The Unquiet Dead

GAY LONGWORTH

The Unquiet Dead

Dedication

To Alicia and Matt Suminski

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Jessie sensed the impact before she heard it. It was the smell. The smell of hot steel, of friction, of fear. Or was it even before the smell, before she’d seen the train’s headlights emerge from the gloom or heard its lugubrious rattle? She was deep underground at Oxford Circus, waiting for the Bakerloo line that would take her to Paddington and the 11.15 train to Heathrow. As she made her way to the point of impact, she knew from the look on the passengers’ faces that she wasn’t going to make that train and she wasn’t going to be there to welcome her brother home from Africa.

A young woman, about Jessie’s age, was lying on the track facing up; her eyes were open and a thin trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of her mouth. She was alive. Jessie sent for the paramedics, cleared the shocked onlookers and summoned the underground staff to shut down the power and form a barrier before she jumped down on to the track. It wasn’t until she was on the filthy cement floor that she saw what she could not have seen from the height of the platform. The woman stared up at her, but the lower portion of her body was facing down. As the train had rolled her along the track, she’d been twisted around like dough.

‘It’s okay,’ said the woman. ‘I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt.’

Jessie couldn’t move for a moment. Was it a miracle or diabolical that the woman was still alive?

‘The doctors are coming,’ said Jessie finally, knowing it was futile. There was nothing anyone could do.

‘I’m okay,’ the woman said again. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

‘My name is Jessie Driver, I’m a detective with the CID. Can you tell me your name?’

‘Harriet.’ A blood bubble burst on her lips. Jessie wiped it away.

‘Harriet, I’m not a doctor, but I think you are in serious trouble. Is there anyone I can call for you, anyone you’d like to talk to?’

Harriet closed her eyes.

‘Stay with me,’ said Jessie. ‘The paramedics are here.’

It didn’t take very long for the paramedic team to confirm what Jessie already knew. The woman lying misshapen at her feet was living on borrowed time. Her spine had twisted around itself, snapping in two. That was why there was no pain; she had no feeling at all. Her midriff had been wrung out, her insides with it.

‘The weight of the train is keeping her alive, containing the damage,’ said the paramedic. ‘As soon as we move the train, the sudden haemorrhage from her ruptured organs will cause a massive heart attack. She is going to die. She should be dead already. She’s a jumper, right?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jessie.

The paramedic glanced down at the tracks. ‘Well, tell her to make her peace, she hasn’t got very long.’

Harriet had long dark hair and startling blue eyes, but the pressure was building inside her and the whites of her eyes were now flecked with blood. Jessie stroked her hair as she delivered the paramedic’s message. Jessie didn’t know what response she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a smile.

‘I feel so calm.’

It’s shock, Jessie wanted to say, but all she could do was smile back.

‘I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.’

‘Let me call someone – your parents?’

‘No.’

Something terrible had happened to this woman, something that made jettisoning herself off a platform into the path of a train easier than stepping back. Something, or someone.

‘I understand,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s okay, we don’t have to call anyone.’

‘I thought I’d be more afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m not afraid any more.’

Definitely shock, thought Jessie, struggling to find suitable words.

‘Please,’ said the girl who was dead already. ‘I need your help.’

‘Anything.’

‘In my bag … letter …’ She paused, her breathing was getting more laboured. ‘Destroy it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It was an accident … I fell. Please. Tell. Them. I. Fell.’

‘I …’ Jessie sat back on her heels. It sounded so pathetic in her head. I need to file a report. Paperwork. Take statements.

‘Don’t hurt them …’ She was mumbling some of her words. ‘I fell … The truth … I am calm … happy. Don’t hurt … Okay, I don’t hurt any more. I’m going to a much better place, it’s safe and warm …’

‘Harriet, I can’t do that.’

‘I’ll make amends, for them,’ she said, suddenly lucid. ‘I’ve been forgiven, they need to forgive themselves.’ Her eyes flickered but did not close. Jessie turned her head; she could see the bag lying a few feet away, intact. She shuddered. Unknown feet walking over her unknown grave. She looked around. In all the commotion, no one had noticed it. A dying woman’s wish. Who could say for sure that she jumped? Would it really matter? To London Underground it would – better a suicide than an accident. An accident had legal implications, Health and Safety issues. They shouldn’t have to take the blame.

‘I’m okay,’ Harriet said again, very quietly this time. ‘I don’t hurt any more.’ Jessie squeezed her hand.

‘Detective Inspector,’ said a loud voice above her.

Jessie looked up quickly. ‘Not now …’

‘You can let go now. She’s gone,’ he said.

Jessie looked back at Harriet. ‘But she just …’ Her large eyes were fixed, her lips had parted to form the faint beginnings of a smile. If that split second had been caught by camera and not by death it would have made a beautiful photograph. The paramedic was looking quizzically at Jessie.

‘Sorry, my mistake.’ Jessie removed her jacket and placed it over the face of a girl called Harriet who had just died at her feet.

‘It’s okay now,’ said Jessie quietly. ‘It’s over.’ Death meant nothingness and nothingness couldn’t hurt her any more. The pain would be absorbed by the ones left behind. That’s how it worked. That was the meaning of life after death.

An officer from the transport police approached her with a cup of coffee and her leather jacket.

‘Did the young lady tell you what happened?’

‘Not really,’ said Jessie. ‘I think she was in shock.’

‘She didn’t tell you why she jumped?’

‘You’re certain she jumped then?’ asked Jessie, staring into the concentric rings on the surface of her coffee.

‘No. We’ve been through her things but didn’t find a note. There may be one back at her place of residence, though it’s unusual. What did she say to you?’

I’m okay. I don’t hurt any more.

‘Detective?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What did she say to you?’

Jessie handed him back the polystyrene cup and thrust her hands deep inside the pockets of her leather trousers. ‘Thanks, but I’m giving up coffee for Lent.’

‘Lent? Are you feeling all right, Detective Inspector?’

Jessie looked at the train, still jacked up. The body had gone. The shell. The casing. She could feel the crisp white paper that held a tormented girl’s last words. But not her last wish. Finally she looked back at the policeman, his pencil poised over the pad.

‘She said she fell.’ A rush of wind from a neighbouring tunnel sucked at Jessie’s legs as another train on another track sped off to another destination.

1

Jessie turned into her street and saw the tell-tale desert boots sticking out from between the pillars that flanked the entrance to her flat.

‘Bill!’ she shouted, beginning to run. The boots retracted and moments later a tall, blond, bedraggled specimen emerged smiling through the iron gate and on to the pavement. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said and she hugged her brother.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Something came up.’

‘I’m sorry, did you wait at the airport for ages? I should have got a message to you, or called the airport police –’

‘Jessie, calm down, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I meant to be there.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t even look for you in arrivals?’ Bill said laughingly.

‘I’d be furious, I took the fucking morning off.’

Jessie put her key in the lock.

‘So, no Maggie then?’

‘No, she’s gone. Why? You desperate?’

‘Yes, actually.’

They walked up the stairs dragging Bill’s ancient canvas kitbag and a plastic carrier bag holding cartons of duty-free cigarettes. ‘No stunning French female doctor to cavort with this time?’

‘My colleague was a fat Scottish doctor called Rob, who, though I love, I couldn’t bring myself to shag.’

‘Nurses?’

‘All nuns.’

Jessie winced. ‘Poor Bill. Well, for a little light porn, Maggie has a late-night chat show, and I still have her number – though I fear you may not be famous enough or rich enough for her now. Then again, she might like the look of your prescription pad.’

‘Bitchy.’

‘Maggie taught me everything I know.’ Jessie opened her front door and caught their reflections in the hall mirror. ‘You are so brown,’ she said, disgusted at her own pallid complexion.

Bill ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Even the equator has its plus points.’

‘I look like a ghost compared to you.’

Bill put his bag on the floor and pointed to Jessie’s hair. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jessie tried to flatten it. ‘Piss off! I’m growing it out and it’s at a funny in-between stage.’

‘You’re telling me.’

Jessie took Bill to a small Italian basement restaurant that their elder brother Colin supplied wine to. As well as free wine and quick service, Jessie always got a flurry of compliments in hurried Italian that was often the perfect antidote to a bad day in CID. Today was no different once the waiters had established that Bill, six foot three and built like a rower, was family and not an over-protective boyfriend.

‘So tell me everything,’ said Bill after rapidly downing half a glass of red wine.

‘No. You first.’

‘Aids. Death. Aids. Poverty. Aids. Famine and flashes of extraordinary human courage. More Aids. Your turn.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘There’s a glitch in the Médecins Sans Frontières’ postal system – everything keeps getting stuck in Paris.’

‘Well, I had my first big case. I made some good decisions and caught the guy, but I made some bad decisions too. Guess what everyone remembers?’

‘Would these bad decisions have anything to do with a well-known singer who happened to be married to the first victim?’

Jessie frowned.

‘Even in the wilds of the Sudan you can get your hands on a copy of a tabloid or two.’

Jessie bowed her head and groaned. ‘I can’t think about it, it’s too embarrassing.’

‘You don’t see him any more, then?’

A waiter arrived with warm bread and olive oil, and Bill was temporarily sidetracked. Jessie watched him eat. P. J. Dean had been like a destructive whirlwind; he’d spun her around and sent her flying off course. He believed they had a bond. A detective and a pop star. Not very likely. She’d made her mind up that it was a bad idea for all concerned. And most of the time she was sure she’d done the right thing.

‘So do you?’ asked Bill, tearing apart another piece of bread.

‘I try not to.’

‘What does that mean, Jess?’

‘It means I try not to.’

Brother and sister eyed one another knowingly. Bill backed down first.

‘And how’s work?’

‘Good. Things are better with the other DI, Mark Ward. We finally seem to have found a common ground.’ That common ground was a crypt in Woolwich cemetery where together they had watched a man bleed to death, but she wasn’t ready to tell her brother that story. ‘My boss is leaving. His replacement is a woman. Though I admire and like Jones enormously, I have to admit it will be a nice break to have another woman around. Better still, one who is higher ranking than me.’

‘It’ll take the heat off you, you mean?’

‘More than that, I’ll have someone on side, someone who understands what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of pricks.’

‘Literally or metaphorically?’

‘Both.’

‘Jessie, first signs of bitchiness and now what’s this? A whiff of bitterness in the air and you cut all your hair off. Please don’t become some wizened old man-hater, it’s so last century.’

‘I told you, I’m growing it out.’ Jessie poured out more wine. They were halfway down the bottle and hadn’t even looked at the menu. ‘I’m not a man-hater, but it’s hard, they are pricks … well, some of them. If they were more like my brothers –’

‘A commitment-phobe who likes to play god in a very small pond, be hero-worshipped by people who have no alternative and has the occasional disturbing fantasy about a nun? I hope not.’

‘One nun in particular?’

‘A flock of nuns.’

Jessie nodded. ‘I think we should order.’

Bill refilled their glasses, smiling conspiratorially. ‘You don’t really have to go back to work, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I haven’t seen you for eight months. I’m not here for very long and what’s the point of being the youngest DI in the Force if you can’t play hooky occasionally?’

Jessie thought about this for a second. It was true, she didn’t really have that much on, she was owed masses of holiday time and many’s the time she’d covered for DI Mark Ward while he was in the pub. ‘I suppose I could call Mark and ask him to cover for me …’

‘Excellent. More wine.’

The following morning Jessie walked to work. She didn’t trust herself on the bike, suspecting that she might still be over the limit. She and Bill had ordered their food finally, but not until they had finished the first bottle and drunk most of the second. They did not stop talking until after midnight. Even then they had only touched the surface. Bill had been working for MSF for six years, in places no one else would brave; he’d witnessed death on such a massive scale from disease, starvation and massacre, that the idea of a nice clean general practice somewhere in England coping with endless complaints of a sore throat and chesty cough was absurd to him. He’d been known to drive sick children through areas occupied and controlled by armed tribes with no scruples, just to see them safely to an international hospital. He’d put his life on the line time and time again, even though he knew he could only ever make a tiny difference, for the problems in Africa were so vast. It made what Jessie did seem very small. She would allocate months of her time and enormous sums of taxpayers’ money to bring one person to trial, and even then it was not certain they would end up behind bars, or that bars were indeed the answer. Meanwhile thousands were dying and the culpable – corrupt leaders, multinationals, the ‘first’ world – would never pay. If there really was good and evil in this world, she knew her brother was all good. Even if he did fantasise about nuns.

Jessie plugged in the week’s security code on the entrance door to the station and went in. PC Niaz Ahmet was waiting for her. Since Jessie had seconded him to West End Central CID during the P. J. Dean case, she had rarely seen anything but a sanguine expression on his face. Today he looked worried. Very worried.

‘What is it, Niaz?’

‘A sixteen-year-old girl has disappeared. Her mother has telephoned asking for you in person.’

‘Me? I don’t deal with missing people until …’ She stopped herself. ‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Eighteen hours.’

‘That’s not long enough.’

‘She is Anna Maria Klein. The daughter of Sarah Klein.’

‘The stage actress?’

Niaz nodded, adding: ‘And a close personal friend of P. J. Dean.’

‘Oh God.’ Jessie dropped her chin on to her chest. ‘Not again. Every deranged celebrity with a security problem has been asking for me by name, I can’t deal with these people any more. They’re all insane.’

Niaz wobbled his head. ‘I think this is serious. She went out to meet a friend for coffee in Soho and didn’t come back. She hasn’t phoned and she didn’t take anything with her.’

‘Had there been a row?’

‘No.’

‘Boyfriend troubles?’

‘No boyfriend.’

‘Well, not one that the mother knew about, anyway.’ Niaz and Jessie had arrived at their floor. ‘Tell me Ms Klein isn’t here.’

Niaz lowered his crescent-shaped eyelids.

‘Good grief!’ said Jessie. ‘I’m not feeling up to this so early in the morning.’

‘Another hangover?’ asked Niaz.

‘Don’t say it like that. Right, as punishment you can go and get me a large coffee from the canteen.’

‘Didn’t you say you were giving it up for Lent?’

‘I was. Then I remembered, I don’t believe in Lent. Thank God. Ask them to make it strong, sweet and milky, and tell them I’ll pay them later.’

‘You said that yesterday.’

Jessie growled.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tucking a rogue piece of hair behind her ear, Jessie put on her mental body armour and pushed open the double doors that led to the Criminal Investigation Department. Someone had put up a new sign on the notice board. It read: YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER WIFE. YOU ONLY GET ONE CHANCE IN CID. Jessie sailed past it. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen. Or the last.

She took a surreptitious peek through the window of her office door and saw two overly dressed, heavily made-up, middle-aged women sitting in front of her desk. Ageing actresses were a sight for sore eyes, and that morning she had very sore eyes. The two women were talking animatedly; one of them Jessie did not know, but she recognised Sarah Klein immediately. Over the years Jessie had seen her in numerous TV dramas and stage plays. But not so many recently.

As she pushed open the door she took in Ms Klein’s appearance – the underwired bra, the unladdered stockings, the matching shoes and handbag, the repeatedly applied lipstick – and wondered how long it had taken her to dress that morning. Too long, Jessie decided, if you thought your daughter was missing.

‘Good morning,’ she said, interrupting the women.

‘Jessie Driver!’ exclaimed Sarah Klein, standing up. ‘P.J. said you’d –’

Jessie stuck out her hand. ‘Detective Inspector Driver,’ she cut in, trying to get her point across without sounding prim. ‘You must be Sarah Klein.’

‘Well of course I am. P.J. said you’d –’

Jessie interrupted her again; she didn’t want to hear his name for a third time. ‘Please, let’s deal with the problem in hand. My colleague tells me that you think your daughter is missing.’

‘I know she is missing! Don’t you give me that policeman crap as well. I came directly to you so that I wouldn’t have to go through the usual hoops.’

‘The usual hoops are there because, thankfully, most “disappearances” are nothing more sinister than simple misunderstandings.’

‘She is missing, I tell you. Her phone is switched off – she never switches her phone off, she even keeps it on during the movies!’

How considerate, thought Jessie.

‘P.J. is a very good friend of mine. Call him, if you don’t believe me.’

‘Ms Klein, it isn’t a question of believing you; it’s a question of dealing with this in an appropriate manner. What did she say to you when she left?’

‘Bye, Mummy, I love you.’ Sarah Klein spoke in a far-away, slightly childish voice. ‘I remember it specifically because it was so odd.’

‘It was odd that she told you she loved you?’

‘No,’ she replied defensively. ‘It was odd because she wouldn’t normally say it when she was popping out for coffee. She also told me what time she’d be back. Usually she’s very vague about that sort of thing, always changing her plans, but yesterday she said she’d be back at five because there was something she wanted to watch on TV.’

‘So she changed her plans often, you say?’

‘Yes, but …’ Ms Klein frowned. Jessie stared as the actress’s perfectly arched brows fought against the effects of Botox. ‘She would have phoned. She always phones – maybe not immediately, but she’d never stay out all night without calling me. And even if she did, she’d have phoned me by now.’

‘It’s only ten in the morning. Is it possible that she decided to go out with her friends, met someone and …’ How to put this delicately? ‘… is still with them?’

‘Absolutely not.’ The actress slammed her hands down on the armrests for maximum effect. ‘There is no way Anna Maria would go out without coming home to change first.’

There was a knock on the door and Niaz came in with a steaming mug of coffee. Jessie inhaled the aroma. Canteen coffee had never smelled so good. But she didn’t get to taste it, or thank him, because Mark Ward suddenly burst through Jessie’s door, slamming into Niaz and causing the coffee to spill. Her fellow DI swore under his breath.

‘Sorry,’ he said, backing out of the room. ‘Didn’t know you had company.’

Sarah Klein stood up. So royalty rises, thought Jessie, though not for women and not for people of ethnic origin. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Sarah Klein.’

Ward was looking worried.

‘What is it, Mark?’

‘Don’t worry, it can wait,’ he said, retreating to the corridor with a final frantic glance at Jessie.

Jessie stood. ‘Niaz, please stay with Ms Klein. Take a statement, a detailed description of what Anna Maria was wearing, her mobile number, the names of her friends and where and when she was planning to meet them. Then, Ms Klein, I suggest you go home and wait. Hopefully, Anna Maria will be back by the end of the day. If not, we’ll have everything in place to act.’

‘That isn’t enough,’ exclaimed Sarah Klein.

‘With all of that we can start looking at CCTV footage. We’ll be able to map her movements quite easily, provided you can give us that information.’

‘And then you’ll get the press involved?’

‘Probably,’ said Jessie, curious. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s the quickest way to get maximum coverage – for sightings and things. I hate the press myself, but I’ll do whatever I have to do, for Anna Maria.’

What was it with these people? ‘Let’s start with the information I’ve requested. We’ll go from there.’

‘She has blonde hair and was wearing a Dolce and Gabbana dress –’

‘Please,’ said Jessie, taking the dripping coffee mug from Niaz. ‘Tell PC Ahmet.’

Sarah Klein looked briefly at Niaz, but she was a good actress and disguised her disappointment well.

As Jessie had suspected, Mark Ward was waiting for her in the hall. She mimicked strangulation as the door closed behind her. ‘I bet you a fiver the daughter has legged it,’ she whispered. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I don’t know, how did that go?’

‘A couple of ageing actresses first thing in the morning, how do you think?’

‘Shit,’ said Mark.

‘Tell me she isn’t appearing in a play that’s dying a death. Can you believe how far these people will go to get good box-office receipts?’