Dead Alone

by Gay Longworth

  ‘Yeah,’ says Tommy.

  Paparazzi video of a drunk and pregnant Verity falling out of a limousine was followed by a montage commemorating her first stay at the Priory for ‘exhaustion’. Then the celebrity baby shots began. Endless images of Verity and child in matching designer outfits. But, bored with her new toy, she soon embarked on a worldwide tour promoting her own scent, inspirationally called ‘Verity’.

  ‘Do you all remember this?’ Ray waves a video cover in front of camera 2. ‘Her exercise video to help women get in shape after pregnancy.’ He puts the tape into a VCR and Verity appears on a huge TV screen beside him, bouncing up and down in a trendy black boob-tube and micro-shorts. Ray freeze-frames the image and points to her chest: ‘Is it only me, or have these suddenly got bigger?’ He presses play. ‘The great thing about breastfeeding is how it firms everything up,’ says Verity. All Ray has to do is raise an eyebrow and the audience laugh. They are putty in his hands.

  ‘And then this …’ DIET COKE FOR VERITY reads the headline on St Giles’ screen. ‘The nanny said Verity was taking coke every day, and that was the reason for her weight loss, but Verity counterattacked by claiming the nanny had slept with her husband.’ Press-cuttings fill the screen as Ray’s voice continues: ‘She got good advice from her PR agent. This time she won the sympathy vote. But it wasn’t long before she was caught in the Bahamas with her pants down. Enter Will Reeves, a drummer from the highly successful band, Tonkers.’

  More video, this time of Verity and Reeves. ‘We are true soul mates. I loved my husband, but a star-crossed union like this one could not be ignored just because of a piece of paper. Will is my love, my life, the air that I breathe.’ Reeves drums out a beat on the table while she talks, but squeezes her arse affectionately when she is finished. ‘Another baby, Ty, another spell of exhaustion, another violent split and messy divorce. Then P. J. Dean …’

  Dean’s voice fades in. Deep and low. Kind. Sexy. ‘Verity has not had an easy time, she knows she has sunk as low as a human being can. Me and the kids are taking a bit of time out to help her get back on her feet. We love each other very much. I would appreciate some privacy for my family now.’

  ‘Didn’t happen, though,’ says St Giles to camera. ‘Poor sod. His quiet wedding day became a press fiasco. Behind his back, she had sold to the highest bidder the rights to photograph the wedding. When the photographers turned up, P.J. tried to punch one – until they showed him the contract his new wife had signed. Worse than that, she’d been paid a large sum of money by an alcopop company to be seen drinking from the bottle. P.J. refused. Verity obliged. You’ll all remember this shot –’ Verity, in white, swigging from a pink bottle. ‘Very bridal,’ says Ray sarcastically. ‘After that, P.J. banned all press. Big mistake. He should have known his wife better. Here in the audience, we have James Rolher. He was the journalist she called to her house while her husband was away promoting his new single. James, tell us what happened.’

  ‘At first I thought it was joke, a wind-up. When I got to the house, I was let in and she was waiting for me in her bedroom, stripped to bra and knickers, demanding why I hadn’t brought a photographer. We did an interview, but she was incoherent. The paper ran a small story that she was back on the booze. The Dean machinery denied it. She was very well protected by him. She’s been courting the press for years, though. I know for a fact that it was her who called the papers when she was in the Bahamas with Will Reeves. Danny’s right about her being over-exposed. People were bored of her. But the more it slipped away, the more desperate she became to court the press.’

  ‘Thanks, James. After the break, we’ll be talking to Raffi from the Sun, and a paparazzi photographer with his own insights of Verity Shore, who died, sadly and mysteriously, some time over the weekend.’

  Clare switched the video off. She couldn’t take any more.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mark. ‘I can’t believe stuff like that is allowed. Doesn’t anyone know who he is?’

  Clare shrugged.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ said Mark. ‘Do you know he used to crack people’s heads with a baseball bat on behalf of the money-lending fraternity?’

  ‘He did a lot of things,’ said Clare.

  She stood up, went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey. She held it up to Mark. He nodded. A few minutes later, she returned with two mugs of sweet tea. Mark could smell the whiskey in the steam.

  ‘My dad used to drink tea like this when he got back from work. Mum made it for him.’

  ‘They were happy then?’

  Clare smiled. It was big, wide smile. It didn’t last long. ‘Yeah. They were always messing around together. I’d often come home from school and they’d be here, messing about in their bedroom.’

  Mark smiled. ‘That’s a rarity.’

  Clare smiled again. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me everything you can remember?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Clare, a youthful animation suddenly filling her voice. She pulled her legs up under her, took a sip of tea and began to talk.

  ‘I remember when they brought Frank back from hospital. Dad was over the moon. I think they’d been trying, you know, for quite some time. Mum couldn’t stop crying, she was so happy. He had a mop of dark hair like Dad’s, deep blue eyes – he was so sweet. A real smiley baby. I’ll show you some pictures, if you like.’ Mark nodded and she pulled a well-thumbed photo album from under the sofa. ‘Here’s Mum and Irene, dressed up for a Saturday night. That was before Frank was born. Look at those short dresses, so sixties,’ she said gleefully. ‘Don’t they look great?’

  Both women had dyed blonde hair backcombed into a beehive. Beneath short fur coats they wore mini-dresses and kinky boots. Both were undeniably attractive, but Veronica was the real beauty. Statuesque, slim and intelligent-looking. ‘Who’s Irene?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Mum’s best mate. She owns a hair salon on the High Street. Hasn’t missed a day’s work in her life. She never got over Mum dying. They were like sisters.’ Clare suddenly looked lost again.

  ‘So they let you keep your own stuff when you were in the home?’

  ‘God no. The album is Irene’s, she gave it to me when I came back. They knew everything about each other, those two. Like twins, they were. You know, she leaves yellow roses on Mum’s grave every month, without fail.’

  CHAPTER 29

  As the mortuary attendant finished severing what the jogger’s foot had started, Jessie thanked God that they had found Eve Wirrel’s parents so quickly. Upper-class folk. Unprepared for what their daughter had turned into and how she had died. They confirmed the jewellery was hers. Remnants of a tattoo matched. DNA would prove the rest. The bagged hand showed no signs of a struggle. The blood revealed why: Rohypnol.

  What was left of the stomach was removed. The contents would tell them when she had last eaten, hopefully give them an accurate time of death. The mortuary attendant then pierced Eve Wirrel’s bladder and stale urine spurted out. Missed the attendant’s cup and covered his arm. It happened occasionally. As in life … Jessie thought of the artist’s installation, ‘A Particularly Heavy Week’. It had made headline news. Seven pairs of her soiled knickers. Each displayed on a podium. No glass case. This was in your face. Odour was an important aspect, Eve Wirrel had said in interviews. Jessie glanced quickly at Niaz. His cedarwood skin had paled to sycamore, but he was standing firm. Vomit and bleach. The smell of death. She wondered what Eve would have thought of this.

  The mortuary attendant began to cut the skin off what was left of the face. This was the worst bit. The skinning …

  CHAPTER 30

  Jessie dialled P.J.’s mobile number then waited several seconds before pressing the call button. She listened to it ring in her ear.

  ‘Jessie! I was just about to ring you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wanted, um, to thank you really, for keeping the boy out of the press, and to see if you wanted to come –’

  ‘Yo
u have an Eve Wirrel installation in your hall at home.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Obscene thing. How are you?’

  ‘Not your taste then?’

  ‘You think I want reminding how below average I’ve become in my old age?’

  P.J. was trying to do that thing again. Reel her in. Speak softly to her. His voice was supposed to make her stretch out on a comfy chair, tuck her hands behind her back, the phone under her chin and have a good old-fashioned gossip. It wasn’t working any more.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Eve Wirrel gave it to Verity.’

  ‘You told me you didn’t know her personally.’

  ‘I didn’t. She isn’t a friend of mine. What’s the big deal?’ He sounded defensive. Too defensive.

  ‘The big deal, P.J., is that Verity was sleeping with Eve. I would have thought that was personal.’ She was raising her voice.

  Silence. Breathing. Silence. A door closed.

  ‘What the fuck has she been saying?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eve, of course.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Fucking hell! Rumours, that’s all.’

  ‘Spread by Eve Wirrel?’ Jessie asked incredulously.

  ‘I’m not an idiot, I know Verity courted the press, and Eve had an exhibition on at the time. Call me a cynical bastard, but it was a lot of hot air, no doubt thought up by Verity.’

  ‘Headline hunting?’

  ‘Headline whore,’ said P.J. angrily.

  ‘You shouldn’t say such things about your wife.’

  ‘You didn’t know her.’

  ‘And you couldn’t control her.’

  ‘No?’ he said lightly. ‘Did you read anything about their “affair” in the press?’

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Too smart for that shit, aren’t you, Detective Inspector.’

  Jessie wouldn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘How do you manage to control the press?’

  ‘I have a certain amount of clout in that department.’

  ‘And Verity – did you have a certain amount of clout with her?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ asked P.J. sharply. ‘Okay, I admit it, I didn’t want the story breaking. Is that so hard to understand?’

  ‘But it wasn’t true,’ said Jessie. ‘You said they weren’t sleeping with each other.’

  ‘For a copper, you’re very naive. Since when did the truth matter? Look, Verity was many things, but she wasn’t a lesbian, or bi. She was a missionary girl. She moaned in the right places, groaned in the right places and lit a fag when she was through.’

  Only for you, thought Jessie. Verity Shore may have been many things, but not a missionary girl. The evidence in the house in Barnes was enough to make her suspect that P.J. had got his wife wrong; Craig’s statement had clinched it. For Craig, Verity was a siren. A goddess. A dream come true. He had got the best of Verity because he had given her what she wanted. Unconditional love. All she ever got from her husband was conditions. His and Bernie’s conditions.

  ‘What about Eve, was she bisexual?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her? She got a lot of joy from humiliating men, so it’s possible.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t know her personally.’

  ‘Just look at her art,’ said P.J. quickly.

  ‘Why did you want to control the story?’

  ‘The boys, of course. Don’t you think they’d had enough bullying in the playground, without “lezzie boy” to add to the litany of insults? Gay is good as long as it stays behind the safety of the TV glass. Don’t be fooled, we still live in a homophobic world. Gay-bashing is sport in many areas, despite the television awards.’

  Jessie paced her office. How far would P. J. Dean go to protect those kids? To keep them. Had his crusade to save his errant wife’s children gone too far? And who, she wondered, was saving whom?

  ‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’ said P.J.

  ‘I don’t like control freaks.’

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Come on, Jessie …’

  ‘Don’t Jessie me.’

  ‘What has she been saying? She obviously didn’t like me, the “objet d’art” is proof of that. Look, I wasn’t a bad husband,’ he said, ‘just the wrong one. Eve is a nasty piece of self-publicising –’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  No response.

  ‘Murdered.’

  Still no response.

  ‘P.J. …?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Can’t say at present.’

  ‘Is it linked? To Verity?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Craig was here, you know. He hasn’t left the house –’

  ‘I don’t think for one minute that Craig killed Eve. Nor Verity, for that matter.’

  ‘I’d hate to think what you’d do to a guilty man.’

  ‘I told you on the bridge what I do to the guilty.’

  Jessie heard P.J. breathing down the phone. His breath was getting shorter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said very quietly. ‘I fucked up.’

  ‘With Eve?’

  ‘With Craig. Jesus, I never thought …’

  ‘Craig is a lovely young man. He needs as much care as the boys. If not more.’

  ‘You think I don’t care for –’

  ‘It’s not about what I think, P.J., it’s about what you know. Verity swore him to secrecy about that house. Keeping his word must have nearly killed him.’

  ‘But he went there, on the Friday night, only he couldn’t get in. If he’d told us before …’

  ‘He wasn’t to know.’

  ‘I realise that. I just can’t believe he knew where she was. I can’t believe he was sneaking drink into her room!’ His voice was beginning to crack under the strain. Anger. The control freak had lost control.

  ‘It isn’t his fault,’ said Jessie. It’s yours. For turning a blind eye. It was so obvious that Craig was in love with Verity. In a way that only a seventeen-year-old can be. She was a sex symbol. She drank vodka in the bath with him, danced for him, swam naked with him, made love to him. The boy would have done anything she asked.

  P.J. sobbed loudly, suddenly. The sound startled Jessie. ‘I can’t think. I don’t know what to think about. I know Craig won’t get out of bed, I know he won’t eat, I know I feel like shit …’ His voice cracked. ‘I should have kept those letters, I should have taken them seriously. I let her down, I let them all down. You’re right, I’m a useless bastard. No one, Jesus Christ, no one deserves to die like that. I mean, God, what were they thinking? She couldn’t swim, for fuck’s sake. I worry about the boys … Jesus, I think about how she died, and I … Sorry. Pull yourself together.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Thanks, Jessie – I mean, Inspector. I know you’ve only tried to help. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Eve before, but there was nothing to tell, it wasn’t relevant. I’m sorry, so sorry …’

  The line went dead. Jessie wondered whether that little performance had been put on purely for her.

  CHAPTER 31

  In the open-plan office the enemy were huddled like cattle around a feeder. Mark and his boys.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Jessie.

  Silence. A newspaper was spread open on the table. Jessie could see the double Ds from where she stood.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said into Fry’s ear.

  ‘Some ex-con has whipped up a storm about the Verity Shore murder.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That ex-gangster who’s always parading himself as a crime expert on telly – Ray St Giles. He went for the jugular on this one.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Jessie took the feature from her colleague. She speed-read it. ‘Did anyone see it, the programme?’

  ‘It’s on at three in the afternoon on some shitty cable channel. No one saw it.’

  Mark Ward kept quiet.

  ‘Someone did – this paper is calling for his resignation. And there was I thinking that Verity
Shore had fewer fans than us lot. Someone go to the press office and see if it got mentioned anywhere else.’ No one moved. Trudi came in. ‘Thought you might want to know, Ray St Giles is on AM Today, now, defending his actions.’ There was a stampede to the TV room.

  Ray St Giles was spread over the orange sofa, looking very sure of himself. ‘I wasn’t saying anything, I was not being judgemental, I was simply interviewing the guests.’

  ‘But Verity Shore isn’t around to defend herself against Danny Knight’s allegations, or the allegations of any of your other guests,’ said the presenter. She looked nervous in her lilac blouse.

  ‘Look, sweetheart, everyone knows the kind of woman Verity Shore was. You think my guests were wrong, you tell me: why was she famous?’

  The presenter tried to come back with a diplomatic retort. It fell flat. ‘A very talented actress?’

  ‘Acting what, though? I used to know a lot of women in the East End who did what Verity Shore did, only less successfully. They’d spend night after night down alleyways, in cars, in the nick. We revile one kind, yet we hero-worship another. Come on, isn’t that a bit hypocritical? If she was an actress, I’m the pope.’

  ‘He’s not pulling any punches, is he?’ said Fry.

  That’s the second time someone has called Verity Shore a whore, thought Jessie. The interviewer looked nervous in front of the compact, energetic man, her Plasticine face shining under the studio lights. ‘Is it true that you’ve been temporarily suspended from your programme?’

  St Giles sat back in his chair and grinned, flashing his chipped teeth like a hallmark. Labouring his cockney accent for the mid-morning viewers of England, he said, ‘They were angry immediately after the show went out, but letters and calls came flooding in, commending our honesty. People are fed up with the endless PR spin, the self-promoting nobodies, people we have wrongly lauded as stars. Look, I’m not getting at anyone who can do their job, who deserves the adoration and the celebrity perks, but everybody from postmen to bank managers gets judged on performance ratings, so why shouldn’t these celebrities be? Due to huge public response, the cable company back-tracked. Now we’re on at six.’ St Giles winked at the camera. ‘Tune in tomorrow night for an intimate look at the late Eve Wirrel.’ The camera angle changed abruptly.