by James Damm
Mike knew as he sat in his front room he would rob banks for the feeling, destroy lives to get the high again. Everything else would settle for less.
Chapter Seventeen
The government had faked John’s military history; Mike had confirmed as much. Who could have the influence, scale and motivation to pursue such action?
The truth, as limited as it was, had become clearer to Juliet. John left home at sixteen, moved to Leeds and became a cleaner. At some point, the UK government recruited John into the shadows of the intelligence services. For a few years he had worked behind closed doors, and away from public eyes before his emergence at the Cherwell School fire. Obsessively re-watching the footage and press conference, there was no doubt in her mind this was no government request and a break from protocol. Why John had acted at this specific moment was unknown.
The questions still massively outweighed the answers in Juliet’s possession. The heroin in John’s body, the tattoo on his chest, scars on his body and ability to switch off his abilities. Who was Alice, the name he muttered drunk at the bar? Why was the military record faked? So many avenues for exploration remained unanswered. Patiently, Juliet had mapped out angles and possibilities for access.
The funeral for John Fitzgerald had been an empty casket, his body being kept in a static state as the government attempted to resurrect him or discover the key to his abilities. The information had been there, front and centre of the Prime Minister’s mind. Even in death, John was still theirs. Mike had been there, a broken shell of a man. Tom’s anger at the interview haunted her. In his spiral downwards he had found valuable information for her search, but at what cost? The man she had spoken to at the funeral had very few positive roads to head down.
The riskiest element of Juliet’s investigation would be her next steps. With all that was going on politically, with the riots and the breakdown of international politics, there were risks she had to manoeuvre around. Juliet was too high-profile and well known. If the government or media discovered that she was investigating the murder still, or that there was maybe some kind of cover-up to John’s death, there would be fallout. Everybody knew what had happened to Casper Smith, and even she had doubts whether it was a legitimate murder by a prisoner. The possibility it was Juliet’s own government never left her mind. They had lied about the military record and the empty casket. What else were they hiding and what would they do to keep it hidden?
Day-to-day, Juliet continued with what they used her to do, one eye always glancing over the shoulder. The night was her domain.
Distracted one day, Juliet spent her time between cases and interviews flicking through celebrity columns and articles to trace any recent activity of Candice Crawford. During the eulogy she had been the only individual she had witnessed with any realistic first-hand knowledge of John Fitzgerald. This information was hers alone. It had never been reported up the ladder with the killer caught so soon after. Yet the publicly known mind-reader, and the publicly known celebrity, coming into contact for no reason? Just more obstacles to skirt past.
The paparazzi photos of Candice leaving coffee shops, going food shopping and bikini pictures abroad with the odd romantic linkage, were as deep as the articles dared to go. Candice sure enough had done stints in rehab before she and John were allegedly even an item. The likelihood of her knowing who John had sourced drugs from was likely. They had found John’s body in London; the possibility remained high he had gained and taken the drugs had in the same city, Candice’s home turf.
In an official capacity, Juliet had no business contacting Candice. Her involvement in the investigation had been closed off with the arrest, and subsequent murder, of Casper Smith. Yet Juliet continued to use the intelligence she had access to, to reveal an address in Kensington where Candice lived. There was a coffee shop nearby where Candice would have regular morning breakfast meetings with her personal assistant – her Instagram posts revealed as much.
Over weeks Juliet made herself a regular face and on personal terms with Gino, the man who owned the coffee shop. A morning coffee was now a staple of her routine to dismiss suspicion. The car regularly came to pick up her in the morning from here after her personal training session. To all those who cared to listen, Juliet raved about her new personal trainer and coffee shop, and they could ask no questions concerning her presence there. It was all one big coincidence.
Common ground was not a hard thing to find when she had full access to Gino’s thoughts. Originally from Madeira, he had moved over in the nineties and started his own coffee shop. An avid football fan, he primarily followed Real Madrid as Cristiano Ronaldo came from his slice of the island. His only daughter was studying in Bristol. Familiar with neither Madeira, Real Madrid nor the University of Bristol, Juliet ensured she quickly became well-versed in all three. The payoff was enthusiastic conversations with the owner and no issue getting a table in a well-known and exclusive haunt of the rich and famous. The rest would be a matter of patience.
Instagram had kept Juliet up to date with the comings and goings of Candice. L.A., a fashion show in Milan and a quick rest in Bora Bora had been the story of the past few weeks. Her team had taken the most high-definition shots and uploaded them every step of the way. Juliet was ready and waiting the day that Candice made her return to Gino’s coffee shop for avocado and salmon on sesame seed toast. A photo of the meal snapped for social media too, obviously. Yet neither this venture, the second nor third, was where Juliet made her move. Likely having one shot at the situation, the risk was too large and so patience was key.
Finally, the day came.
Glamorous, cool and sophisticated was the game of Candice Crawford. Thirty, dressed in clothes that hung off her body like it was destiny for them to be paired together. There wasn’t a hair out of place, or a blemish on her costume. Into the coffee shop she strode, designer handbag in one hand and mobile in another. Costume was the description Juliet chose because everything was manufactured, rehearsed and designed with an end goal in mind. Before their ‘meeting’, she’d Googled and scrolled through a thousand images. Even on the ‘casual’ days with baggy clothes and unkempt hair, the look was still well-practised.
Juliet left Candice to relax, have her breakfast and order two oat-milk lattes for herself and her assistant. After a few weeks away from London, there were plans to make and business to attend to. Juliet’s opportunity came when the assistant went to the bathroom. As soon as she did, Juliet was on her feet and, casually as she could, was at Candice’s table.
“Think of a number between one and a thousand,” Juliet stated as she dropped herself into the seat opposite. There was one shot at this. Staff were tight on custom to the coffee shop and wary of either fans, paparazzi, or stalkers infiltrating the walls.
Momentarily surprised, Juliet sensed the instinct within Candice to seek help, whether from her personal assistant or one of the staff. On her phone her eyes flicked up and widened, but before the situation could escalate, Juliet tried to dilute the fear. “Humour me,” she said. “Just think of a number, in your head.”
Before Candice could really register what was happening, Juliet spoke again. “Four hundred and sixty-two. Now go again.”
Candice’s brow curled in confusion. There was a crazy woman opposite her. The coffee hadn’t woken her up enough for such an interaction.
“Seventy-six,” Juliet said calmly. “I’m like John Fitzgerald, except I can read minds. Think of as many numbers as you need to, and I can give them to you straight back. I’m here because I need to talk to you.”
Wary but no longer terrified of being shot or stabbed, Candice lay her phone down but remained on edge enough to leap to her feet if she needed to. “I’ve already spoken to the police months ago.”
“I know,” Juliet replied as she flashed Gino a smile. He had noticed her abandoned empty table with the coat hanging over the back of the chair. “I was at the eulogy and you proved to be the only person I encountered who knew John Fitzger
ald, properly I mean, rather than on a surface level.”
“But they got the killer. I don’t really know what I can offer or what you need from me?”
“I’m not here on official business,” Juliet assured her. “Truthfully, they have pared back the investigation, but I’m sure you know that John’s murder goes further than Casper Smith. I want five minutes, to know the guy I’m investigating.”
At this point Juliet caught the eye of the personal assistant hurriedly heading back to her seat. Gone for less than five minutes, a crazed fan was already harassing her boss.
“Excuse me, but Candice is on a tight schedule today and–”
“It’s okay Hilary,” Candice reassured over with a smile. “I’ll be five minutes, I’m just having a chat with an acquaintance. Steal her chair and I’ll call you over once we’re done.”
Scanning the face of her employer, Hilary took a seat at the empty table but kept a close eye for a minute on the vibe of the conversation, checking for any danger.
“Five minutes,” Candice declared. “What would you like to know?”
“Can you describe how you met and what the relationship was like?” Juliet began as she nodded to the assistant who was observing proceedings.
Playing with one of the many rings on her fingers, Candice began. “We met at a party, one of those functions designed for celebrities to network. He looked a little bored, and we shared a cigarette. It’s fair to say we hit it off and we’d hang out when we could. It was romantic for a time, but destiny dictated something like that would never last.”
The words were full of lies, but Juliet rejected confrontation. It would be better to keep Candice onside and see where she would slip up. “What was he like as a person?” Juliet pressed.
Lost, yet the words that left Candice’s lips painted a different picture. “Happy that he was doing well in the world. He loved what he did, the fruits of his labour giving a meaning to his life so many of us crave. He’s a tragic loss, not just in my life but a billion others.”
“And do you know who’d want to end such a life, who’d even have the knowledge how?”
Candice shook her head. “I probably have the same level of knowledge you do. He never really kept anybody that close.”
A tender pause hung in the air after that, and Juliet picked her time to play her card. In a hushed whisper she recanted information that would get her in very serious trouble. “They found John’s body with heroin in his system. I understand you have had stints in rehab, so the obvious question I want to ask is if you and John ever… shared any experiences like that?”
The tension had risen and Juliet prayed she had been delicate enough in her approach. Softly as she could Juliet finished, “This is part of no official investigation and is completely off the record. I’m genuinely just after a direction. If he had drugs in his system the day he died, I need to know where they came from and who he likely had them with.”
“John and I would usually do drugs when we hung out. Nothing hard though, only cannabis. At parties, cocaine was usually being passed around like candy – I suppose he likely had some then. Heroin and anything else? I can’t confirm, but it’s sad if he hit that point.”
Candice remained silent but pensive for a moment. Her thoughts were a blur, never settling. As Juliet listened to Candice, she knew the facts would not be entirely accurate. Memories had blurred and morphed in her mind to only an interpretation of what happened. But the feelings attached, the emotional connection and hidden skeletons remained. Those were the clues and indications Juliet was after and hoped would give her a sense of the version of John Fitzgerald that really existed.
“We met in the circumstances I said,” Candice confided. “The thing the public doesn’t see about the celebrity events is how manufactured they all are. We spend half of award ceremonies with agents and PR people, speaking with other celebrity PR teams. It’s a business, networking and making deals while the cameras pan around the empty seats. There’s never any fun to it, it’s all for show, our brands. One particular night I could barely stand it and slipped out a fire exit for a cigarette where I found John and we shared a couple. He was as bored as I was, no idea who I was, but we shared jokes about the state of these events and came to a mutual understanding. I joked that my team were trying to find bachelors to pair me with and John offered to hang out again sometime.”
“So they organise the celebrity relationships?” Juliet reacted.
“Some,” Candice admitted. “It’s good for all parties to manufacture these fake relationships. It’s all about being spotted by the paparazzi at the fashionable bars, restaurants and parties. The more the magazines and gossip talk about you, the more attention and work you naturally receive. It delighted my team that somehow I’d swung a date with THE John Fitzgerald. It wasn’t like that though, even though the magazines painted that way. We hung out, smoked weed, talked and spent our time mocking it all, ‘real life’ behind the scenes.”
“The heroin,” Juliet emphasised. “Is there anybody who might point us toward who the most recent batch of drugs came from?”
“I’m afraid not,” Candice replied with certainty. “If it was in London, I could tell you, but I don’t know Northumberland at all.”
“Northumberland?” Juliet questioned. As soon as she did, Candice shared a nervous look with her assistant.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your breakfast and jumping on you like this,” Juliet lamented as she found Candice looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m grateful for your time and will leave you be. But you mentioned Northumberland. I know that’s where he was from, where his father lives. What’s the connection?”
“We went there once,” Candice acknowledged. “Just once. He had a place in London but there was a place that was just his, unofficial, and he kept it very much a secret. I wasn’t meant to know where we were going but, well, I was curious. When we were out there, I looked at the map on my phone. A place called Rothbury, but just outside of that.”
“Thank you,” Juliet said as she mulled over it all. At every turn there was a wall in front of John. A distant father, closed off to relationships and a dependence on drugs. A man keeping his cards close to his chest. “Is there anything more about John, even the slightest idea of the man I’m investigating, that you’d like to share?”
“He was still human beneath the armour,” Candice stated as she fiddled with the ring on her finger. Drunk one night, John had used it for a fake proposal. They had laughed themselves to tears over the prospect of selling the photos to magazines. “On that TV footage they keep showing, he looks unstoppable. Behind closed doors he was as insecure at the rest of us.”
The conversation finished, Juliet thanked Candice for her time. Something had been clear, away from the words and behind the scenes of the conversation. When Candice spoke of relationships, Northumberland and touched the fake ring on her finger, a solo word stayed at the forefront of her mind. The word held no malice, no anger or hatred in Candice’s mind. Yet beneath the flickering memories of their platonic relationship the word held power, association and Juliet didn’t quite know what to do with it. Candice and John had never been lovers, never entangled in anything more than a brief friendship.
What Juliet learnt from inside Candice’s head was that John Fitzgerald was gay.
Chapter Eighteen
Autumn had gripped the country as Juliet hurried down empty streets. For another year beer gardens had emptied, jumpers dug out of wardrobes and even the bravest cyclists spent some commutes on the bus or Tube. Night was setting in, a chill and rain in the air, as Juliet periodically pulled a phone out of her pocket to follow directions. The estates she scampered through felt safe enough, wide and well-lit, but she could never be too sure. She’d heard enough of the ugly thoughts of passers-by before.
The terraced house Juliet marched up to blended perfectly alongside its neighbours. A steep staircase leading to a large doorway. On the phone Leo had confirmed he lived
in a house share, a lot on the street were, but he’d have privacy. Leo had been the man who had approached Juliet on the day of the murder and who had revealed that John had been missing for nearly two weeks from the public eye. The website he’d helped moderate, Fitzgerald Watch, now lay defunct and unused. Juliet had given Leo her business card, not the other way around. On the website, she messaged for him to call the mind-reader. Leo had broken the basic code, and they set the meeting.
A loud knock on the door and Juliet waited, moments passing before a young male in gym gear answered the door.
“I’m here to see Leo.” Juliet smiled. “Is he there?”
The housemate looked at Juliet with a hint of surprise. Guests were rare for Leo, especially female ones.
“He’ll have his headphones in, it’s up the stairs and on your left.”
Juliet entered the property and climbed up the stairs. To her right was the bathroom, the door open, and a radio played down in the basement, presumably where the kitchen was. Once again Juliet knocked on the door frame and this time Leo answered, slightly bewildered as his eyes fell on Juliet.
“It’s seven,” he stated rather than asked.
“It’s seven,” Juliet confirmed with a smile.
Suddenly Leo was in a rush. “I logged on at five, I thought I had ages,” Leo flustered. Not even knowing where to begin, the figure before Juliet was almost comic as he froze in horror at the state of his room. Instant noodle pots and energy drinks lined the windowsill of a room that possessed the distinct smell of takeaways. A significant laundry pile filled the corner. His duvet lacked covers and without showing her slight revulsion, Juliet took a seat at the end.
