Читать книгу Dead Alone - Gay Longworth - Страница 17

Jessie pulled up to a solid wood gate, twelve foot high. It was painted green. Quite a bright green. Not a very rock’n’roll green. Above and either side of her were security cameras. Jessie leant out of the window and pressed the buzzer.

‘The Dean Residence.’

‘Detective Inspector Driver and Detective Chief Inspector Jones from West End Central Police Station. We’d like to speak to Mr Dean.’

‘Have you got an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘Well then …’

‘We’re not asking.’

‘I see. Could you show me your badge?’

Jessie frowned.

‘Just hold it in front of the box. You can’t be too careful.’

‘Quite,’ said Jessie, holding it up. A few seconds later the gate buzzed and slowly began to slide open. The black granite driveway said it all. Jones and Jessie exchanged glances. The driveway was edged with a raised white wooden border brimming with white winter roses, beyond which lay perfectly mowed lawns. She spotted a couple of five-a-side football goals. A gardener was walking around replacing divots. The atmosphere was relaxed, thought Jessie, not the house of a missing person. Perhaps this was more of an elaborate hoax than she had given Mark Ward credit for.

Jessie eased the car slowly up the granite drive as it curved round to the left. The house was a modern building, three storeys, lowering to two then one. An architectural wedding cake. The walls were white, the woodwork was black. To her right, the single-storey block housed one enormous garage. Jessie had read about P.J. and his cars. A tall sandy-haired boy was polishing a Ferrari. He watched them drive by, hands on his hips, full of judgement and testosterone. Big-boy bravado; she’d seen it a hundred times in the faces of her brothers’ friends. The façade was a prerequisite of puberty, and this one looked like a loose covering. Jessie pressed her police badge to the window and watched the boy take an invisible punch to the solar plexus. When he’d recovered, he pushed himself from pillar to pillar of the garage, matching the speed of the car with wide paces and wide, worried eyes. He clutched the last pillar with both hands; it was doing more than holding up the flat roof, it was holding up the boy. Jessie could only assume that this boy knew something the gardener did not.

‘What an amazing collection of automobiles,’ said Jones.

‘P. J. Dean has a reputation for fast cars,’ said Jessie.

‘And loose women.’

‘I think a poor taste in women. Girlfriends were endlessly going to the press, some from years ago, with pictures of him at about eighteen and stories of him being bad in bed, that sort of thing.’

‘I doubt many teenagers would fare better.’

‘Don’t remind me. Can you imagine, getting famous then all those little mistakes you’ve brushed under the carpet come screaming back at you from the front page of the News of the World or some other gossip-fuelled mag?’

‘I didn’t have you down as the trashy-mag type.’

‘Even I go to the hairdressers, sir.’

‘Not that you’d notice.’

Jones saw the expression on Jessie’s face as she involuntarily ran her hand through her short hair. Three weeks before joining Jones’ team, she had cut ten inches off and had it styled into the spiky bob she thought more fitting for a DI. Although she wished she’d had the guts to do it years ago, she still missed the weight of it, like an amputee. Every morning she woke up surprised it was gone.

‘Stop fiddling,’ said Jones. ‘For a detective, that’s a compliment.’

Jessie parked outside the black double doors. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it, sir.’

A modern-day manservant opened the door. Tall and thin and bald, he looked at them with steely eyes, studying their badges again before admitting them into the house.

‘Danny Knight,’ he said. Jessie wondered if he fancied himself as a bit of a Richard O’Brien. The black tiles continued throughout the ground floor; the furniture in the main hallway was white, but that was the extent of the monochrome look. The walls were painted blood-red and the ceiling was gold leaf.

A young-looking woman peered out from a black side-door, but disappeared just as quickly when Jessie caught her eye. P. J. Dean had a lot of staff. And a lot of expensive ‘art’. Mounted on the red walls Jessie recognised an Eve Wirrel, the bad girl of contemporary art. It was part of a series called ‘The Wirrel Week’, the contents of which had almost become as famous as that shark. Jessie took a closer look at the two and a half condoms lying in a Perspex box. They’d been used. It was titled ‘An Average Week’. Next to it was a black-and-white nude study of Verity Shore. Exhibitionists unite, thought Jessie, then remembered the skeleton in the morgue. The actress-turned-model-turned-serial-celebrity-wife was not so photogenic now.

Danny Knight showed them through another high black door, this one flanked by gold pillars, and led them into a gigantic games room. A screen was pulled down over one wall, DVDs covered another, from the ceiling was suspended a digital projector. A curved seven-seater sofa had been placed behind squashy Ottomans for perfect viewing comfort. Jessie felt the first twinge of envy. A bar in the corner suddenly swivelled, revealing a descending staircase.

‘Very Agatha Christie,’ whispered Jones as the manservant beckoned them to follow. ‘I’ll go first.’

‘Age before beauty.’

‘Charming.’

‘Just getting you back for the hairdresser comment.’

‘Actually, we may be dealing with a madman. Who’s to say he didn’t dip his wife in sulphuric acid?’

‘Too much to lose.’

‘Or a man who has taken his role of modern deity to such heights that he believes himself above the law.’

The walls were covered with framed headlines and publicity photos of Verity.

‘Of course, we could be dealing with an extremely elaborate publicity stunt,’ said Jessie.

Danny Knight reappeared. ‘Please, keep up.’

‘I don’t like dungeons, they make me nervous,’ said Jones as they followed the manservant’s shiny pate. The corridor was lined with fake flame lanterns. Looking at the pieces of material flicker in the heat of the bulb, Jessie didn’t think Jones had anything to worry about. Acid-dipping homicidal maniacs didn’t shop at Christopher Wray.

The manservant knocked on a door, a voice answered, and in they went. To a bowling alley. Jessie let out a shocked laugh. P. J. Dean looked up.

She had known she was coming to P. J. Dean’s house, and she had known what P. J. Dean looked like. She could recall his face in her mind easier than her own. He was billboard big. She had known exactly what to expect – except her own reaction.

Dean’s dark hair was cropped to his head. Not too fiercely – Jessie guessed a number three. His eyes were sea green, each the size of a two-pound coin and outlined by thick black eyelashes. Jessie and Jones walked slowly towards him and the two small boys by his side. The taller one was fair, the younger had dark hair. Both of them wore pyjamas. Neither of them had their mother’s colouring. Bleach blonde. Peroxide blonde. Ammonia blonde. Jessie pushed the smell to the back of her memory. She was about to orphan these children.

‘You go on playing, kids,’ P.J. said, ruffling their hair. The older one looked at Jessie and tried to flatten his hair back down.

Jesus, thought Jessie, that voice. P. J. Dean was also wearing pyjamas. Bottoms only. And an old fraying dressing gown that hung open over his shoulders, chest and stomach. Jessie couldn’t help it. She looked down. Then sideways. Then at her feet. She had spent hours in the gym Thai-boxing, running and doing yoga, and in all that time she had never seen a stomach like it. It was a Fight Club stomach, disappearing into a taut V that pointed indecently to his low-slung pyjamas. As he came forward to meet them he pulled the dressing gown together and tied the cord around his waist. Only when the knot was secure did Jessie look up.

‘Sorry about my appearance.’ He held out a hand to each in turn. ‘P.J.,’ he said simply.

‘Detective Inspector Driver and Detective Chief Inspector Jones,’ said Danny Knight, pointing to each.

‘Chief Inspector, eh?’ P.J.’s eyes narrowed. ‘Danny, watch the kids a while. We’ll be in the studio.’

Another corridor led to his recording studio. Among other things it was soundproof. One window looked back out to the bowling alley, another looked on to a padded recording room. Dean pulled over some chairs then pressed a button on a phone panel and spoke into it. ‘Bernie, can we have fresh coffee, orange juice and croissants.’

The telephone replied: ‘On its way.’

Panels of mixing decks stretched away from them, a million sliders, buttons, lights, dials, switches, plugs, meters, like a giant cockpit.

‘What has she done?’

‘Excuse me?’ said Jessie, who’d been studying her unusual surroundings.

‘Verity. I presume that’s why you’re here. It can’t be something I’ve done. I pay my taxes, I certainly haven’t been kerb-crawling recently, and hotels are too minimal these days to smash up. Which leaves Verity. My wife.’ He spat the last word out, but seemed exhausted by his own venom. He sighed heavily before looking out towards the bowling alley. He waved. The kids waved back.

‘Is she here?’ Jessie asked.

He looked at her. ‘No. It’s a big house, but I don’t think so. You’d know if she were here – the bell never stops ringing.’

‘Has she many visitors?’

‘Not that bell. She has a staff bell, and she seems to be eternally in need of something.’

These were definitely not the words of a loving husband. ‘When did you last see her?’ asked Jessie, sitting forward.

‘Just tell me what she’s done. I’ll sort it out, pay, whatever. You haven’t arrested her, have you? She doesn’t need that sort of publicity right now.’

‘No. The thing is, Mr Dean …’

‘Mr Dean?’ he looked from Jessie to Jones. ‘Oh shit. It’s serious, isn’t it?’

Jessie didn’t know what to say.

‘Someone is dead,’ he said slowly. Then added angrily, ‘I fucking knew this was going to happen.’

‘Did your wife ever have cosmetic surgery?’

‘What?’

‘Please answer the question.’

‘No one’s dead? Thank God.’

‘Please, answer the question.’

‘Absolutely not –’

‘The truth please, not the spin.’

P. J. Dean’s shoulders dropped. He rubbed his forehead and wrestled with the truth. ‘Where do you want me to start? Lips, hips, eyes, tits. Course, she denied it all and plugged her diet books and exercise videos. What has all that got to do with anything?’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but a body was found on the bank of the Thames. We traced the silicone implants to your wife.’

He stared back at her. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.

Jessie persevered. ‘I’m sorry, I know this is difficult, but when did you last see your wife?’

Very slowly, P. J. Dean lowered his head. ‘You said no one was … Is she …? Oh my god, you think you’ve got Verity.’

‘Please answer the question,’ said Jessie.

‘Um, I was in Germany last Wednesday, got back late on Thursday, she wasn’t here, and now it’s um, Wednesday. So, just under a week.’

Jessie looked over to Jones.

‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’ said P.J. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. You’ve found her silicone implants, what does that mean?’

‘We found a body, sir. We’re trying to identify who it is. Has anyone in the household spoken to her – the kids, for instance?’

P.J. stood up and knocked on the window. Jessie noticed he was shaking. The bald man came to join them. ‘Danny, when was Verity last home – and don’t cover for her, this is serious.’

Danny looked at the police officers. ‘She went out on Thursday night. We haven’t seen her since. She called during the day on Friday, wanting to talk to the boys, but she was incoherent. I’m afraid I wouldn’t put them on.’ He turned back to P.J. ‘Actually, she fired me, I’ve been meaning to mention it to you.’

P.J. waved a hand, dismissing the idea of his wife firing the man. Jessie wondered whether Verity Shore had a point. Knight seemed a bit shifty to her, a bit in a hurry to go somewhere and yet a little too eager to stay. She gave him a long hard look. ‘So you haven’t seen or heard from her since Friday, when she called you, obviously distressed?’

P.J. came to Danny Knight’s defence. ‘It’s not like that. Her disappearing for a few days isn’t particularly unusual. Verity likes to party, I like to spend the weekend at home with the boys. We had a rule: she couldn’t bring anyone back here. I don’t mean lovers, I mean … well, shit, you probably know already – the liggers, the party people, the coke-heads. I … well, you know, it was hard keeping track of her. I’ve sort of given up trying.’

It didn’t sound very impressive.

‘Danny, could you take the boys upstairs. I think I need to go to the police station.’

‘Actually, Mr Dean –’ P.J. put his hand up. Danny didn’t move. Eventually Danny got the hint and left.

‘Call me old-fashioned,’ said P.J. ‘I trust him as much as is possible, but most people have a price.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Do you need me to make a formal identification?’

‘Please sit down, Mr Dean,’ said Jessie.

‘P.J., please.’

‘This thing is, the body is not in a good condition. To be honest, there isn’t much to identify.’

‘What do you mean? What happened to her?’

‘We don’t even know at this stage that it is her.’

There was a brief knock and the young woman from the entrance hall pushed the door open with her foot and carried in a large tray weighed down with coffee and pastries. P.J. was up in a second to take the tray from her. She pulled a fold-away table from behind the door and P.J. lowered the tray. He sat back down while the young woman began to pour the coffee. She was short with dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. A good figure, Jessie noted, under the sweatshirt and jeans. She looked about twenty-eight. Young for a housekeeper. Young and pretty, if a little unkempt. Her eyes kept watch on P.J. as she poured by instinct.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

In keeping with P.J.’s previous instructions, Jessie and Jones remained mute.

‘I don’t know,’ said P.J. ‘The police were just telling me.’ He looked at Jessie. ‘Go on …’

Jessie nodded towards the woman pouring coffee for Jones. ‘Perhaps we should wait.’

‘Oh God, carry on. You can say anything you want to now; previous comments do not apply.’

‘Are you sure? This is quite delicate.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked the woman. ‘Is Verity all right?’

‘We found the body of a woman on the bank of the Thames yesterday morning,’ said Jones.

The woman dropped the spoon she was using to ladle sugar into P.J.’s coffee. She put her hand over her mouth and stared at P.J.

‘At this point,’ continued Jessie, ‘we don’t know the cause of death. There will be an autopsy at four p.m. today, and you are welcome to be there for the results.’

‘Oh my God, P.J., the boys.’ P.J. took the woman’s hand. She stood up, still clutching his hand. ‘I’ve got to go and see –’

‘Keep this to yourself for the moment. They don’t know that it is Verity.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Do you?’

‘Not absolutely, no. Though I’m sorry to hear that no one has spoken to her since Friday.’

‘Tell them about the letters,’ said the young woman. ‘Tell them about the letters …’

‘What letters?’ asked Jones.

‘It was nothing.’

‘But, P.J.…’ The woman put her hand on his shoulder.

‘I think you should go and see the boys,’ he said sternly.

‘But –’

P.J. turned to Jessie. ‘The police have been here before. The boys aren’t stupid, they’ll know it’s something to do with their mother. It always is.’

‘Yes, sorry. Excuse me, I’ve got to, um …’ The woman was frowning and backing out of the room. ‘Sorry …’ Again, she didn’t finish her sentence, she simply bolted.

‘Who was that?’ asked Jessie.

P.J. watched the woman run through the bowling alley and back up the steps that they had come down.

‘When you say the body is not in a good condition, what exactly do you mean?’ asked P.J., ignoring Jessie’s question.

Jessie repeated the question. ‘Who was that woman, Mr Dean?’

‘Call me P.J. My father is Mr Dean. And I am not him.’

‘About the girl?’

‘Girl?’

‘The woman who brought in the coffee?’

‘Excuse me! You’ve just told me that my wife might be dead, I’d like a few more details, please. I want to know what happened to Verity. I want to know whether I have to tell those boys that their mother is dead!’

She let it go. For the time being. ‘Do you know why your wife would have been in Barnes? Do you have friends on the river?’

‘Define “friends”.’ He sounded angry. ‘It was drugs, wasn’t it? She was fucked and fell in, was that it? Was she hit by a boat? Is that why she’s in such a mess? I can handle it, just tell me.’

‘What sort of drugs did she take?’

‘I don’t know. She was clean for a lot of the time, then suddenly she would binge, go off the rails. I don’t know who she was with or where she went. I have done everything in my power to stop her, but she wouldn’t. Not for me, not even for the kids. She was unstoppable.’ P. J. Dean fiddled with his dressing-gown cord for a while. Jones and Jessie remained quiet. It was always a good idea to let the next of kin talk. People often talked when they were in shock. It was probably the truest insight they would have of P. J. Dean and Verity Shore, before the others got involved. The advisers. Press managers. Image consultants. Lawyers. Producers. Staff.

‘I always thought it would end like this,’ he said quietly. ‘I just didn’t know when. She couldn’t cause herself any harm here, you see. I banned all drink and drugs from the house. No sharp objects. No deliveries went unchecked. She’d stay in bed for a few days after the binge, put herself through some sort of mini cold-turkey, then she was good for a few weeks. Played with the boys. Talked to me. Then she’d begin to feel housebound, she’d call up “friends”, photographers. It always started with the shopping. More and more parcels would arrive, then the drinking and then, well, she’d disappear for a few days. I couldn’t keep her under lock and key, like I do the beer in the studio. I even do stock checks so I’d know if she was stealing vodka. But she wouldn’t have jumped into the river, I’m sure of that. It would have been an accident.’

He went quiet for a while.

‘P.J., we’re pretty sure that whoever died did not do so by accident.’

‘Trust me, she was too selfish to kill herself. Whatever it may look like, it was an accident.’

‘What about these letters?’

P.J. sighed loudly. ‘Just the normal trappings of celebrity. Hate mail, death threats, pig’s blood.’

‘Sent to you?’

‘Well, us. Look, they don’t mean anything. They come from bored, sad, disappointed people who feel angry at anyone who’s succeeded where they failed. There are plenty out there. They’re not serious. I wouldn’t put it past Verity to send a few to herself.’

‘Have you kept them?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said P.J. impatiently.

‘Well,’ said Jessie, ‘perhaps you should have taken them seriously.’

P.J. stared back at her. Iridescent eyes. Signature eyes. ‘Just fucking tell me, will you?’

She nodded briefly. ‘There was no head with the body.’

P.J. put his hand over his mouth, his cheeks blew out, he swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jessie.

‘I …’ He struggled for breath. Jessie watched. Waited. He stood up, walked around the high-tech room then sat back down. ‘Jesus, what am I going to tell them?’ He looked out to the bowling alley even though the boys had been taken upstairs. ‘You know, they’re great kids. Paul is very sensitive and Ty, he –’

‘Don’t tell them anything for the moment. Until we know more. Here’s my card, it’s got my mobile number on it. If she comes home, call me. If she calls, call me. If she doesn’t, we are going to have to question everyone in the house. So now will you tell me who lives here?’

‘Me, the boys, Verity …’ He lowered his head. ‘Bernie, she’s been with me for twelve years. She has a son, Craig. He’s seventeen.’

‘And the young woman who brought in the tray?’

‘That’s Bernie.’

Jessie was startled. The woman looked considerably younger than her. ‘She has a seventeen-year-old son? That boy I saw in the garage?’

‘She looks young for her age,’ said P.J., standing up again.

‘How old is she?’ asked Jessie, suspicious.

‘This has nothing to do with Verity,’ said P.J., sounding pissed off again.

‘How old, Mr Dean?’ asked Jones in his slow, deliberate way.

‘Thirty-two. Do the maths yourself. She is a very good woman, and a great friend. Her private life has got nothing to do with Verity. Do you understand?’

No. Jessie didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why P. J. Dean was more concerned with his housekeeper than the death of his wife.

‘We’ll have to question you too, Mr Dean,’ said Jones.

‘Fine. Give me a time of death, I’ll give you an alibi.’

‘Who said anything about alibis?’ said Jessie quickly.

‘Don’t insult my intelligence. I know where you look first. That’s fine, do your job. I certainly had a motive. I won’t hide it, I’d begun to detest Verity. She was a monster, entirely self-centred; whatever she had she wanted more – more attention, more money, more fame, more handbags, more drugs, whatever. But I didn’t kill her, and I’ll give you an alibi to prove it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Jones.

‘Trust me, in this business, you are rarely on your own.’

‘P.J., is there anything you know about Verity that could help identify her? An old injury …?’

‘She has a tattoo, on her –’

‘I’m afraid that won’t help.’

‘Jesus. What did happen to her?’

‘We really don’t know yet.’

‘Um, confidential?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘She had six toes. On her right foot. She’d had the extra one removed, it left a small scar. I’m sure an expert would know.’

Jessie looked at Jones, who shook his head. It was a fraction of a movement. P. J. Dean had enough information for his imagination to play havoc with, he didn’t need to know his wife’s feet were missing too.