LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘P.J., you just called your wife a whore.’

      ‘No Detective Inspector Driver. I called myself a sucker.’ He turned to leave. ‘Do you mind? I can’t stand the smell.’

      

      Jessie carried on through the dressing room to the bathroom. There were enough mirrors in that room to give anyone a complex. There was no hiding from self-scrutiny. Along one wall was a mirrored dressing table the size of a pool table. More cupboards lined either side of it. All mirrored, of course. Jessie ran her finger along the mirrored surface then looked at it. Not a speck of dust. This room was exceptionally clean. Suspiciously clean. Gleaming bottles of serum, scrub, toners and tonics lined up like an army. A fight against age. To the death. She approached the bath. It stood alone on a pedestal and it smelt of bleach. On the edge of the tub were more goodies. A family of Paul Mitchell bottles. Did women like Verity Shore wash their own hair? Jessie picked up a bottle and shook it. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Obviously not. For a second she pictured Verity Shore, an unhappy, over-indulged woman, lying amongst expensive bubbles in her big white pedestal bathtub, sipping from a shampoo bottle.

      She put the shampoo bottle back with the others and returned to the bedroom. A large sash window on the far wall looked directly on to the flat roof of the garage. One big step up. Made easier by the presence of a conveniently positioned window box. The window pushed up easily. Silently. Jessie looked at the window box. No flowers. Well-trodden soil. Apparently P. J. Dean had less control of his wife than he thought. She took a digital camera from her bag and photographed the footprints. Someone had been sneaking out after bedtime.

      

      Jessie and Jones left the rock star standing at the doorway to his exorbitant mansion. Somehow the building did not reflect the man. He was still wearing his dressing gown. The boys had appeared either side of him. He put an arm around each. Jessie didn’t envy P.J. telling them.

      ‘Do you think he is involved?’ asked Jones once they were outside.

      ‘Instinctively, I’d say no, it seems too vicious for a normal man. But then I don’t suppose there is anything very normal about P. J. Dean.’

      ‘He has a lot of money, he could have paid someone,’ said Jones.

      ‘A simple overdose would’ve been more sensible.’

      Jessie could see Bernie in a first-floor window, her arm around her tall son. Her shoulder came to his waist. How did such small women produce such enormous sons? He was as tall, maybe taller than P.J. and as well-built. Even the gardener watched them pull away. ‘P.J. was very candid about Verity, but clammed up about Bernie, that’s what sets my alarm bells ringing. I think there might be something going on between Bernie and P.J. The question is, has it got anything to do with Verity’s death?’

      Jones rested his head on the headrest. ‘We still don’t know for sure that it is her.’

      ‘If we did, I’d have people all over that house.’ The gates opened automatically, Jessie looked up at the CCTV camera and resisted the temptation to wave. Then she remembered the window box and stopped the car. She climbed out and ran back up the drive. Barefoot, P.J. came to meet her.

      ‘The security tapes? Can I have them?’ said Jessie.

      P.J. shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He turned round, saw Bernie and Craig in the window and pointed to one of the cameras. Bernie opened the window.

      ‘What?’

      ‘The tapes, can you get them for the inspector.’

      ‘As far back as they go please,’ said Jessie.

      Bernie seemed hesitant. She looked at her son. Craig said something. Jessie couldn’t catch it, but whatever it was made Bernie relax. She looked back to P.J., gave him a brief smile and disappeared.

      Jessie turned to P.J. ‘You say Bernie has worked for you for twelve years. How did you find her?’

      P.J. scratched his short dark hair. ‘I heard she needed a job.’

      ‘How?’

      He shrugged. ‘I can’t remember now. Look, do you mind?’ he pointed at his feet. They were blue. ‘My feet are about to fall off.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll wait for the tapes, but you’ll have to answer all my questions eventually.’

      ‘If it’s Verity.’

      ‘Do you think it is?’ asked Jessie.

      He didn’t answer her but his body language did. He ran his hands through his dark hair, gathered his dressing gown around him and crossed his arms. Then he turned away and walked back to the house. A few minutes later Bernie came out with the tapes. Twenty of them. The handover was a silent one.

      Jessie returned to the car.

      ‘What about a crazed fan?’ said Jones as Jessie climbed back in. ‘They’ve been getting letters.’

      ‘If they’ve been getting letters.’

      ‘You think that was a set-up?’ asked Jones.

      Jessie hoped not. ‘Crazed fans kill with guns and knives. This is too planned, and very hateful. We were supposed to find her the way she was. Indistinguishable. The legs spread. The implants. What does it say about her?’

      ‘Not a great deal.’

      ‘Exactly.’ Jessie left the well-protected mansion in her rear-view mirror, the green gate sliding closed behind them. ‘Someone is making a brutal point.’

      ‘What happened to the boys’ real fathers? If she left them and took their kids, that’s a motive.’

      ‘I’ll check them out as soon as the ID is verified.’

      ‘Too busy being the has-beens of the future to look after their own offspring,’ said Jones.

      ‘A perfect sound bite. You should remember that for the press office.’

      Jones started to laugh, it was an unfamiliar sound. ‘Wasn’t that surreal?’ he said, through the giggles. ‘And as for that bowling alley – God, how the other half live.’

      Jessie joined in with the laughter. The tension from the previous hour erupting in a wave of hysterical giggles. Jones was clutching his stomach, gasping for air.

      ‘P. J. Dean in his pyjamas!’ exclaimed Jessie before another bout of giggling grabbed her. Jones was still clutching his stomach, gasping for air. Jessie looked at him. Jones wasn’t laughing any more.

      ‘Sir?’

      He didn’t reply. He was bent double, hyperventilating, his neck quickly turning the colour of beetroot.

      ‘Hold on!’ Jessie put the sirens on, her headlights flashing blue and white. She put her foot on the accelerator and began to weave through the traffic. Jones’ breathing had slowed. He lifted his head and looked at her.

      ‘What are you doing?’ He groaned as he spoke.

      ‘One of the perks of the job. Ever noticed how patrol cars never get stuck in traffic? Don’t talk, just breathe. You’ve gone a very odd colour.’

      ‘You win. I’m sorry about the hairdresser comment.’

      ‘No, I mean it, you really have gone a very strange colour.’

      Pain clamped around his stomach and Jones doubled up again. Jessie sped on to the nearest hospital she knew. She didn’t radio ahead. She didn’t think Jones would like anyone to know a senior officer was being admitted; news travelled fast.

      When they arrived, she half carried him through to A&E and at the desk quietly informed the nurse who he was. She filled in as much detail as she could. He’d been off-colour for some time, she suspected, but he never rested. Recently it had been getting worse and he had actually spent a day at home. As far as she knew it was stomach cramps, possibly appendicitis.

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