The Blissfully Dead

by Louise Voss

  When she’d finished writing to Shawn she sat back, sweating, wondering if she’d done the wrong thing. She was pretty sure Shawn would understand. That he would believe her when she said she had no idea it would all get so out of hand. But what if he didn’t? What if it made him hate her? She waited for five excruciating minutes before a reply came back.

  It wasn’t your fault, he wrote. How could you have known that would happen?

  She exhaled with relief.

  Do you think I should tell the police?

  Another long pause while he typed.

  Why don’t you leave it to me? I met the chief detective on the case. Let me talk to him, see what he thinks. I’ll put in a good word for you.

  She had tears in her eyes now. He was such a good person. So lovely.

  Thank you ☺ she wrote.

  No probs, babes. So . . . ready to meet up? How does this afternoon sound?

  She didn’t hesitate. Perfect, she wrote. I can’t wait!!

  She called goodbye to her mum, saying that she was going out shopping with a friend, and let herself out of the house before her mother noticed the amount of make-up she was wearing, and that she had on platform shoes that weren’t strictly suitable for shopping. Trembling with excitement, she pulled out her phone and double-checked the instructions. A car would pick her up outside the newsagent’s round the corner at 4 p.m. – obviously Shawn didn’t want to arouse suspicion by having the car pick her up from home. It was 3.57 p.m.

  This was really happening! As she let herself out of the front gate, her face entirely overtaken by a massive grin, she turned to see her little brother upstairs, gazing curiously out through his bedroom window at her. When he caught her eye he made a horrible face at her, squishing his nose against the glass and pressing his splayed fingers up on either side of his face. She laughed, louder than she normally would have done – a welcome release of the bubble and fizz of adrenalin – and he looked suitably gratified.

  Bless him, she thought. He’s all right really, for a kid brother.

  Life felt great.

  She couldn’t help entertaining a fantasy that Shawn fancied her and that this was just an elaborate ruse for him to get to know her. They’d keep their relationship secret for a while – how long? A few months, probably, because after all she was only just sixteen. God, though, better make it longer. The OnT fans would rip off her head if they found out she was going out with Shawn. Come to that, she thought, they’d probably rip her head off right now if they knew where she was going.

  Not that she knew where they were going either. Shawn had said it was best that way, in case his messages were being hacked and the press turned up.

  If they got married, it would probably be best that they move abroad, to some massive estate on a cliff somewhere hot. Of course, Shawn would be away a lot, but that would be all right – OnT had so much security whenever they went anywhere, she and Shawn would be safe if they were together, and of course he’d want her to come on tour with them . . . And the money! She’d be so rich that she could buy her mum and dad a really nice house. Maybe even next to where she and Shawn were going to live. They always said they wanted to retire somewhere hot.

  But, of course, the money was only an added bonus. She’d marry Shawn in a heartbeat even if he was penniless.

  As she walked towards the main road, feeling as though her feet were floating above the pavement, she saw the car waiting for her. A black Audi A4 – she only recognised it because Shawn had told her this was what it would be, and she’d Google-imaged it. She wouldn’t have had a clue what they looked like otherwise.

  Even though she already knew it wouldn’t be Shawn himself behind the wheel, her bowels clenched with nerves when she saw it. Any vestiges of fear that this was some sort of elaborate wind-up vanished, replaced instead with a different fear: that Shawn would be disappointed in her somehow; think her too young or too naïve.

  She had to remind herself that this wasn’t a date. She was getting carried away with all the excitement. This was for charity.

  It was still real, though. She was still going to meet Shawn Barrett, and then she’d be in the papers with him, maybe on TV. Who knew what might come of it?

  The tinted passenger window slid down when she drew level with the car.

  ‘Hi, Chloe, jump in,’ said the driver, leaning across and smiling at her. He was clean-shaven with a nice smile, black shades, a dark suit and chauffeur’s hat. Chloe couldn’t help feeling very slightly put out, though, that he hadn’t leapt out to open the back door for her. Weren’t chauffeurs meant to do that? Maybe they only did that for VIPs.

  She bent down and looked in. ‘Should I get in the front?’

  ‘You do that,’ said the driver, winking at her.

  Chloe pulled open the heavy door and climbed in, grinning uncontrollably.

  ‘Hi. Oh my God, I’m so excited to see Shawn again.’

  The driver checked his rearview mirror and pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘He’s excited to see you too. Great to meet you, Chloe. I’m Pete, Shawn’s driver.’

  ‘Hello, Pete,’ said Chloe solemnly. ‘Can I take a photo of you? I’m thinking I might write a blog about this after, you know, about the whole day.’ She pulled her phone out of her Paul’s Boutique handbag, but Pete put a hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture.

  ‘Whoah, hold on! Sorry, but I’m not allowed to have my photo taken. You know how it is – strict company policy. It’s to do with security for the boys – if people recognise me, then the boys might get hassled even more by the paparazzi and the fans, who’d realise that if they saw me, Shawn and the others would likely be nearby . . .’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Chloe, feeling foolish. ‘Sorry. I didn’t think.’ Blushing, she put her phone back into her bag.

  ‘No problem at all,’ Pete said, slowing down at a zebra crossing as a small hunched lady tottered across.

  ‘Where am I meeting Shawn?’ she asked, trying not to sound too eager. ‘Is it far?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not far at all – just down the road in fact. It’s a private venue near Sunbury. It’s tricky to find somewhere that Shawn won’t be mobbed, so his manager hired it out for you and him.’

  ‘Cool,’ Chloe said, although she felt slightly perplexed. It all sounded a bit vague.

  Pete shrugged. ‘I know, strange, right? These pop stars have some funny ideas! Shawn’s really into symbolism. He thinks it would be memorable for you to meet him in the shell grotto of this place, because—’

  ‘Oh! I know!’ Chloe interrupted. ‘Because that’s where the picture on the cover of Twilight Kisses was taken!’

  Pete laughed. ‘He knew you’d know.’

  ‘Wow,’ Chloe breathed. That’s so cool!’ Although she hoped that once they’d met, there’d be a chance of some hot chocolate somewhere. It was a cold February afternoon, on the way to getting dark already, and she was only wearing a thin denim jacket and black jeans; no gloves or coat because Shawn hadn’t mentioned they’d be outdoors. She’d assumed the meeting would take place in an office, or a private room of a pub perhaps; even – she’d hoped – at his apartment. That grotto looked pretty chilly, even from the photo on the album sleeve.

  ‘How will I find it?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pete. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Chapter 50

  Day 14 – 4 p.m. – Patrick

  When Patrick knocked at the door of Chloe Hedges’ bungalow, it was opened by a boy of about seven or eight, the age where new front teeth have just come through and still look disproportionately enormous to the rest of the child.

  ‘Are you a politician?’ the boy asked.

  ‘No. I’m a detective,’ Pat replied, and the boy gaped at him.

  ‘Mu-um!’ he yelled, without turning away. ‘There’s a policeman here!’

  ‘All right, Brandon, you
don’t need to tell the whole street,’ came an answering voice.

  Mrs Hedges came to the door. She was a tired-looking slim lady, probably in her forties but who looked a lot older, perhaps from exposure to the elements. Her skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled. But she had a lovely smile, which she hesitantly bestowed on Patrick as he introduced himself. They shook hands.

  ‘Hello. I’m Rebecca Hedges. Would you like a cup of tea? Brandon, go and make the detective a tea. Milk? Sugar? Is this about Jessica McMasters? My daughter’s already given a statement, as you probably know.’

  She ushered him inside and looked pointedly at his feet as he confirmed that a tea with milk would be lovely. Patrick looked down at them too, momentarily puzzled. Then light dawned as he noticed that she wore slippers, and Brandon was in his socks. ‘Shall I take off my shoes?’

  There was that smile again. ‘If you wouldn’t mind . . . we just had the carpets cleaned. Thanks. Come through.’

  He slipped off his brogues and followed her into the front room. It felt oddly intimate, being in a stranger’s house in just his socks – which, he noticed, were odd ones. He sat down where she indicated, next to a big ginger cat on the sofa. ‘I’m just following up a new lead in Jessica’s murder investigation, Mrs Hedges, and I wanted a quick word with Chloe.’

  Rebecca Hedges looked pained. ‘I’m ever so sorry, Detective Lennon, but she’s gone out shopping at the Bentall Centre in Kingston with a friend. You just missed her. I’ll give her a call and ask what time she’ll be back.’

  ‘Who has she gone with?’ Patrick looked at the photographs around the room, mostly school portraits of the two kids at different ages, in different coloured school jumpers; Brandon with baby teeth, then no front teeth, then the massive ones in the latest photo.

  ‘Someone called Pareesa. I don’t know her,’ Rebecca confessed, pulling a mobile out of her cardigan pocket and holding it to her ear. ‘She’s been hanging out with some new girls from school, since Jessica died. It had a big effect on her, as you can imagine . . . No answer. It’s gone straight to voicemail . . . Chloe, darling, it’s Mum – give me a call back as soon as you get this message, would you? See you soon, don’t be late. Love you . . .’

  ‘Must have been a hell of a shock for her, Jess’s death. Has she been struggling?’ Patrick asked sympathetically, and Rebecca looked almost sheepish as she put her phone away again.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing. I mean, yes, obviously she has in some ways. She gets a bit tearful at times. But I think in other ways it’s been a real wake-up call for her. She turned sixteen the other day and did a charity parachute jump! We’re so proud of her. It’s like she’s decided to embrace life, and just go for it. Today she was on a real high, just getting ready to go out shopping with her mates. She’s a great girl. And she deserves to look forward to life, after what she went through last year . . .’

  She looked expectantly at Pat.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you’d know. She nearly died, of leukaemia, you see. She was ill for a year, but she’s fine now.’

  Brandon came slowly back into the room carrying the sort of cup of tea that Patrick, once he’d tasted it, realised only an eight-year-old could make – tepid, unboiled dishwater. He thanked the boy and left it undrunk on the floor by the arm of the sofa. Brandon disappeared again, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Mrs Hedges, what I really wanted to ask Chloe – or you – was if she knew a girl called Rose Sharp?’

  Rebecca’s eyes opened wide. ‘The other girl that was killed,’ she stated flatly, panic edging in her voice. ‘Why are you asking that?’

  ‘Did Chloe know her?’

  Rebecca sank her head into her arms, then looked up fearfully. ‘You think Chloe’s in danger, don’t you? I’m going to ring her again. Let me ring her . . .’

  ‘Mrs Hedges, please, there’s no immediate cause for concern. I’m following up on a lead, and I need to know.’

  She had the phone in her hand again, but didn’t lift it to her ear, just twirled it miserably between her fingers.

  ‘I don’t think she ever met her, no. But she and Jess went to the vigil for her, after the OnTarget concert at Twickenham. And I think they might have spoken on the – what do you call those websites where they chat about bands and stuff?’

  ‘Forums?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Forums.’

  ‘OK. And have you ever heard of a website called StoryPad? A lot of teenagers use it, particularly, it seems, OnTarget fans. They write stories about the band members.’

  Pat’s own phone vibrated with a text, and he pulled it out of his coat pocket. The text was from Carmella:

  ON MY WAY TO JADE PILKINGTON’S. BTW – PRESS HAVE GOT WIND OF HAMMOND’S ARREST. BRACE YOURSELF!

  He sighed and put it away again.

  Rebecca frowned. ‘I don’t know about that. Chloe loves writing stories, though. She got an A* in her last English test. I think she may have put some up online, yes, although I don’t know which website.’ She stood up, pressed the phone’s keyboard, and paced around the room listening, her slippers gently flip-flopping. ‘Still nothing. I’m getting worried. Should I be worried? I can’t believe I haven’t been more worried before, I mean, obviously, two young girls murdered around here and Chloe was friends with one and knew of the other one, I should never have let her go out on her own – but she’s not on her own, she’s with her friends – but is she? Maybe she isn’t! Oh my God, I need to ring my husband, get him to go and find her in Kingston. It’s not safe . . .’

  The woman was becoming more and more distressed, so Patrick stood up too. ‘Mrs Hedges, please. We have just arrested someone for the murders of both Rose and Jessica, so it’s highly unlikely that Chloe is in any danger.’

  Mrs Hedges sank back into an armchair. ‘Oh thank heavens. I’m so sorry, Detective. You must think I’m a terrible parent, letting her go out when I didn’t know you’d arrested someone. Who is it?’

  At that exact moment, Patrick’s eye fell on a framed photograph that he hadn’t spotted before, tucked away in the corner of a built-in bookcase. It was of a girl, Chloe, he assumed, lying in a hospital bed hooked up to drips and monitors, deathly pale but with the biggest beam on her face. Flanking her, one on each side of the bed, were two men, each holding one of her hands. One was Shawn Barrett and the other one Mervyn Hammond.

  He made an involuntary noise in his throat. Walking over to pick it up, he answered her question with another. ‘When was this taken?’

  Mrs Hedges smiled fondly. ‘Last April, when she was undergoing her final chemo session. They were amazing, those two – and the other guys from the record company who made it happen for her. I honestly think that it got her through it, that visit.’ She turned serious again and repeated her question. ‘Who is it that you’ve arrested?’

  Patrick knew that he shouldn’t tell her. But – in the light of the photo he was holding, and the fact that it would be all over the papers in the morning – he had to let her know.

  ‘Well. I’m sorry to tell you, and I shouldn’t really – but you’ll hear it on the news soon anyway – it’s actually him.’ He pointed at the photograph. ‘Mervyn Hammond.’

  Rebecca’s face drained of every last bit of colour and she flopped against the back of the chair. ‘That’s impossible!’

  Patrick sat back down again too, still holding the photo. ‘We’re questioning him about both murders, and another one, of an older lady.’

  Her reaction surprised and worried him. She looked as though she had just been informed that her son, Brandon, was the serial killer.

  She shook her head. ‘No. There’s no way!’

  ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Hedges?’

  ‘That man,’ she said, pointing a shaky finger at the photograph on Pat’s lap, ‘is a saint. A saint, do you he
ar me? I would trust him with my daughter’s life! Do you have any idea how much charity work he does?’

  Patrick resisted the urge to cough out the words Jimmy Savile. He found it difficult to reconcile the image of the smug, nut-munching attitudinal cynic that he’d found Hammond to be with anything approaching ‘a saint’. And yet – first impressions, and all. PR people were notoriously good at projecting only the image they wished to project and, despite Winkler’s convictions, it just didn’t all add up.

  Rebecca continued to sing Mervyn Hammond’s praises for several minutes more. She seemed torn between relief that she didn’t need to worry about Chloe being temporarily incommunicado anymore and genuine distress at the news about Hammond. Patrick cut her off as politely as he could, standing up and asking her to ring him the moment that she got in touch with Chloe. He dressed it up in a request to ask Chloe about StoryPad – but he still couldn’t shift a sense of unease that she was currently AWOL, arrest or no arrest.

  Carmella rang him in the car as he was driving away.

  ‘Chloe Hedges wasn’t in,’ he said. ‘Her mum seemed devastated at the news that Hammond’s been arrested.’ He briefly told her about Mervyn’s secret charity work. ‘She said – and I quote – “That man’s a saint.”’

  He heard Carmella snort down the phone. ‘Jade wasn’t home either. Nobody was in – a neighbour told me Jade’s mum was away visiting her sister. The neighbour, a Mrs Sherry Downs, saw Jade being dropped home at 3 a.m. the night before. We don’t know what time she went out again.’