Dead Alone

by Gay Longworth

  ‘God, I’m so sorry.’ Jessie helped her up.

  ‘Don’t you look where you’re going? Didn’t anyone tell you not to run in the corridors?’

  ‘Yes, at school, when I was twelve.’

  Kay Akosa withdrew her hand and brushed it against her other one. Kay had a reputation for being a tyrant, reducing nervous new recruits to tears over their expressions when caught on camera policing a picket line. She’d call them in over their hairstyle, acne, facial hair, weight. Verity Shore wasn’t the only one expected to be image-conscious. These coppers barely had enough money for a beer and a packet of pork scratchings, let alone trendy hairdressers, beauty salons, facials. When Jessie had first appeared at West End Central they needed someone to do a piece to camera outside the building. She could recall Kay Akosa’s fateful words: ‘You’re pretty, you’ll do.’ It wasn’t even a matter for the murder squad. Jessie had refused. She and Mrs Akosa had not shared a canteen experience since.

  ‘We’ve had every major paper in the country calling about unconfirmed reports that Verity Shore has drowned. What do I tell them?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And one paper knows you were at P. J. Dean’s house this morning.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I have nothing to tell you.’

  ‘I can’t tell them nothing. Nothing won’t do.’

  ‘We don’t know who we have in the morgue. So no comment.’

  ‘They already know a body was found.’

  ‘Fine. So they know as much as we do.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I’ll come to the press office as soon as I know more.’

  The woman leant back on her heels and crossed her arms. ‘Where’s Jones?’

  Jessie ignored her. She, Niaz and Burrows walked away.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the debacle with Jami Talbot,’ Kay called out after them. No one turned around.

  ‘Have you ever been to a postmortem, Niaz?’ asked Jessie when they reached the car park.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck. My first was a woman who’d been raped and then strangled and left in a ditch for two weeks. This will be a breeze. Sally said they’d been busy, so there will probably be bodies piled on top of each other on the surrounding tables. It’s cold in there, but I don’t think we’ll be long, so you should be okay. They’ll give you a mask, shoe covers and a green surgical coat.’ She turned to him. ‘You all right with this?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  The bones lay on the convex stainless steel table, tilted slightly to where the feet should have been. It allowed the running water to drain away with all the excess mud and silt that the departing tide had left. It was the cleanest PM she had ever seen. The photographer clicked. The pathologist listed what was missing. A few small bones that had been found in the nearby mud were brought in from the evidence room. Most had been matched to the skeleton. One had not.

  ‘Cause of death, unknown. Hairline crack in cerebral vertebrae, recent, could have been caused by being hit over the head. Then again, the body could have been dropped after death. Impossible to say. Female, yes, age between thirty and forty. Early signs of osteoporosis and calcium deficiency. Childhood fracture on the upper arm, almost invisible, nearly missed it. The most interesting thing about this case is the acid test my colleague Sally Grimes did early this morning. She was on site with DI Driver, neither of whom would accept that this was some old drowning victim. The tests are very revealing. Sally, would you like to explain?’

  Sally stepped forward.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone. The initial test showed that sulphuric acid dissolved the flesh and internal organs, but secondary tests picked up traces of ammonia. Although ammonia could not have done the damage that the sulphuric acid did, it is the reason why the bones are so white. It bleached them.’

  ‘Like peroxide,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Peroxide is a much weaker form of ammonia, but yes, in principle they’re the same.’

  Jessie looked at the remains of the bottle-blonde with big tits. The implants were in a jar. If Niaz hadn’t found the other implant, they would have had a difficult job on their hands narrowing the field. Verity Shore was not alone. There were many like her. It didn’t need to have been her specifically. It could have been anyone.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ asked the pathologist.

  DC Burrows’ pager bleeped. He looked at Jessie. ‘Those records are here.’

  ‘Go.’

  She looked back at the pathologist. ‘If the records show a childhood break, then that is Verity Shore. If no break, then someone wants us to think that it is Verity Shore. It could be either.’

  It suddenly dawned on the pathologist. ‘Verity Shore, that blonde who is always taking her clothes off? The one with the big knockers?’

  ‘Dyed blonde and breast enlargements. She was alive last Thursday.’

  ‘Good God,’ he said, looking back at the bleached bones lying on a plain of running water. That was the worst-case scenario. ‘What’s the best you can hope for?’ he asked.

  ‘That these are old bones and Verity Shore is headline hunting.’

  ‘Nobody would go this far,’ said Sally Grimes. ‘Would they?’

  No one replied. The publicity stunts by headline-hungry celebrities were becoming increasingly desperate. Getting pregnant didn’t do it. Getting pregnant, taking coke and throwing oneself down the stairs did. So it wasn’t impossible. Verity Shore might just be a more ambitious version of Jami Talbot. The door swung open. Burrows stood with the file in his hand. He was reading from it as he walked. ‘Twelve – fell off horse, broke arm.’

  The pathologist took the file. Read it, flicked through some more pages, returned to the body. He looked up. ‘Verity Shore will get all the headlines she dreamt of. It’s her.’

  Jessie was already out of the door. ‘Burrows, call Jones. Tell him.’ She peeled her green mortuary coat off as she walked, ‘Niaz, get two officers to P. J. Dean’s house now – whoever is nearest.’ Jessie hopped from one foot to the other as she removed her shoe covers.

  ‘You’d better call the press office,’ said Burrows.

  ‘Shit.’ She pulled her phone out and dialled a number. ‘This is DI Driver. If you’re listening, P.J., please pick up the phone. I was at your house –’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘P.J.?’

  ‘The phone has started to ring – journalists. What’s going on?’

  ‘Get out of the house, take the kids somewhere safe. The press know we came to see you this morning, all hell is about to break loose.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘We may have been followed.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Then he shouted. ‘There’s a fucking SNITCH IN MY HOUSE!’

  ‘I gave you my mobile number. Call me when you are out of the house.’

  ‘So it is her?’

  ‘P.J., call me when you are out of the house.’

  ‘You think my phone is bugged?’

  ‘I’m thinking of the boys.’

  ‘Okay, okay, shit, I’ll call you back.’

  Jessie slipped the phone back into her pocket. Burrows was watching her. ‘What?’

  ‘You know you may be protecting a guilty man,’ said Burrows.

  ‘Perhaps. But perhaps he’s innocent. And those kids certainly are. You know what the press are like.’

  ‘What if they do a runner?’

  She tossed this possibility in her head. Niaz was already on his radio. She turned back to Burrows. ‘The press are already on to him. In five minutes’ time, that man won’t be able to take a shit without the world knowing about it. He won’t be going anywhere. Call Kay Akosa. We release a short statement: Verity Shore was found dead on the bank of the River Thames at 06.05 on Tuesday morning. Her family have been informed and an investigation is underway to determine cause of death.’

  ‘That’s it?’

/>   ‘What does she want, gory details?’

  ‘Ahmet and you finding the jellyfish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s good stuff, boss.’

  ‘Do you want those kids knowing their mother was dipped in acid?’

  ‘They won’t read the papers.’

  ‘Come on, Burrows, those boys go to school, their classmates’ parents will talk about it, kids’ll overhear it, headlines glare at them at eye-level … What the fuck do you think they’re going to do, come to a mutual agreement not to discuss the case in their presence? The oldest is seven, he’ll be in the playground with much older boys and girls, who know full well they are Verity’s kids, that they’re rich. You think they’ll keep it to themselves? Get an injunction, whatever it takes – this information stays with us. If anyone goes to the press they lose their job, their pension, their fffu—’ She clenched her fists.

  ‘You can’t control this,’ said Burrows.

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Boss, Verity Shore was dipped in acid and was ID’d by the fake tits she claimed she never had – you’re already out of control.’

  Jessie didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘Don’t take on the press, boss. You’ll lose.’

  She turned round. ‘What do I do, then?’

  ‘Throw them titbits, that way they’ll stay hungry for the story but not so hungry that they go looking for blood elsewhere.’

  She stood her ground, but Jessie knew he was making sense.

  ‘It is a media-ruled world we live in. The tabloid press is judge and jury, you want them onside. Give them the tits, keep the rest, and tell P. J. Dean to keep his trap shut.’

  ‘It’s a fucking circus,’ said Jessie angrily.

  ‘No doubt about it. Just make sure you’re the one with the whip.’

  She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, Burrows.’

  ‘No sweat, boss.’

  ‘Okay, tell Kay about the implants. But I want to see that press release before it goes out.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Niaz.

  ‘Get on to the water board. I want those sewage tunnels searched. I’m going to P. J. Dean’s house, find out what’s been going on in paradise.’

  ‘So you do think P. J. Dean is involved,’ announced Burrows.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Jessie stood in Verity Shore’s bedroom and stared at the window box. Chrysanthemums. Freshly planted. Hours old. Too new. Once again she lifted her camera to her eye and took a photo, then she beckoned to one of the guys in plastic overalls. It was the guy from the shower. The ballsy guy. ‘Bring the window box in,’ said Jessie. ‘And make sure you get prints from all round this window, outside and inside.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘What, no snide comments, defiant gestures?’

  ‘Actually, the lads and I were wondering if you’d join us for a drink after. Our way of saying sorry for being such twats.’

  Jessie raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Dicks then.’

  ‘You buying?’

  ‘With all this overtime you’re earning us, we thought it would be rude not to.’

  ‘In which case, I accept your offer.’

  He turned round and made a thumbs-up to the three men systematically working their way through Verity Shore’s private life.

  ‘Don’t forget the window box,’ said Jessie. ‘And check the drains for remnants of large quantities of blood.’

  He put a hand to his heart. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he said, performing a slight bow.

  ‘Settle.’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry.’ Stuck out his hand. ‘My name’s Ed.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ shouted someone from the bathroom. ‘Think you had better come and have a look at this.’ Jessie walked through the wardrobe, back to the hall of mirrors. Two of the white-suited men were leaning over the tiled surround. Their presence only enhanced the bathroom’s tomb-like quality. One of them had prised off a tile. ‘I noticed it was loose when I knelt on it. Looks like someone has been stashing pills.’

  Jessie peered inside. P. J. Dean had said all pills and booze were banned. Which meant Verity had resorted to subterfuge. Jessie had found the booze hidden in the shampoo bottles. And now they’d found the pills. She took a pair of tweezers from the cabinet and picked one out.

  ‘Looks like some bathwater got in. These are all partially dissolved,’ said the guy holding the removed tile. Jessie peered back in the man-made hole. ‘Wouldn’t they have dissolved into one big lump?’ she said. ‘Bag them all up, take them to the lab and have them tested.’

  ‘What do you think they are?’

  ‘Could be anything – amphetamines, antidepressants, painkillers, Ecstasy. P. J. Dean said she often took to her room, maybe this was what kept her entertained.’

  ‘I think we’re done here.’

  ‘What about the wardrobe?’ said Jessie. ‘Someone has to go through every single shoe box.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because they make good hiding places and it looks like Verity Shore had a lot to hide. Then we’ll go to the pub. And not a word of this outside this building.’ They all gave their word, Jessie wondered how much it was worth. As P. J. Dean said, you could only trust people so far, everybody has a price.

  Jessie left the house and walked round the back of the garage. There was a thick rainwater pipe, with two offshoots at different heights. And bins at the bottom. If there had been any footprints before, they’d been wiped away. Someone had been doing some tidying as well as some gardening. Jessie put a foot on the sturdiest-looking bin, grabbed the pipe, put another foot on a windowsill and grabbed the first offshoot with her left hand. A redundant nail gave her the third secure step, an over-spill pipe her fourth. Within ten seconds she was on the roof. She walked across the flat, sun-warmed asphalt to Verity’s window. The window box had been taken away, leaving two sturdy brackets. It was a big step up, but it wasn’t impossible. If needs must. She turned and leant back on the white wall, pulled out her phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Fry, it’s Driver here. What news on those video tapes?’

  ‘Bugger all.’

  She nodded to herself. ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? I’ve been watching hours of the same image and you think that’s good?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t want to tax you with anything too complicated.’

  ‘Look, ma’am I’m sorry about the –’

  ‘Forget it. Keep watching the tapes.’

  ‘What are you expecting me to find?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She snapped her phone shut, retraced her steps across the roof of the garage, and peered out over the garden. To the right of the house there was a building that looked like a pool house. Pools meant chemicals. Chlorine. Bleach. It all came from the same family. It also meant sun-loungers. Privacy. By easing herself backwards off the roof and clinging to the over-spill pipe, she could climb down with relative ease, even in the dying light. She felt for the nail. Perhaps not so redundant after all. The windowsill. The bin. The ground. Escape. But not to the outside world. Cameras would have caught her. No, Verity Shore found escape in-house. Provided, perhaps, by the adoring arms of a seventeen-year-old.

  This house held secrets. Jessie could feel it. She walked across the clipped lawn, past the football goals to the pool house. The smell of chlorine got stronger as she drew closer. There was no key to this room. It was a big pool, but Jessie could have walked from one end to the other with ease. Not because it was a steady shallow depth, but because it was empty. Drained. Jessie called the forensic team. And the reaping began again.

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Mark, thanks for coming to see me in this Godawful place.’

  ‘It’s all right, guv. I’ve been wanting a word with you anyway. That Jessie Driver, she gets –’ Jones put his hand up. ‘She’s running the department like a despot, circumnavigating the press office, she’s –
’

  ‘A different sort of detective to you and me, Mark, that’s all, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t, in her own way, as good. I need you in charge in my absence, not whipping up a battleground. I’ve got something important for you to do.’

  ‘Police a pensioners’ march?’

  ‘Mark, come on, I’m too ill for your shit. You are a good man, don’t make me have to convince her of that.’

  Ward shook his head. This pep talk touched the surface of years of booze, boys’ club, marital break-ups, bodies. He’d given the Force too much to be passed over for a girl half his age with none of his experience. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘What was this important case?’

  Jones passed over the file. ‘Find Frank Mills. Use whatever means, do whatever you have to, but find him.’

  ‘Thought you put Miss Open University on the job.’

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  Mark opened the file. ‘Well, well, well, your old friend Raymond Giles.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I remember him going down.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And coming out.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He shot this boy’s dad, and the boy disappears?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He’d be how old by now …?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jones closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mark Ward had gone. He’d slept for four hours.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jessie let herself into the flat, put her helmet on the wooden floor and walked through to the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine open on the table and singing coming from the bathroom. Jessie poured herself a glass and walked to the bathroom, with her foot she eased the door open. Maggie was lying in bubbles up to her ears, smoking a fag, singing to Heart FM and sipping from a half-empty wine glass.

  She stopped singing and looked at Jessie. ‘Hey, Morse.’

  ‘Hey, Anthea.’

  ‘Ouch. You’re late.’

  Jessie put the seat down and sat on the loo. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Boy or body?’