Dead Alone

by Gay Longworth

  ‘How about a whole picnic to take on the boat?’ said Jessie.

  ‘An Indian picnic,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ said P.J., crouching down by Paul.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not sad.’

  The four of them dropped their weapons and ran howling back to the house. P.J. turned to Jessie. ‘That was a lucky escape.’

  ‘You have no idea. I’ve been caught by those two before, they can think up unimaginable things for their captives to do.’

  She was about to walk away, when P.J. grabbed her arm. She turned back. His hand slid down her forearm and held on to her hand.

  ‘What?’ she said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice and the panic out of her head.

  ‘There is something I’d like to do.’

  He pulled her nearer. I really must stop this, thought Jessie. He put his arms round her and squeezed her tight. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled into her neck. ‘Thank you for letting me bring the boys here.’

  The goose pimples spread like falling dominoes down Jessie’s arms, but she kept them resolutely by her sides.

  The kids – cold, wet and happy from a long day of unimaginable freedom – were put in the bath by Kate. P.J. glowed. Jessie kept forgetting why they were there. But then Saturday prime-time television pulled her three hundred miles southward and threw her back in the Thames, the stinking mud, the fizzing bones. It was Ray St Giles. Jessie closed the door of the den and stared at the television.

  ‘You know him?’ asked P.J.

  Jessie didn’t answer.

  Colin examined the television page. ‘Confessions of a Celebrity with Ray St Giles. You don’t want to watch this, do you, Jess?’

  ‘How low will this man sink?’ It was P.J. and he too was staring hard at the picture.

  ‘They’ve got a girl on. I think she was in a band, went solo and, well, here she is.’ Colin turned up the volume.

  ‘… I don’t want to be next, do I? I mean, if there is some madman loose. So I thought I’d confess, then I might not be on his list.’

  ‘On whose list?’ asked St Giles, as if he didn’t know what she was referring to.

  ‘The Z-list Killer.’

  The audience burst into applause. At last a killer who wasn’t going after their daughters, wives, sisters. It was only a matter of time before they started hunting through the pages of OK and Hello! for the next victim. Whereupon Mr St Giles would undoubtedly be ready with a piece of revealing footage and a best man speech for the victim. Was this the new strain of reality TV?

  ‘So, you’ve been in the music business for seven years, a successful band member and now with a platinum-selling solo record behind you. What is it you want to confess?’

  The camera swung round to zoom in on the singer.

  ‘She can’t sing,’ said P.J.

  Colin and Jessie looked at him.

  ‘I’m telling you – had her in the studio. Verity could sing better than her, and Verity couldn’t sing at all.’

  The girl was still chewing her lip. Afraid.

  ‘Come on, tell old Ray.’

  ‘I can’t sing,’ she whispered.

  The audience gasped. Genuinely shocked.

  ‘Stupid fuckers,’ said P.J.

  ‘Language,’ said Colin, out of habit.

  ‘Sorry, but surely they knew. There is a reason why these people don’t sing live.’

  ‘My voice is electronically adjusted by a computer. I am contractually forbidden to sing live. Anywhere. Not even in the bath at home, in case one of the staff hear.’

  ‘That must be terrible, living a lie.’

  ‘God he’s a creepy bastard,’ said P.J.

  ‘Language,’ said Colin.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Jessie.

  ‘He tried to get Verity and me on his cable show, said he had information. Blackmailing fu—. Sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I called his bluff.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Verity died. Ray St Giles aired the programme but left me out of it. I had the lawyers on to him by then, but he nailed Verity. After everything I did to keep her out of the press, that little swine goes and blurts it all anyway. And as for that backstabbing, money-grabbing Danny Knight – I could kill him.’ He was staring at the TV. Colin and Jessie exchanged glances.

  ‘Turn it off,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Saturday-night prime time. The man is going to be bigger than Noel Edmonds.’

  ‘How does he have such a hold on people?’ asked Jessie, of no one in particular.

  ‘He probably has video footage of her actor husband doing nose-up off some blonde’s thigh. They’ve decided to sacrifice her career to save his. Hers was pretty much over, anyway.’

  ‘Nose-up?’ asked Colin, confused.

  ‘Cocaine,’ explained Jessie.

  ‘That’s horrid.’

  ‘No, that’s life,’ said P.J.

  ‘Not my life,’ insisted Jessie’s brother.

  ‘No,’ said P.J. ‘But it’s mine.’

  ‘What did he have on you, P.J.?’

  ‘Nothing. It was Verity. She’d been seen in a hotel with some man. I don’t know who, so don’t ask. I didn’t bother to find out.’

  But Jessie knew who. Dame Henrietta Cadell’s husband. A woman who, according to her son, liked her reputation just as it was. Not that dissimilar to P. J. Dean.

  ‘I’d better leave you to it,’ said Colin, retreating.

  ‘Why did you tell me the affairs were nothing more than rumours?’

  ‘Most of them were,’ said P.J.

  ‘I have quite a lot of evidence to the contrary. And you are beginning to look like the jealous husband.’

  P.J. laughed spitefully. ‘Jealous? Of Verity? Come on, she was pitiful. The only stupid thing I have done is to try to protect her. Ray St Giles knew everything about her: he knew about Eve, he knew Verity was high, he knew everything that Danny Knight knew. It was an open secret. I should never have bothered.’

  ‘So it was true – Eve and Verity?’

  P.J. nodded his head silently as he watched St Giles prance around the stage. The audience was just beginning to chant his name when P.J. reached for the remote control.

  ‘St Giles.’

  ‘St Giles.’

  ‘St Giles.’

  CHAPTER 58

  Mark Ward had been sitting outside 7 Elwood Lane for two and a half hours when finally he saw a woman in her mid-fifties walk down the street. From the bulge under her mac, Mark guessed she was carrying money under there. A lot of money it seemed by the way she walked. Fast. With her shoulders raised and her eyes searching the street. He sunk low in his car and waited; he didn’t want to startle her. He had done his research on Irene. She was actually more than the owner of a salon. She was the owner of several. Quite an empire she’d built up along Commercial Road. She let them all, bar one. The one she began in. The one she went to every day and served the same women she’d been serving for years.

  He waited until she’d been in the house for ten minutes, then he rang the bell.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Ward. I’d like to talk to you about Clare Mills.’

  ‘Badge, please.’ The copper letter-box cover popped open and a bony hand emerged. Mark handed over the wallet.

  ‘Stand back a bit, so I can get a proper look at you.’

  Mark took two steps back and wished everyone was as conscientious as this lady. But then not many people had as much to protect as this lady.

  ‘What colour is Clare’s kitchen?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Look, anyone can fake ID these days, so answer the question or you’ll be conducting your interview from the pavement.’

  ‘Yellow.’

  ‘Job?’

  ‘Road sweeper.’

  ‘All right, Detective, you can come in now.’ A chain slid back and th
e door opened. ‘Serve the local community and make a pot of tea,’ said Irene. ‘I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m knackered.’

  Mark walked through to the living room with the tea on a tray. He’d even put some biscuits on a plate. Enlightened self-interest. He was starving.

  ‘Blimey, I said make tea, not make yourself at home.’

  ‘I thought you looked like a lady who’d want things done properly.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong.’

  Mark poured the tea and sat back on a chair opposite her. Irene had her shoes off and her feet stretched out in front of her on the sofa. She had good legs. Even now.

  ‘What can you tell me about Clare’s parents?’

  ‘Nothing that you don’t already know. I’m sure Clare has told you everything.’

  ‘Now I’d like you to tell me the rest. Stuff only friends talk about.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like how was her marriage?’

  ‘Like marriage.’

  ‘Clare seems to think it was blessed.’

  ‘That’s her prerogative.’

  ‘So it wasn’t?’

  ‘What marriages do you know round here that are blessed?’

  ‘Why did it take them so long to have Frank?’

  ‘Look, Detective, why do you want to dig up all this stuff now? They’re dead and buried, and Clare can believe what she wants to believe. Give the girl that, at least.’

  ‘You are saying there were problems.’

  ‘I’m saying leave it be.’

  ‘I think that belief is killing her. She can’t move on.’

  ‘Better the devil you know.’

  ‘So you reckon the truth could kill her?’

  ‘Perhaps. What is truth, except what you perceive it to be?’ Irene rubbed a bunion absently. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not stupid, and good sense tells me that if Clare has come to the conclusion that Frank is dead, well then, it’s for the best. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I know you’re not stupid. Quite a little empire you’ve built up around here.’

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It means I’ve been doing my research.’

  Irene didn’t say anything. Mark shifted in his seat. This was not going to be easy. Irene wasn’t some old pushover. She’d been burying secrets all her life. But he needed answers and only she had them.

  ‘Clare doesn’t know that you signed her and her brother over to the social services, does she? She doesn’t know that Veronica had given you power of attorney in case of her death.’

  Irene didn’t move.

  ‘Clare maintains that her mother didn’t know what she was doing when she hung herself on the day of Trevor’s funeral. Seems an extraordinary coincidence that she’d signed the relevant papers two days before.’

  Irene still did not move.

  ‘Come on, Irene. What was Veronica so frightened of? What was she hiding?’

  ‘Where did you get that information?’

  ‘Never mind what I know, what do you know about Frank? I found a grave this morning. Gareth Blake. Born the same day as Frank Mills. That name mean anything to you, Gareth Blake?’

  ‘No.’ Irene leant forward to put her cup and saucer on the glass-topped coffee table.

  ‘Ray St Giles?’

  China clattered, Irene looked up. She recovered quickly.

  ‘What do you think? He murdered Trevor. He was a tyrant in these parts until they locked him up. Harassing shopkeepers, preying on young girls, fixing the races –’

  ‘Young girls like you.’

  Irene didn’t say anything.

  ‘Like Clare’s mum?’

  ‘Yeah, girls like us.’

  ‘Trevor was out of work for a long time. Must have been tough with no money. Clare showed me the photos you gave her. Looking a million dollars – her words. How was that then, if Trevor wasn’t earning anything?’

  ‘We worked. In my salon. Well, what became my salon.’

  ‘Clare told me you started by sweeping up and making tea. Would have been around the time those photos were taken. Veronica had a kid, a husband. You telling me your measly wages paid for those fur coats and jewellery?’

  ‘It was all costume.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I think you knew Raymond’s mob, went down the clubs, picked up a few perks, drinks, the odd present. Just the way you both looked would have been enough. I should know, I’m from the same era. But your mate Veronica got in deeper, didn’t she? Started sleeping with one of the bad boys. Who was it, Irene?’

  Irene wiped her eyes. ‘This is no good. If you know what those times were like, then leave them be. Veronica is nothing but dust, Clare is living, let her be. This would kill her.’

  ‘So I’m right?’

  She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

  ‘Who was she sleeping with?’

  ‘I’m tired of all this.’

  ‘Who was it, Irene?’

  She continued to stare into the void of the blank television screen. ‘Tell me, please.’

  He heard the electronic pop of the television as it came to life. He glanced at Irene. She had the remote control in her hand, she was staring at the screen.

  ‘Irene, talk to me.’

  The programme was coming to an end. The audience were chanting. Mark sat up.

  ‘St Giles.’

  ‘St Giles.’

  ‘St Giles.’

  Mark turned his head, looked at Irene, his mouth open. The chanting continued. Her eyes slid sideways to meet his, then returned to the television set. She lowered her head and began to weep. Mark moved across the room and put his arm around her shoulders.

  CHAPTER 59

  Jessie watched P.J. and Colin through the glass door. A bottle of Bechevelle 1966 stood open next to them. P.J. was chopping cucumber for the salad. He looked as though he’d been there all his life. Above her head the stars peeked out of the darkening sky. She was reluctant to pass on the good news she’d just received from Jones, but she slid the door back and stepped from the deck into the steamy kitchen.

  ‘Good news,’ she said, trying to sound convincing. ‘It’s safe for you to go home. The skull was a fake. Left by two fourteen-year-old fans. One of the girls’ fathers is an osteopath. Apparently they got the information from a website called fan-extremis.com. It’s anonymous. Impossible to trace who posted it on the net. Sorry.’

  ‘Fans left a skull?’ Colin looked perturbed.

  ‘Some people are so fanatical they’d shoot you,’ said P.J. drily.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Colin.

  ‘It’s my fault. I should have checked the box,’ she said.

  Jones had made it perfectly clear on the phone what he thought she should do now.

  ‘It means you can go home,’ said Jessie, looking at P.J. He continued to slice the cucumber. ‘There is no threat to the boys, or you. It’s safe to go home.’

  ‘You can’t go,’ said Colin. ‘We want to say thanks for taking the girls off our hands all day. We had a great afternoon, and the –’

  Jessie held up her hand. ‘Thanks, Colin, we get the picture.’

  ‘Besides, it’s late, you didn’t get any sleep last night, you need feeding and a long sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday and it would be uncivilised not to stay for lunch.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘The boys are already in bed, and they couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the girls. Plus, dinner would be ruined and the wine will go to waste. In a nutshell, you’re staying put.’

  ‘The trouble is –’

  Colin interrupted again. ‘Jessie, do you really need to drive back to London tonight?’ He threw some herbs into the pan and gave it a stir. Stubbornness ran in the family.

  ‘She’s not planning on going anywhere.’ P.J. lowered the knife and looked at Jessie. ‘Are you?’

  It was true. She could stay. The thought of a long car journey was unappealing. The thought of P.J. leavi
ng without her was disturbing. The thought of Jones’ disapproval didn’t help.

  ‘I’ll go and get the boys,’ said P.J.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It would be dangerous for you to drive – you’ve had a drink, you haven’t slept and it’s a long journey. As a policewoman, Jessie should forbid you to go.’

  ‘How much have you drunk?’ asked Jessie.

  ‘Two bottles of beer and half a glass of wine, not counting the wine at lunch.’

  ‘A big glass, not half,’ said Colin. ‘He can’t drive. You are both staying.’

  CHAPTER 60

  Mark realised that Irene was a woman too tired not to talk.

  ‘It’s been hell, all this time, Clare despising that man. If she ever found out …’ Irene looked at Mark. ‘Who do you think has been making sure she never finds Frank? Me. I’ve spent my life sending her in the opposite direction because I’m telling you, something terrible would happen if she found out. I’ve dreaded it all my life.’

  ‘What happened, Irene? What happened to Veronica, why did she kill herself?’

  Irene slumped back into the sofa. ‘If I tell you, will you scupper this investigation?’

  ‘I can’t do that, but I’ll make sure I keep what I find from Clare.’

  ‘Veronica felt so guilty. She loved Ray, or she thought she did at first, it was exciting and Trevor, bless him, he was a good man, but … Well, you can imagine. Ray fell hard. Veronica sort of did that to men. Then Veronica got pregnant with Frank. Trevor, of course, was over the moon. His miracle baby.’

  ‘Why didn’t she leave? Take the kids.’

  ‘Ray didn’t want Clare. He was mad about Veronica, but proud, so he didn’t want Clare. Well, Veronica wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t split those kids up. She came from a terrible family, full of hatred; she’d been deserted, completely deserted, by them. That’s how she ended up living with my family. She wasn’t going to do that to her kids. And then those two women disappeared. Prostitutes – no one gave a damn back then. Police arrested some trucker for it. He was up to his neck in all sorts of stuff anyway and the murders stuck. But Veronica had seen those women at Ray’s club. They’d stolen a lot of money off him. Ray was furious with those two birds. Next thing we know, they’re dead. That man is violent, not a normal violence. The sort of violence that takes time to thaw. He doesn’t explode. It’s slow and calculated.