Dead Alone

GAY LONGWORTH

DEAD ALONE

DEDICATION

To my motherA hard act to follow

EPIGRAPH

Everyone sees himself as a star today. This is both a cliché and a profound truth. Thousands of young men and women have the looks, the clothes, the hairstyling, the drugs, the personal magnetism, the self-confidence, and the history of conquest that proclaims a star. The one thing they lack – talent – is precisely what is most lacking in those other, nearly identical, young people whom the world has acclaimed as stars. Never in the history of show biz has the gap between amateur and professional been so small. And never in the history of the world has there been such a rage for exhibitionism. The question is, therefore, what are we going to do with all these beautiful show-offs?

Albert Goldman. Disco.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Jessie Driver had her thighs clamped round the leg of a man she hadn’t been introduced to. Hanging upside down, she could feel the sweat running through her short spiky hair. From the corner of her eye she watched two men shake hands. The small envelope of folded lottery paper passed from one palm to another. Jessie was pulled back up and spun around. It was time to leave this club. Local boys from the nearby estate were eclipsing the dance aficionados and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly hostile. Jessie couldn’t relax any more. She ran her hand down the perfectly smooth biceps of the man she’d been dancing with, squeezed his hand reluctantly and left. Her flatmate, Maggie Hall, was signing a flurry of autographs by the bar. All men, Jessie mused as she approached.

‘Jesus, you’re soaking,’ said Maggie, looking at Jessie in disgust.

‘Properly purged.’ Jessie leant closer. ‘Can we go?’

Maggie nodded, flashed an ‘if only’ smile to the admirer she would instantly forget and walked with Jessie to the coat check. Maggie was a presenter; with ruthless ambition she had come up through the highly competitive ranks to become a household name. It was strange watching an old friend gain in fame. Of course, at thirty, it hadn’t come soon enough for Maggie. People asked Jessie whether Maggie had changed. The answer was no. She’d always been ambitious.

They had reached the motorbike bay when Jessie heard the sound of a van backfiring. Twice. In quick succession. She turned abruptly towards the noise. Like a solitary clap in a crowded room, the sound silenced the world around them. For a second. And then people started to scream. A man ran across the road and climbed into a waiting car. From the narrow doorway and two fire-exits people spilled out into the street. Jessie threw her helmet at Maggie.

‘No, Jessie!’ shouted Maggie. But Jessie didn’t hear her. She ran straight into the sea of oncoming frightened faces. Ducking, side-stepping, shouldering against the outpour. She battled against the tide down the narrow staircase. At the bottom, a young man lay on the ground. He’d been shot. Twice. Two girls stood next to him screaming and jumping up and down intermittently. She threw her phone at one of them.

‘Call the police and ambulance service,’ barked Jessie. Her commanding voice silenced them as swiftly as the gunshot had set them off. ‘And someone turn that music off!’

Only the man made a noise now. He wasn’t dead. But he was bleeding profusely.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Jessie.

‘Carl,’ he whimpered.

‘Carl,’ she said, ‘the ambulance is on the way. Meantime, I’ve got to try and stop this bleeding. You stay focused, concentrate on me.’

Jessie ripped his trousers and T-shirt and examined the singed, bloody holes.

‘Perhaps you should think about a change of career,’ said Jessie. ‘Small-time dealing on someone else’s patch is a sure-fire way to get yourself killed.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I think that would be a waste. Good-looking boy like you.’ One bullet had embedded itself in his right thigh. The other had passed through his left flank. Jessie guessed he must have spun round from the impact of the first bullet and been hit by the second in the leg. Better aim and the boy would have died instantly.

‘Well, Carl, seems it was your lucky day,’ said Jessie.

The boy continued to blink at her, mesmerised. The girls stepped forward to get a better look. Jessie pulled a couple of super-sized tampons from her bag, ripped the plastic off with her teeth, and inserted one gently into the bullet wound in the boy’s leg. It was soon plump with blood. Carl clenched his jaw and shuddered. Jessie inserted the second into the boy’s fleshy side.

‘Carl,’ said Jessie, ‘you still with me?’

‘Man,’ said one of the girls, ‘she just stuck a Lil-let in your leg.’

Carl groaned and passed out.

The sight of two uniformed officers careering down the stairs made the girls jump.

‘Step away from the body,’ shouted one of the officers.

‘Show your hands, slowly,’ shouted the other.

Jessie turned around. ‘Everyone calm down. Where is the ambulance?’

‘Move aside,’ ordered the police officer.

Jessie did.

They stared down at the gunshot wounds. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘Don’t worry, they’re sterile. Thought it best, given the length of time ambulances take to get to shootings in this part of town.’

The coppers didn’t appreciate the snide comment. ‘And who are you – Florence Nightingale?’

Jessie reached into the back pocket of her tight blue jeans and held up a leather wallet. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Driver from West End Central CID, and if you want to know who shot this man, he is five foot eight, medium build, mixed race, wearing a red Polo running top. He left in a dark blue Audi 80, number plate T33 X9R.’ Jessie looked over to the girls. ‘Sound familiar?’ she asked.

Neither of them spoke.

‘Thought so,’ said Jessie, standing up.

Two paramedics arrived. Jessie stepped away. The uniformed officers stared at her as she began to mount the stairs.

‘You know where to find me,’ she said to their fixed expressions.

The paramedic looked up at her. ‘Thanks for bridging the gap,’ he said, folding out a stretcher.

‘My pleasure,’ said Jessie, and left.

Out on the street, Maggie stood holding both helmets. She smiled at Jessie.

‘All right, Mad Max. You done with your lifesaving antics?’

‘Yes thank you, Anne Robinson, I am.’

‘Sure? No burning buildings to run into? No pile-ups to attend?’

Jessie swung her leg across the leather seat of the chrome-and-black Virago and started the engine.

‘Finished?’ Jessie asked, backing out of the parking bay.

‘Yes.’

‘Then get on.’

Maggie smiled. ‘I love it when you get all masterful.’

‘Kebab?’ asked Jessie.

‘No,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m off to Istanbul, that means bikini and camera crew in close quarters, that means no kebab.’

‘I’m hungry,’ complained Jessie, revving the bike.

‘You’re weird. Now, take me home, Arnie. And don’t blast that music in your ears, it makes me nervous. You have precious cargo on board.’

Dutifully placing her minidisk player back in her pocket, Jessie pressed the bike into gear. It heaved forward. Jessie turned out of the cul-de-sac and raced down Goldhawk Road just as police reinforcements arrived.

CHAPTER 1

West End Central was an old-fashioned, York stone building in the heart of Mayfair. Jessie had recently been assigned to the Detective Chief Inspector there, a man called Jones, a legendary police officer who had her hanging off his every softly spoken word. His Area Major Investigating Team were responsible for a large portion of Central London, and with around two hundred murders in London a year, they were kept reasonably busy.

She loved this new posting. She loved being back in London after four years in the regionals doing exam after exam to gain the necessary qualifications to make her the youngest DI on the team. Though her brothers, parents and friends were proud, there were others who did not appreciate her achievement. Jessie draped her leather jacket over the back of her chair and sat at her desk. A large box of Tampax had been placed in the middle of her blotting pad. The subtlety was not lost on her. She rested her chin in her cupped hand and stared at it. She could see the humour, really – if it had been left by anyone other than Mark Ward. Her professional equal. Her personal opposite.

A small, curvaceous girl was pacing the corridor outside her open doorway. Jessie watched the vaguely familiar creature wiggle, swivel and sigh dramatically. Puppy fat on heels.

‘Can I help you?’ Jessie enquired politely.

The girl stopped in the doorway, weighed up Jessie’s role and decided on secretary. ‘I’m waiting for Mr Ward. He’s a friend of my father’s. Can you check his diary, he should be here.’

‘What are you seeing him about?’

‘Someone is out to kill me.’

‘Oh.’ Jessie nodded in a manner she hoped looked sympathetic. ‘Your name is … ?’

‘Jami,’ she shrieked. ‘With an “i”. I’m a singer. Some man has been sending me these letters.’

‘How do you know it’s a man?’

‘It always is.’

Jessie took the ‘death threats’ from her just as Mark Ward appeared. The forty-eight-year-old glanced downwards, unable to resist the gravitational pull of the well-mounted chest on display. Jessie could hear the saliva in his throat when he spoke.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You must be feeling terrible.’ He snatched the letters back from Jessie and gave her a warning look before leading the girl away. Jessie gave it a few minutes before following them across the corridor. The great divide.

‘Thought you might want to take a DNA swab,’ said Jessie, leaning into the room. ‘The person sending these threatening letters may already have acquired personal items belonging to Jami.’

‘We don’t need your help, thank you,’ said Mark bitterly.

‘No, that sounds good. People will want to know what you’re doing to protect me,’ said Jami.

‘We can also compare it to the saliva on the envelope,’ said Jessie. The young performer held the smile until she fully comprehended Jessie’s words. ‘Then we’ll know when we’ve found the person responsible,’ she continued.

‘Excuse me, Driver,’ said Mark furiously. ‘I’m in charge of this.’

‘I’m sorry. I was only trying to help. I’ve brought a couple of swabs –’ She showed Jami the white spatula in its grey plastic case. ‘We’ll just scrape the inside of your cheek, and that’s it.’

‘I …’ Jami looked around the room for an exit. ‘I can’t have any foreign objects in my mouth. It could damage my vocal cords. I’m a singer!’

‘They are completely sterile,’ assured Jessie as she took a big step towards the shrinking girl.

Jami started backing out of the room, 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 looking after him. And you.’

‘Mum and Dad were supposed to be looking after us.’

‘Clare …’ pleaded Jones.

Clare turned to Jessie. ‘My mother sat by my dad’s hospital bed for three weeks. She didn’t sleep, she didn’t eat, she just sat there and waited for him to wake up. He fought, I’ve seen the records, I’ve spoken to one of the nurses who was there, she remembered my mum, sitting there, praying for him. Mum refused to leave, she wouldn’t let anyone in neither, except her friend Irene, of course. They remember Dad fighting to stay alive. He fought so hard he came round a few times, just to tell Mum he loved her, and us, but it was a losing battle. Stray bullet? Stray? Tell me, how does a stray bullet hit a man point-blank in the heart?’

‘We can’t change the law,’ said Jones. ‘He served nine years behind bars. That’s a long time.’

So, thought Jessie, the man who ruined Clare’s life was out. A free man again. Jessie believed in repaying one’s debt to society. She believed time served meant a slate wiped clean. She actively dissuaded her team from reaching for the con-list every time a body appeared. But she could see in Clare Mills’ saucer-sized eyes that she would never be free of this crime. Her sentence meant life.

‘Not long enough for three murders.’ She was shaking now. ‘No, make that four.’

Clare had no other family. Her father’s parents had died before she was born. Clare’s mother, Veronica, hadn’t spoken to her family in years. Clare had never met them, her mother had never talked about them. All the information Clare had came from Veronica’s best friend, Irene. A hairdresser who had never left the area.

‘They changed my name. Those people in care. Care! Don’t make me laugh. I knew I wasn’t Samantha Griffin, I was Clare. I kept telling them, “I’m Clare.”’ She paused. ‘I was punished for lying.’ Clare closed her eyes for a brief moment. The nervous energy was eating her alive.

Jessie and Jones exchanged knowing glances. The seventies were not childcare’s proudest era. ‘We’ll start with his birth date and the day he was taken into care. I don’t know who has tried to help you with this, but the truth is that you’ve been misdirected at every turn, and for that I am truly sorry. You have my word,’ said Jones, ‘we’ll find him.’

Clare seemed to retract into herself. ‘Dead or alive?’