Dead Alone. Gay Longworth

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      ‘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.

       CHAPTER 12

      The door of the Portakabin burst open. ‘Well? Anything to say to me?’

      Tarek paused. ‘That was a great show, Ray,’ he said timidly.

      ‘Bollocks. It was crap, another fat bird bleating on about why her skinny boyfriend shagged her best friend. All you have to do is look at the best friend to know why. And as for that hooker whose pimp was her dad – Jesus, can’t you get me some fucking decent guests?’

      Tarek chewed his biro. ‘You had Dame Henrietta Cadell.’

      ‘Whoop fucking whoop. Intellectual snobs, the pair of them. No idea about real life. No wonder her old man sticks his dick in everything; you’d need a ladder to mount her. These are not the sort of people who are going to endear me to the masses. Elitist bollocks, I want celebrities.’

      ‘Nothing very proletariat about celebrities,’ said Tarek.

      ‘That’s only because you haven’t met any.’ Ray was staring at himself in the shaving mirror he kept on his desk. He adjusted his gold cross.

      ‘Listen, Tarek, if we are going to have authors on this show, I want it to be Andy fucking McNab, got it!’

      Not very likely, thought Tarek.

      ‘What are you looking at?’

      ‘Nothing. Your agent called, Trevor MacDonald is doing a Yardie special, needs an expert, was wondering if you’d do it.’

      ‘Course I’ll fucking do it, it’s got that Carol Vorderman on it. Now, she looks like she needs a good –’

      ‘And there is someone holding on line one.’ There was only a line one, but Ray liked the sound of that. ‘He wouldn’t give his name.’

      ‘Carol Vorderman, now that’s more like it. I’ll show her the joys of long multiplication.’ He picked up the phone and listened. ‘Hang on a second. Tarek, go and get me some coffee, will you? Not that instant shit either – the one from the machine. Put it in a proper mug with a bit –’

      ‘Yeah, I know.’ It was always the same when Ray wanted to speak to one of his – Tarek searched for a word – associates. Associate was a good word. Hood was another. He opened the door and stepped down the aluminium steps into a potholed and heavily weeded car park. Walking towards him was Ray’s research assistant. Associate. Hood. He was a strange bloke. Somewhere in his thirties, Tarek thought, though it was СКАЧАТЬ