
company?'

‘He did?’
The last thing I need right now is company
.
But the woman was clearly upset. She remembered his last words to her.
Rosanna’s
on her own... you’d find her understanding.
Had he been trying to tell her
something?

'Did he give you my address?'

'Yes.’

'Bring a bag. You’re staying the night.'

As Shepherd settled into the sofa
that was as comfortable as he remembered, he wondered how many times Carver had
sat there. Not that it mattered. Tonight it was his turn to make the play.
About to place his mug down on the coffee table, he noticed its sparklingly
clear surface. He hesitated, and cast about for something to put it on. But
nothing was to hand and Megan didn’t move to offer him a coaster. He had no
option but to cradle it in his hands.
Whatever
. He cleared his throat to
speak. She beat him to it.

'So what’s so important you needed to see me so urgently,
Gary?'

He wasn’t sure if there was a hint of mockery in her tone.
If there was, he would soon change it. 'Jamie asked me to check on you while he
was away. To make sure you weren’t worrying about Cosworth, or anything.'

She looked surprised. 'That’s odd. I told Jamie I was fine.
Especially with two policemen guarding me.' She turned, slightly, in the
general direction of the front gates where the blue Mondeo hadn’t moved since
she’d returned home.

Shepherd shifted, beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable.
'Yes, well… He also wanted me to check in case you’ve remembered anything else
about him. Anything he said, or…?’ Though he’d rehearsed the words several
times, he was conscious that for some reason they suddenly seemed rather
hollow.

'Or, what? Something other than the twelve-page statement I
gave to Jess you mean?' The corner of her mouth turned up just enough to
register.

 'Umm… well you might have remembered something new since
then.'

‘I might… But I haven’t.’ Her gaze settled on him. She
waited.

Shepherd felt himself beginning to redden -
Damn the
bitch -
and sought refuge in his coffee. When he looked up, she was still
waiting, only now there was no mistaking the thin smile. The two dark pools
bored into him and the confidence that had driven him to come drained away as
surely as if she’d pulled a plug. In that moment, as Shepherd rummaged for
something – anything - he might use to justify his visit, he saw with absolute
certainty that things were never going to go the way he’d imagined. Not for the
first time, the compulsion that drove him to follow in the footsteps of the man
he both revered and hated had led him to miscalculate. But even as the seeds of
panic began to sow themselves, he remembered. At the end of the day, Megan
Crane was a witness. And as ASIO to the Kerry Enquiry, he had every right to
call on a witness. He relaxed. He even managed to return her smile, safe in in
the knowledge that even if the imaginings that had brought him were based on a
misconception – as it was beginning to look like they may have been- there was
never any harm in trying.

Jess glanced over at Rosanna, curled
up on the couch in front of the fire, the empty wine glass dangling from her
fingers. She wished sleep would come to her as easily, but their long
conversation still resounded, pushing the prospect of sleep way out of reach.

Nothing Rosanna had said had come as much of a surprise.
She’d seen most of the changes Rosanna described in Jamie herself of late. The
tension, the moodiness, the uncharacteristic reluctance to share his thoughts.
But as Rosanna made clear, whatever was gnawing away at him had been there for
weeks, rather than days. And it was getting worse. Not only were the two barely
speaking, it seemed Jamie had told Rosanna remarkably little about the enquiry,
even less about Megan Crane. Instead he’d been staying up late or coming home
in the early hours, saying only that he’d been, 'working late.'

Jess was sure that Rosanna’s worst fears - she didn’t
actually voice them, but Jess could tell they were there – were groundless. But
when she tried to reassure her, she struggled.

Clearly, there were things Jamie preferred Rosanna not to
know, both about Kerry and his work in general. She’d wondered how much she
knew about his previous cases. Not much, it turned out. She worried that if she
said the wrong thing, she might reveal something he wanted kept locked away,
perhaps for good reason. Even so, there were things she thought Rosanna could
know that might help. Things such as that the Kerry murders were not, 'just
another series of murders,' as he’d said, but involved bizarre sexual practices
most people would find disturbing. And that Megan Crane - Rosanna had heard the
name but little else - knew about such things and was working with them to help
catch the killer. But as Rosanna pressed her, again, about, ‘This Megan Crane,’
Jess realised she was leaving bits out. Bits she felt she couldn’t talk about
without giving the wrong impression. Such as Megan’s ability to draw people in,
to ensnare them. She still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t actually been more open
about her being a dominatrix. Presumably Rosanna would have guessed as much -
wouldn’t she? But it was when Jess referred back to the Hart case that she
slipped up and mentioned Angie.

'Angie?' Rosanna said.

Jess kicked herself. Trying to explain about Megan had been
bad enough. She tried her best.

'He has seen this Angie recently,' Rosanna said when Jess
finished. It was a statement, not a question.

Jess didn’t know how she knew, but put it down to a worried
lover’s intuition.

'The day I phoned you,' she said. 'But I was there when he
took her call. I’m sure he hadn’t heard from her in a long time.' But she
couldn’t say why he’d had to drop everything to rush off and see her.

Which was where it all broke down.

For all that Jess tried to reassure Rosanna - putting
Jamie’s behaviour down to the pressures of the investigation - there was a gap
in her knowledge. Eventually she ran out of things to say, at least in terms
Rosanna might understand.

They sat in silence for a while, then Rosanna reached out
and squeezed Jess’s hand.

'Thank you,' she said. A couple of minutes later she added,
'I’m sorry, Jess.'

Jess wasn’t sure what she meant but
when she turned to ask, Rosanna was asleep. After staring into the flames for a
long time, Jess decided. There were questions Rosanna had raised for which she
had no answers. But she knew where she might find some.

Detective Constable Tony Turner
roused himself as the sound of a car engine firing up echoed down the drive. He
looked up towards the house. Shepherd’s Saab was turning round, making ready to
leave. He nudged the man dozing next to him. 'Dan. Wake up. He’s off.'

Dan Hewitt jerked himself upright and shook himself awake.
The last thing they needed was for Shepherd to catch them sleeping on the job.
He checked the time. ‘Quarter-past two? Fuck me.’ The Saab started down towards
them. 'Five hours? He’s had a good fucking night.'

As the Saab stopped just before the gate, the detectives
shielded their eyes from the glare of its headlights but waved to signal they
were alert and awake. The Saab’s lights flashed an acknowledging signal, then
he was through the gates and heading down the private track that led to the
main road through the village. As the tail-lights disappeared they both turned
to look back up at the house. All was in darkness.

'That’s a tenner,' Tony said, holding out a hand.

Dan shook his head, ruefully, and rummaged in his wallet.

'All I can say is, she’s gone right down in my estimation. I
didn’t think she’d give him the time of fucking day. Just goes to show doesn’t
it?' He passed the note to his partner, took a last look up at the house, then
settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.

'Now, where was I?'

The houses were the sort the Dutch
call, ‘Merchant’s Houses’. Like many of their type, they overlooked one of
Amsterdam’s many canals. Carver couldn’t remember which one. He’d lost his
bearings within a minute of them leaving the car on the meter into which Erik
had actually fed coins. ‘Bastards at Headquarters are clamping down,’ he
growled, seeing Carver’s surprise.

As they crossed yet another ornate footbridge with intricate
ironwork, Erik pointed across at a house which, apart from being bright blue -
the others were mostly yellows and oranges - was indistinguishable from the
rest. ‘There,’ he said, as if he were one of the country’s famous
circumnavigators spotting landfall. Given what Erik had told him about the place
they were heading for, Carver wondered how Erik knew which building it was
before they were close enough to make out numbers.

Carver remembered visiting a ‘preserved example’ of such a
‘Merchant’s House,’ during a leisure-break weekend with Gill, years before. He
was surprised, therefore, when he stepped through the open front door and
discovered that the two properties could not have been more different. At some
stage in its recent history, the house had been gutted and re-built from the
ground up. Open staircases connected what looked like a series of mezzanines
constructed from a range of wooden, glass and metal materials. The arrangement
meant it was possible to see up as far as the roof – which was also partly
glass. The design allowed light to flood in and reach areas which, before the
rebuild, would never have seen any. Carver thought it looked stunning, the sort
of thing you might see in a Bond film. It wasn’t the only similarity.

Amongst the spotlights, reflectors and cameras littering the
various levels, floated several men and women. Most of the men were dark,
muscular, and swarthy - villains’ henchmen types. The woman on the other hand
were toned, tanned, good-looking and, in most cases, not wearing much.

As Erik turned to check Carver’s reactions, Carver tried to
look as if porn-sets were ten-a-penny in Warrington. Erik wasn’t fooled.
Turning, he spoke with the slim young man dressed all in black and sporting a
full beard who came rushing over to intercept them. Erik spoke in English,
telling him they were Police officers and showing his identification, before
informing him they were there to see Oscar Werner. If the young man was phased
by the police arriving on set wanting to see his Producer, he didn’t show it.
Looking up, he shouted.

‘HEY, OSCAR.’

A couple of mezzanines up, a shaven-headed black man lent
over a metal railing to gaze down on them. The way his muscles bulged under his
black tee-shirt, Carver wondered if he also had a performing role. The young
man jerked a thumb at Erik and Carver.

‘Police. They want to talk to you.’

Oscar looked somewhere between annoyed and intrigued. ‘What
about?’

‘Katelijne Mertens,’ Erik said.

Oscar hesitated, then called, ‘Come up. Mind the cables.’

As they passed the various levels, Carver took in what he
assumed were the normal trappings of such productions. Beds in various states
of disarray. Bare flesh. Sex paraphernalia. He wondered what went on there when
it wasn’t being used as today. He was also conscious that some of the actors –
both sexes – were eyeing them, or maybe just Erik, in a way that suggested that
bagging a police officer still carries a certain cache in some quarters.

They reached Oscar’s level as he finished telling everyone
to take five and that he would call them when he was ready to go again. Turning
to them he said, ‘Coffee?’

‘Five minutes later, they were sitting on a corner-couch
arrangement on one of the upper levels. Below, cast and crew had gathered to
smoke, drink coffee, and speculate over what the police were after. Mixed with
the cigarette smoke drifting up was a pungent smell Carver had no difficulty
recognising. They were in Amsterdam.

‘So tell me,’ Oscar said, sipping from his steaming
Styrofoam cup. ‘What’s your interest in Katelijne?’

Erik turned to Carver.
Over to you
. He took his cue.

Carver told the former porn-star how he was investigating
Katelijne’s involvement in a modelling shoot that might have a bearing on a
murder enquiry. He didn’t mention fetish and skipped over the details of the
killings themselves. Oscar listened in silence, staring at him as if he were
weighing him for a part, though it would have to have been someone’s father.
Carver ended with, ‘I’m hoping Katelijne may be able to tell me something that
would point towards our murderer. She might even have an idea where he’s gone
to ground.’

Oscar looked at Erik. ‘Gone to ground?’

‘Where he’s hiding,’ Erik said. Oscar nodded.

Carver waited. Oscar finished his coffee. Carver prompted
him. ‘Do you know where I can find Katelijne?’

As Oscar took a deep breath, his chest expanded and his
muscles rippled in way that hinted at his former, career. ‘You won’t find
Katelijne Mertens in Amsterdam. Or anywhere for that matter.’

Carver’s stomach sank.
She’s dead?

‘Why not?’ Erik said.

Oscar shrugged, like it was no big deal. ‘She doesn’t go by
that name anymore.’ Carver’s depression lifted. ‘She goes by the name, Franky,
now. She runs Jeux.’

In the silence that followed, Carver wondered what he was
missing. Oscar’s face read,
Conversation over
. He turned to Erik. His colleague’s
face was a mix of surprise, amusement, and admiration. He passed Carver the
knowing look Carver was beginning to find irritating.

‘What’s Jeux?’ Carver said.