Читать книгу Dead Alone - Gay Longworth - Страница 20

Jessie walked along the corridor to her office carrying the twenty video tapes. PC Ahmet was sitting on a chair outside Jones’ door. She was about to ask him what he was doing there when Trudi came out of her office. She looked distraught.

‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ she asked, breathless and upset.

‘Oh, Trudi, no of course not. I’ve just left him. He asked if you would go and see him – only you, he can’t face anyone else.’

Trudi picked up her bag and coat, then put them down again. ‘What shall I do about …?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get a PC in here to answer your phone. You go, I’ll see to it.’

‘Thanks, DI Driver.’

‘Please, call me Jessie.’

Trudi backed out of the room. ‘Oh, DI Driver, there’s a woman to see you. She’s in Jones’ office.’

‘But –’ Jessie looked down at the video tapes. The autopsy was in an hour.

‘I know, but this is important. It’s Clare Mills.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to dispense with those,’ said Niaz, holding out his giant hands to receive the stack of tapes.

Clare was standing at the window, looking out. She was taller and thinner than Jessie remembered. It seemed like months ago that she and Jones had gone to Elmfield House to meet her. Poor Clare. Despite the promises, they’d already let her down. Jessie couldn’t explain why, either; murder was like that. Clare turned. She looked haunted.

‘Sorry to disturb you at work, I just wanted to give you this.’ Clare handed over a black-and-white photocopy of a newspaper article. ‘It’s amazing what these machines can do with old photos and stuff.’

It was a child. The face of a child. Blurred like an ultrasound scan, but distinguishable nonetheless.

‘Frank?’ asked Jessie gently.

‘I found it a while ago. It’s from an old local rag, God knows why they were interested in Dad’s funeral, but I don’t care, at least I have this.’

‘Look, Clare, I –’

Clare straightened up. ‘I know, you’re busy, you’ll let me know. I just wanted to give you that and explain something about Mum …’ Clare hesitated.

‘Go on …’

‘She didn’t mean to kill herself. Not really. Have you ever stayed awake for three weeks, not eating, nothing but hope to keep you going?’

Jessie shook her head.

‘I have. Another great fuck-up in a history of almighty fuck-ups.’

‘Sorry, I’m not with you,’ said Jessie.

‘I was told they’d found a boy called Frank in care. Obviously, he was a man by then. He had no recollection of his family, but he was the right age, came from the right area. I thought maybe it was him, maybe he’d remembered his name even when everything else around him changed. I did. This Frank was in a mental hospital, which figured. It took three weeks for the paperwork to come through so I could go and see him. I didn’t eat or sleep; I sat and prayed it was my Frank. Finally I went to the hospital to meet my brother …’ She paused. Jessie swallowed nervously. ‘He was black. The boy they thought could be my brother was black. Oh, social services were sorry, somehow my colour had been overlooked. If I’d had the strength, I would have killed myself that day. I would have killed myself even though all I want to do in this pitiful life of mine is look my brother in the eye and tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let them take him away. I’m sorry I didn’t protect him from those grown-ups who told me they knew best. I’m sorry that he doesn’t know what amazing parents he had, who loved each other, and who loved us. And more than that I’m sorry I didn’t go up and check on Mum sooner.’

Suddenly Verity Shore’s self-obsessed, insecure, drug-taking antics didn’t seem so pressing. Jessie folded the picture of the boy and put it in her wallet then walked Clare to the canteen. Despite Jones’ request, Jessie confessed to seeing Ray St Giles on the telly. They agreed it was a sorry world that took known hooligans and criminals and made them into celebrities. Even if they were reformed, which Clare clearly doubted was the case for Raymond Giles, the hard-man angle was the linchpin of their marketability. There was no point denying their past. That past was the only reason they were on television. Clare told Jessie that Raymond Giles also frequented the news studios. Appearing on London Today any time a ‘gang’-style shooting took place so he could give his ‘expert’ opinion.

She was so quiet, so unassuming most of the time, but when Clare talked about Ray St Giles, the anger blazed from her.

Niaz was still sitting in the corridor when Jessie returned.

‘What are you doing, Niaz? Haven’t we got enough on our hands?’

‘DI Ward told me to leave.’

‘Did he now? Why?’

‘Because I am “a useless piece of pedestrian shite who is good for nothing except beating off”. By which I believe he was referring to the act of masturbation and trying to tie it in with the redundant term of beat officer and thereby be humorous and rude at the same time. He failed on both counts.’

‘Did you tell him I’d transferred you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he know about the implants?’

‘No.’

‘Verity Shore?’

‘No.’

Jessie smiled. ‘And the medical records?’

‘They’re on their way. DC Burrows organised it.’

‘Good. Get their bank details too.’ Niaz nodded. ‘Now, follow me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She opened the door of the CID room. It suddenly went very quiet. DC Fry had clearly been enjoying centre stage. Some of them had the decency to look embarrassed. Not Ward, he just threw himself straight in.

‘What the bloody hell have you been doing? Helicopters, divers, the River Police – do you know how many suspicious deaths we deal with here? We haven’t got the resources to play Sherlock Holmes with every sad fucker who washes up on the banks of the Thames. Jesus, we probably pull out two a month. It could have come from anywhere. I hear you even got the SOCOs down there. A body can wash up fifty miles from the crime scene, if that is what it is.’

Jessie looked at her watch.

‘And what the fuck is he still doing here?’ Ward jabbed a finger in Niaz’s direction.

She had planned to do this privately. But to hell with him.

‘Initial tests on the bones reveal that they have been soaked in a sulphuric acid. Two silicone implants that survived the acid bath were found in the vicinity of the body. They belonged to Verity Shore.’

‘Shit! The jellyfish.’

‘Yes, Fry, the jellyfish.’ Jessie turned back to Mark. ‘This morning DCI Jones and myself went to P. J. Dean’s house, where we were told by Mr Dean that his wife has been missing for five days. There is to be a full postmortem in an hour at Charing Cross Hospital, which I, as acting Senior Investigating Officer will be attending –’

‘Hang on, you’re the SIO? What about the guv’nor?’

Jessie continued talking over him. She’d stuff his insubordination right down his fat throat. ‘DCI Jones has been admitted to hospital with a burst stomach ulcer. He has put me in charge. I’ve written my team down here. Please have an incident, evidence and briefing room set up for when I return from the postmortem, which I am hoping will give us absolute confirmation that the remains are indeed Verity Shore.’

Silence.

‘PC Ahmet will shadow me and DC Burrows will be my second-in-command. Both will be accompanying me to the hospital now. Thank you.’

‘What about me?’ asked Fry. This was a big one, he wanted to be there.

‘Oh yes, DC Fry, thanks for reminding me. Niaz, give those tapes to DC Fry so he can start watching. These are the security tapes from the Dean residence. You see someone leaving, clock it; arriving, clock it; any deliveries clock it, number it, and show me when I get back.’

‘But –’

‘Okay, Niaz, Burrows, you’re with me.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ they said in unison.

Jessie returned to the corridor. It was the first time she could ever remember shaking on the job.

‘Where are those medical records, Burrows?’

‘On their way by bike.’

‘Is that safe?’ asked Jessie as she marched down the corridor.

‘They’re experienced drivers.’

‘Yes, but how are they with large offers of cash?’ Her breathing was returning to normal with every step she took away from Mark Ward. She glanced quickly behind her, didn’t see the press officer spring from a side office, and accidentally sent her flying. Kay Akosa fell back and skidded a few yards on her well-rounded rump before coming to a stop.

‘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.’