Dead Alone - Gay Longworth

Скачать книгу

reached the door and picked up speed. ‘I need to talk to my manager about this. I’ll come back.’ Her six-inch heels clicked like castanets as she made her getaway.

      Jessie turned back to Mark, smiling.

      ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?!’

      ‘Come on, you didn’t –’

      ‘Go away, Driver. Why don’t you do us all a favour and fast-track your tight arse back to the classroom, eh? Leave the real jobs to the real policemen. And stop sticking your oar and any other pussy paraphernalia where it’s not wanted, needed or desired.’

      Ah, thought Jessie, that was the line he’d been working on. Quite inventive, pussy paraphernalia; quite a poetic ring about it. She flashed him a smile. ‘Tell me, Mark, do you play with yourself as much as you amuse yourself?’

      Mark picked up the phone. ‘I need to call the press office, tell them they won’t be getting their photo op.’

      ‘Their photo op. Right.’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, actually, their photo op.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Imagine that, Driver, you don’t know everything, after all.’

      

      Coming out of Mark’s office, Jessie bumped into their boss, DCI Jones. He was an unassuming man with grey eyes that matched his suits. As far as Jessie could tell, his only mistake was thinking that she and Mark Ward could learn from each other. Ward had been in the Force nearly thirty years, starting on the beat and working his way up until he was made a detective twelve years ago. He’d dragged bodies from burning cars, rivers and ditches, picked bomb victims’ remains off buildings, and dismembered bodies off railway lines – a hard-drinking, notebook-carrying copper who was being phased out. She was thirty-three, same rank, and all her experience was two-dimensional. They were vastly different species occupying the same ecosystem; it couldn’t last.

      ‘Jessie! Perfect. I’d like you to come with me,’ said Jones.

      ‘I’ve got to go to the press office.’

      ‘Not that bunch of interfering old bags.’

      ‘I’ve made a –’

      ‘This is important. You can read the file on the way.’ Jones suddenly tensed.

      ‘You all right, sir?’

      ‘Old age. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

      When she went to retrieve her jacket from her chair, Mark appeared in her doorway.

      ‘Managed to wiggle your way out of trouble again?’

      She didn’t bother looking at him. ‘Fuck off, Mark.’

      ‘Thought you lot were supposed to use long words.’

      Jessie zipped her leather jacket and stood back. ‘I’m sorry I got in the way of your voyeurism. Had I known it was the closest you’d get to the female form, I’d have left you to it.’

      

      Mark watched from his office window as Jones and Jessie crossed the car park. When they’d pulled out of the gate, he called the duty officer.

      ‘Who’s doing the next few shifts?’

      ‘I’m on double,’ said the man. ‘Getting married, need the overtime.’

      ‘Next duff DOA you get in, give it to DI Driver. The duffer the better. I want to teach that little upstart a lesson in good policing.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘When you go off duty, pass the message on to whoever comes on.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘I’ll get a pot going, for your wedding.’

      ‘Thanks, sir. Much appreciated.’

      ‘This is between us.’

      ‘Of course.’

      Mark put down the phone and prayed for a fly-infested OAP.

       CHAPTER 2

      Jessie stood alongside Jones as he knocked sharply on the door twice. The flat was on the third floor of a council block that overlooked a poorly maintained central courtyard deep in the heart of Bethnal Green. The square mile’s adjunct; as poor as its closest relation was rich. Robed women pushed prams, men stood in groups on street corners and bored kids kicked a deflated football against a wall. Jessie felt the resolute atmosphere of foiled expectation all around her. They heard the unmistakable scrape of a chain and a large brown eye peered out at them. Jones held up his badge. Clare Mills, the woman they had come to see, drew the door back. She was a thin woman, tall, and very lined. She had a thick crease etched between her eyebrows. A permanent worry line. Her light brown hair was short, thinning, and Jessie could see strands of wiry grey in amongst it. This woman looked as though she’d been worrying all her life and, according to Jones’ story, she obviously had.

      Twenty-four years ago an innocent passer-by was shot during a robbery. That man was Clare’s father, Trevor Mills. He’d been on his way home from a job interview. Carrying an innocuous brown paper bag. Sweets for his kids – he’d got the job. The stray bullet had been fired by a man called Raymond Giles, a notorious gangster of his time. At first the police thought Giles had fled to Spain, but after an anonymous tip-off he was found hiding out at a hotel in Southend. Eventually Raymond Giles was sentenced to sixteen years for manslaughter. The tariff was high because, although the prosecution could not prove intent, the judge knew men like Raymond Giles. Intent to harm was not specific. It was innate. His arrest was a coup for all concerned.

      But for Clare Mills it was only the beginning of the nightmare. Her large brown eyes were suspicious, she blinked nervously, continuously. The torn skin around her nails was bitten back to the knuckle on her long, thin fingers. Jessie followed Clare through to the surprisingly light, bright yellow kitchen and tried to break the ice as she made tea. ‘I don’t sleep much,’ was the answer she gave to most questions. Hardly surprising, thought Jessie as they returned to the small sitting room. The day Clare saw her father lowered into the grave was the day her mother committed suicide. She was eight when she found her mother hanging from the back of the wardrobe, the mascara-stained tear tracks barely dry on her cheeks. Even that was not the worst thing that was to happen to Clare Mills.

      Jessie tried again. How did she manage to do so many shifts at work and look after the elderly lady next door? How did she find time to draw and paint? The answer always came back the same. ‘I don’t sleep much.’

      It was different when they started talking about Frank.

      ‘My little brother. Five years younger than me. Their miracle child, Mum and Dad used to say. They were so happy. We were. He was a gorgeous kid, simply gorgeous. I played with him every day, every day until …’ Clare turned away from them and stared out of the rectangular window. The day after their mother died a car came to take the children into care. Except that two cars came. One took Clare and one took Frank. It was the last time she saw him.

      Clare’s pleas had gone unheard for years. Until she had begun chaining herself to the gates of Woolwich Cemetery, where her mother was buried. It had become a PR nightmare. The search for Frank had at last become a matter for the AMIT team, and Jones had been given the case. Now he was talking, apologising, trying to find the right words.

      ‘… and whatever happens, we’ll find out what happened to Frank and we’ll make those responsible for what has happened pay –’

      ‘There is only one, and you’ve let him out.’ Clare spat out the words. ‘The man who shot Dad. That thieving bastard, swanning about –’

      Jones leant forward. ‘He spent a long time in prison, Clare. He did his time. Let’s concentrate on Frank and the people who were supposed to be

Скачать книгу