‘Shall we involve him in our chat?’ The amusement was evident.
So glad he finds this funny.
‘No. That won’t be necessary,’ she repeated. ‘See you at the pub.’ Jessica got back in her car, tucking the bags into the boot first. The guard waited until she’d reversed down the drive and then jumped into his own car – a standard Ford Mondeo – and followed closely behind.
No chance of outrunning him, even if she was driving a Ferrari and not a twenty-year-old Fiat.
This was grim.
How could I have been so stupid?
Somehow, he beat her to the pub, and had ordered two glasses of water. Last of the big spenders. If she was going down, Jessica figured the least he could do was buy her a large glass of red. Or a vodka straight up. No ice.
Not that it seemed possible, but the moment the guard began to speak again, Jessica’s future took on decidedly grim aspect.
‘So, the first thing you should know is that I am not a store detective.’
‘What!’ Great. Semi-relief. If not working in AD, who was he? Some fiend who was halfway to kidnapping her?
‘I am DCI Gerry Courtauld. With the Met.’
‘Oh.’ Jessica’s shoulders slumped. She was done for. The shortest criminal career in history – what a pathetic individual she was. A disgrace as a thief, and a mother.
Choosing not to notice the dismay obvious from her demeanour, Gerry Courtauld continued with the questions. And this time, there was no point for Jessica to prevaricate.
‘What were you doing in that store?’
As if he didn’t know – his job was catching criminals, like her.
‘Not stealing.’ At least that was true. ‘Do you work there too?’
‘No, I was conducting a sweep of the local area. Trying to round up shoplifting rings; bloody menaces.’
‘As you can see, I’m not local.’
‘No, but I recognised your disguise. We’ve been keeping you under surveillance.’
‘What? Me?’
‘Yes. That CCTV does record something you know, even if it’s not the real you. You’ve been a naughty girl, swanning about in that suit, nicking things.’
‘Don’t patronise me. I haven’t done anything.’ Jessica wondered how the BIBs could have been so insane as to think they’d gotten away with their thieving all this time. At least they should have got some new disguises.
And I should have asked more questions.
Combining a bored scowl with a sigh, the DCI reached into his coat pocket and took out a photograph from the leather store. ‘I’d recognise those pins anywhere.’ He pointed to her legs, the one feature that Jessica actually liked about herself.
The leather jackets!
If he knew about those, it was all over. Bursting into tears, Jessica slumped face down on the grubby pub table and sobbed. Now what? Rachel would probably be institutionalised at the news of her mother’s theft and probable jail term. Ronald would divorce her and take the kids. Paul might not even remember her in a few years’ time.
She heard the detective get up, but there was no point in moving, or running away, he’d find her in about a minute.
A second later she heard a thud. ‘Here, drink that.’
It was a red wine. How had he known? Letting the tears fall, she sat up straight and drank down half the glass.
‘So, I hate to have to continue with a conversation you find so distressing, but how to you explain these?’ He fanned out another eighteen photographs, all of someone in the Lady Muck disguise. Looking hard, Jessica worked out that most where Rita, because she was shorter than the others. A couple were Frieda, because she had wide calves. One or two might be Hailey. None were Chelsea – at least, she didn’t think so.
‘They’re not me.’
‘Oh, I know that. Far inferior pins.’ The detective, deep green eyes boring into her own, wasn’t smiling. ‘So, who are they? And don’t say you don’t know, because the coincidence of all of you in that same suit won’t put you beyond reasonable doubt, as far as a court is concerned.’
Shivering at the reference to court proceedings, Jessica drew her arms around her body.
‘Shouldn’t I get a lawyer or something?’
Yes, I’ll call Ronald. He’ll love that.
‘That depends on what you want to happen here?’
‘I don’t get it?’
‘You’re part of some sort of gang, right? We’ve been trying to catch your little group for a while now. Clever, but not clever enough, it seems – given we’re sitting here.’
‘I’m new. And obviously not cut out for this sort of work.’
Gerry Courtauld leaned over and took the wine glass from her grasp, so that she had nothing else to focus on but him. ‘Between you and me, there is a way out of this.’
Jessica snorted. ‘I should try my daughter’s way out of things and throw myself off a building.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what started all this.’ She knew she shouldn’t be blabbing like a lunatic to the policeman, but she couldn’t seem to stop once the words began tumbling out. ‘My eight year old purposely jumped off a building at school because we couldn’t afford to send her to Paris with the rest of her class. My husband is a lawyer but earns less than the checkout woman at the local cash and carry, because he believes charity begins everywhere but at home. I honestly feel as if my life is no longer mine, but that of a stupid, ignorant being who just lets things happen to her without comment.’
The DCI was staring at her, his own glass (still water) now half way to his mouth. ‘Well, that all sounds, um, quite nasty.’
Pull yourself together Jessica, you may be a criminal but have some pride. Falling apart in front of this man is pathetic.
‘Look, sorry, this is all a shock. I only stole because we couldn’t afford to pay for proper plastic surgery when Rachel, er, fell off that building. Her face was torn up. My husband doesn’t know that I paid for a private consultant on Visa, and now I have to pay it back without him discovering what I’ve done.’
‘He didn’t want to spend money on your daughter’s face?’ The cop’s tone was one of astonishment.
‘No.’ There was nothing more to say. ‘So, what happens now? Do we go to the police station?’
Having second thoughts about her capacity to deal with the situation unaided by alcohol, DCI Courtauld handed the wine glass back. ‘No, now we do a deal.’
Jessica was flummoxed. ‘What?’
‘I can give you immunity from prosecution if you help me catch the others in your little group.’
‘You mean, tell on them?’
‘Exactly. Testify, more accurately.’
‘What? No way. I’d have to move house. Or country.’ Jessica couldn’t help but think of Chelsea’s threat. The kids of the BIBs and associated hangers-on could make life hell for her kids. And there weren’t any other schools nearby – at least none they could afford.
‘Think of the alternative. Surely your husband won’t be impressed at having to come down to the station and hear what you’ve been up to?’
‘No, but the reason my daughter jumped off that roof was because of the kids of my accomplices.’ She groaned. ‘There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say out loud.’
‘Your daughter jumped off a roof because of bullying? I thought it was because of Paris?’
‘Both. One led to the other.’ Jessica hadn’t verbalised it, but suspected that Rachel wasn’t being entirely forthcoming about what was going on at school with that little Sienna Jordan.
The tears began flowing again, and Jessica couldn’t seem to control them. Opening her purse, she searched desperately for a tissue, but the fact that there were none made her cry all the more.
Get a grip. You’re not five years old!
The detective took pity on her. ‘Look, maybe you can help us indirectly.’ When she looked at him blankly, he continued. ‘Be an inside informant. Help us catch them at it.’
Jessica felt sick. ‘I couldn’t. They’d guess what I was up to. I am a hopeless liar – you already know that.’
‘We’ll give you a crash course and besides, you don’t really have much choice, do you?’
Good looking or not, DCI Gerry Courtauld was a right bastard. ‘If they find out it was me, then it’s the same as testifying. My children will suffer. It would be easier just to admit to the jackets.’
‘There are ways to make sure they don’t discover it.’
‘How? They let me into the group, then the next minute, after years of successfully avoiding the cops, they get arrested, one by one? They aren’t exactly brain surgeons, but even so, they’ll figure out it’s me.’
‘Well, then, catching them all at once would be ideal, wouldn’t it?’
‘They don’t do the same job, for that reason.’
Gerry Courtauld considered the information. ‘Maybe, for a large enough payoff, they would.’
Jessica shook her head. ‘I doubt it. And even if that was possible, I’d have to be part of it, wouldn’t I?’
The detective smiled, and Jessica noticed it was one of those smiles that was comforting – wide, accessible, honest. It had been a long time since she’d seen Ronald smile properly – like he meant it.
‘You would be part of it. But at the last minute, you could slip away. Or get injured. Or have a family emergency.’
‘Unfortunately, the family emergency is a highly likely occurrence, if the past few months are anything to go by.’
He didn’t seem to give a dman, and didn’t invite further explanation. ‘Look, Jessica Maroni, why don’t we meet back here tomorrow, and work something out? There’s got to be an item or items those girls would love to steal. Something worth group collaboration.’
‘The Crown jewels?’ Jessica suggested.
The DCI shook his head. ‘No one would be that stupid, but you may be on to something.’ He pulled out his BlackBerry and pressed a series of buttons then typed some sort of note. ‘Let me make a few calls, and we’ll go from there.’
The tears had finally subsided, and Jessica wiped her face on her sleeve. Inelegant but she was without other options. ‘And you won’t tell my husband about the jackets?’ Her eyes were wide with hope.
‘As long as you cooperate with the apprehension of your crime syndicate, you’ll be fine.’
‘Crime syndicate? We’re just a local school mother’s club. That’s what they call it. The Club.’
‘How do you think the Italian mafia started?’ Gerry Courtauld winked and stood up, indicating that he’d walk her to her car. ‘Now, you should know that if you choose to tell your friends about our little conversation, all bets are off and you will be prosecuted.’
‘Is it legal to blackmail me like that?’
‘Blackmail? I thought we were giving you indemnity against prosecution for help and information. If you refuse your part of the deal – well, that’s not blackmail, Jessica Maroni. That’s just plain stupid.’
‘Lots of what I’ve done recently comes under that heading,’ Jessica said, as she fumbled for her car keys.
‘Let’s meet back at that Starbucks over there. Tomorrow, 9:30 a.m. Don’t be late.’ The accompanying gaze was stern.
‘Of course not. You’d probably arrest me if I’m a minute late, right?’
Once again he didn’t return her smile. ‘Right.’
A few minutes later, the cop was gone and she was sitting in her car. The tears began yet again. This time she gave in to them and allowed herself a good, long howl.
What kind of life is this?
If it weren’t for the kids, it would be no life at all.
And it wouldn’t be worth pursuing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEFORE JESSICA COULD EVEN contemplate the latest in the long series of misfortunes that had befallen the family, yet another disaster came a-calling.
‘Dad’s gone missing.’ Her mother’s voice, usually calm and steady under any circumstances, was bordering on hysterical.
Jessica clutched the phone tightly, her heart pounding. ‘How?’
‘I left him in the garden while I went to use the toilet and he disappeared.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday. Around dinner time.’
‘Yesterday! And you just decided to call now?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. Not with Rachel’s issues and all of that. But I thought he might have come to you so . . .’
‘He’s not here, Mum.’
‘Yes, I know that, now. I called the police this morning.’
Christ. The police.
‘And?’
‘They took a photograph, put out some sort of report or warning or something. Said that he’d probably turn up soon. They didn’t seem to care.’
Poor woman sounded so despondent. ‘I’m sure they care. But what can they do?’
Jessica tried to recall the last time she’d seen her dad. He hadn’t seem that bad. Just forgetful. Was it possible he’d deteriorated so quickly as to become the nightmare her mother made out?
‘Do you want me to come and help you look?’ Jessica asked, mentally ticking off a list of items to be actioned before that could actually happen. Ronald needed to be instructed to look after the kids, for one.
‘Would you?’ The desperation was clearly evident. ‘I’ve driven around, and nothing. What if he’s somehow worked out how to get off the island?’
Jessica tried to sound reassuring, but had to admit the situation her mother was painting wasn’t good. ‘I’m on my way, Mum. Try to relax, and stay home. You don’t want to be out if he returns, do you?’
‘No, of course not. You’re right. See you soon.’ The call ended abruptly, and before Jessica had time to react, her mobile rang.
Chelsea Jordan.
It was as if she knew the perfect time to put the boot in.
‘Where’s the Apple gear, then?’
Thinking of the deal with the detective, Jessica tried to keep her voice evenly modulated. No point Chelsea getting suspicious right off the bat, was there? ‘I only got the bags today, but I don’t think I can do it. Might be beyond my skills.’
‘But you got the bags?’ Chelsea asked.
‘Yes, lots of them.’
‘Right. Bring them over and I’ll give the job to Rita. You’ll get a twenty per cent cut for the bags.’
‘No, it’s okay. She can have it all.’
‘Why?’ Chelsea’s response was sharp. ‘Thought you needed the money?’
Truth was always a good option. ‘My dad has dementia and he’s gone missing. I have to go to the Isle of Wight and help Mum, so I’m not really concerned about the, um, Club, now.’
‘Oh.’ Chelsea was silent for a moment. ‘Drop them around before eight tonight, then. The husband gets home after that. I don’t want him seeing them.’
‘Right,’ Jessica said, trying to calculate times. ‘I’ll try but . . .’
Chelsea hung up without further comment.
Charming.
Despite the fact that they were now partners in crime, Chelsea Jordan was, and would, in all probability, remain a bitch in Burberry, or Prada or Gucci.
Ronald couldn’t have been less helpful. ‘I can’t look after the kids for days on end. I have work, remember?’
‘Elise is taking them after school. All you have to do is pick them up, give them breakfast and drop them off. I should be home in a day or so.’
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, tearing pieces off a baguette that was supposed to go with the pasta for dinner, Ronald had never looked more unattractive to her. That police detective was more sympathetic, and he’d caught her stealing!
‘It’s ridiculous, you rushing off like this. We had an agreement, Jess, remember?’
The agreement, as it transpired, was that Jessica would look after the kids for eternity, because she was the one who wanted them. Stupidly, Jessica had assumed that Ronald would grow to love them, and with lov
e, responsibility would blossom. There might, might be some love, but as for the responsibility . . . there was no sign so far.
Sick of his selfish attitude, Jessica snapped. ‘Look, Ronald, grow up. They’re your kids too. My father is ill. We need you as much as your clients, you know. More. Those kids are your flesh and blood.’
Hoping that he might relent, just a little, Jessica was disappointed when Ronald merely threw aside the bread and stormed out of the house. She heard a car start. How could he? The bastard! Running after him would do no good – there was no conscience to plead with.
Holding back the urge to bawl for about the tenth time that day, Jessica tiredly dialled Elise again. Thankfully, her friend understood the need for her to get to her parents’ – and didn’t even vocalise her disgust at Ronald’s behaviour.
‘Just bundle them up and bring them over,’ she told Jessica. ‘I can cope.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Jessica said with relief.
‘You can mind mine for a weekend in return later in the year, how’s that?’
Although it was perfectly understandable, and she quickly agreed to the suggestion, Jessica felt that her life was becoming a set of deals. Quid pro quo. No one seemed to do anything for nothing, nowadays.
There was always payback.
Two hours later, the kids were happily racing about Elise’s house whilse Jessica unloaded the various bits and pieces that they’d need for a two night stay. Sports gear, special teddies, lunch boxes already packed.
As she did so, she saw the bags from the AD store.
The Shoplifting Mothers' Club Page 8
