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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.

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