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?’

Jones nodded. ‘Dead or alive.’

The timer on the video switched itself on to record. Clare stared wide-eyed at the empty television screen. ‘I’m not normally here in the daytime,’ she said, sounding far away again. ‘There are certain programmes I can’t miss.’

Jessie wondered which daytime host held Clare’s attention. Kilroy. Oprah. Trisha. Vanessa. Ricki. Springer. Pick a card. Any card. ‘I’m surprised you ever get time to watch television,’ she said.

Clare bit at her forefinger. ‘I don’t sleep much.’

CHAPTER 3

‘Pull. Pull. Pull. Three, straighten up.’ The tip of the boat cut through the deep cold water, parting the mist. ‘Three, are you listening?’ Oars collided. A whistle blew long and loud. The boat started to drift out of line, carried along by the rush of the tide. The muddy brown water slapped heavily against the fibreglass hull. Cold spray covered the girls’ bare pink thighs, mottled with exertion. ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘I thought I saw something on the shoreline. I’m sorry, it looked like …’ the girl paused, her fellow rowers peered to where she was pointing, ‘… bones.’

‘Oh God,’ said the cox. ‘Any excuse for a break! It’s pathetic – get rowing.’

‘No, I swear. I think we should turn around.’

They rowed the boat round and backed towards the muddy stretch of bank. The tide was rushing out, they had to fight it to stay still. The five girls stared over the water. Patches of mist clung to the river, reluctant to leave.

‘There!’ shouted the girl.

There was something lying on the thick, black, slimy surface. Strange outstretched fingers, poking out of the mud like the relic of a wooden hull.

‘It’s just wood,’ said the cox.

‘White wood?’

‘Yes. Let’s go.’

The girl at the back of the boat was closest. ‘I think I can make out a pelvis and legs.’

The girls began to row away from the bank. They didn’t want to get closer. They didn’t want to get a better look.

‘What do we do?’ asked a shaky voice from the back of the boat.

‘Row. We’ll call the police from the boathouse. Get a marking so that we can tell them where it is.’

‘It’s right below the nature reserve. We’d better hurry, it’ll be open soon.’

‘Oh shit. Okay, okay … um, pull, pull – fuck it, you know what to do …’

CHAPTER 4

A fully decomposed skeleton had been found in the mud on the bank of the Thames. No skull. No extremities. Probably a forgotten suicide. A local PC was on site. It warranted nothing more from CID than a detective constable. It was perfect. Jessie was early to work, as usual, and when she asked what was in, as usual, all he had to do was obey.

‘Headless body on a towpath,’ said the duty officer, crossing his fingers. Her leather-coated arse didn’t even touch the seat.

CHAPTER 5

Jessie parked her motorbike on Ferry Road in south-west London. Here, secreted between a man-made nature reserve and a primary school, was a little-known cut-through to the Thames. As pavement gave way to mud and puddles, and buildings became trees and brambles, Jessie had the distinct impression of being drawn back in time, to Dickensian London. She feared the worst. A young woman, sexually assaulted on this heavily wooded, unlit, desolate path, strangled and then dumped. Decapitated.

She marched on through the puddles, the swirling Thames far below her. She saw DC Fry up ahead, sipping coffee from a Starbucks cup. He was chatting to five women all wearing matching tracksuits. Jessie assumed he had his back to the body. His eye on the girls.

‘Good morning,’ she said loudly.

Fry turned and looked at Jessie.

‘Morning, ma’am. What are you doing here?’

Another police constable she didn’t know hovered nearby. Jessie beckoned Fry over. ‘Where is the body on the towpath?’

‘There’s another body?’ he asked, excited. Bones in the Thames were too run of the mill to be inspiring.

‘What do you mean, another one? Where’s the first?’

He pointed over the edge of the wall. ‘Careful, it’s slippery,’ said Fry. Jessie left the path, crossed the few yards of brambles and low-growing branches, and stepped on to the stone wall. It was covered in a film of algae, as frictionless as ice. She felt the soles of her boots slip. Jessie grabbed a branch and looked over the edge. It was a twenty-foot drop to the mud. Down a steeply angled slope of greenish stone. Leading away from the base of the wall was a beach. A fool’s beach. The tide had gone out, leaving a wide expanse of deep, dangerous mud. Gulls criss-crossed it with their weight-bearing webbed feet, searching for titbits, leeches, worms, tiny spineless organisms on which to dine. By the look of the algae-coated wall, Jessie guessed the tide often reached as high as where she now stood. She looked back at the glistening mud. A semi-submerged ribcage jutted out of it. Was this her headless body on the towpath?

‘Is this it?’ she called back to Fry. He nodded. The DOA had been exaggerated. Grossly exaggerated. ‘Who are the girls?’

‘Rowers. They spotted the bones and called it in.’

‘And the PC?’

‘First bobby on the scene, local boy.’

‘His name?’ asked Jessie, getting impatient.

Fry shrugged. ‘So, is there another body?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have been –’ son-of-a-bitch ‘– misinformed.’ She turned back to face the river, then looked down. ‘So what have we got here, Fry?’

DC Fry walked over to join her on the river wall. ‘I’m surprised fewer people fall in. This stuff is lethal,’ he said, sliding his foot over the slime.

‘Would you mind taking this a little more seriously?’

‘Aren’t we just waiting for the undertaker to arrive and scoop this thing up?’

‘You been down there?’

‘Are you joking? Have you seen that mud?’ Fry yawned.

‘You haven’t even been down there?’

He handed her a small pair of binoculars. ‘I can see from here that it’s a fully decomposed skeleton, no doubt been there for years. Search the records and we’ll probably find it was some drunken fool who fell off a boat New Year’s Eve ten years ago and lost his head to a propeller.’

Jessie looked at the perfectly formed skeleton, its grey-white bones the same colour as the grey-white sky. ‘Possibly,’ she said. She scanned the bank through the binoculars, across the water and over to the opposite side. A cyclist had stopped among eight tall larches. There was a depot of some kind. No visible signs of activity. To her right was the beginning of the small island known as the Richmond Eyot. The curve in the river restricted any long view of the beach below her feet. She’d have to get down there. She returned her sights to the opposite bank; the cyclist was already moving away. She lowered the binoculars and turned to Fry.

‘Then again, possibly not.’

‘There’s nothing here for you, ma’am. You can return to the station, I’ll deal with this.’

‘No. I will.’ If Mark was going to send her out on false pretences, she was going to call everyone else out on false pretences. ‘Right, got any wellies?’

‘No.’

She looked down at DC Fry’s nice-boy leather lace-ups. ‘Shame.’

‘Oh, come on …’

She took the coffee from Fry’s hand. ‘Cordon off an area around the body. Get that PC to keep an eye on it. I want all entries and exits to the site logged. Get the scenes of crime officers down here now and a pathologist, if you can lay your hands on one. I want them to see the body in situ. After that, you can follow me round and take notes. And tell forensics to bring a video. The tide will be coming back in, we don’t have long.’

Fry’s frown deepened between his eyebrows. ‘You’re calling in the cavalry for that?’

‘This is a suspicious death, it will be treated like a suspicious death.’ He looked as if he thought she might be joking. She glared at him. ‘What are you doing still standing here?’

‘How the hell do I get down there? That’s a thirty-foot drop.’

‘Men and their inches,’ said Jessie. ‘Always exaggerating.’

Fry was furious, but Jessie was his superior. No doubt he’d vent his spleen in the pub later, telling everyone what a bitch she was.

‘There are some steps in the wall about a hundred yards back.’

Fry peered over. In some places the water reached the wall. ‘But …’

‘Be careful of the run-off channels. We wouldn’t want to lose you to a sudden gush of effluent.’

‘You can’t be serious, guv?’

Jessie narrowed her eyes against the sun’s low-lying sharp reflection. ‘Deadly.’

Fry flounced off. Mark Ward, that bastard. Well, he picked the wrong girl to start a war with. She’d make him sorry he hadn’t simply put a bucket of water over an open door and been done with it. Jessie got on the phone to the riverboat police, the underwater team and the helicopter unit, then she went over to the first officer on the scene. ‘Hi, I’m Detective Inspector Driver, West End Central CID.’

‘PC Niaz Ahmet.’ He was lanky, with heavy hands that flapped like paddles at his sides. His narrow head was perched on a long neck, but his eyes were bright and alert.

‘Were there any markings when you got here? Tyre tracks, footprints?’

‘Indeterminate number of markings on the path. But the mud was flat as it is now. Except for where the water runs off the bank. Rivulets, I think they’re called.’ Jessie immediately warmed to the man. ‘Definitely no footprints, or tyre tracks down there.’

‘Anything resembling a skull?’ asked Jessie.

‘Not that I could see. But, like Detective Constable Fry, I haven’t been down there. Didn’t want to disturb the scene.’

Jessie blew on her hands and rubbed them together. ‘Anything else?’

‘No. Few bits of debris, broken bottle, bit of metal pipe, trolley wheel, a dead jellyfish. But no footprints. I noted that especially.’

‘Follow me. I want you to take statements from the girls. And anyone else who turns up.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She walked along the footpath to where the rowers still stood, huddled over cold coffee, exhaling clouds of expectant breath. Gold letters adorned the navy-blue tracksuits: CLRC. Jessie introduced herself and began her routine questions.

Jessie climbed the frost-covered grass embankment on the other side of the pathway and peered over the iron railings. The so-called nature reserve looked like a filled-in chalkpit or a disused water reservoir. Steep banks surrounded the rectangular expanse of water. It seemed a desolate place, offering none of the comforts the name suggested. She turned away and walked back down the path after Fry to the stone steps. Like the wall, they were covered in algae. The river’s mucus. Fry was f-ing and blinding as he fought through the mud. It was almost worth the humiliation to see him pick his way like a girl in Jimmy Choos. Jessie took a step down on to the slippery tread. The slightest pressure on her heel and she’d lose what little grip she had. There was nothing to hold on to and the stairs were very steep. If these remains had been brought to the river, they hadn’t come this way. Above her was a canopy of branches, stretching low and wide over her head. There was no lighting on the path above, nothing opposite and no residential buildings for a quarter of a mile. For central London, this was an extraordinarily deserted spot. Perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

She rounded the wall and saw a tunnel entrance. No run-off channel emerged from the black mouth of the tunnel, but there was a silt fan. Did that mean the tunnel was active, or was the silt backwash from high tide? Jessie pulled a slim black torch out of her rucksack and pointed it into the darkness. Disturbed pigeons flapped past her. On the right was a raised stone walkway. Jessie mounted the slimy steps, stooped to the arc of the airless tunnel, and began to walk uphill away from the daylight. Below her on the gravel and silt floor were the beached whales of the river’s lifeless catch. A shopping trolley. A rusting bicycle frame. Two heavy-duty plastic sacks. There was something that looked like clothing caught under a plank of wood. Jessie jumped off the four-foot ridge and landed squarely on the solid ground. The cloth was a woman’s coat. She slipped on a plastic glove and took hold of the coat, gently tugging it free. She stared into the never-ending darkness ahead of her. Where would such a steep, dry tunnel lead?

‘Ma’am,’ shouted Fry. She could make out the silhouette of the lower half of his body at the tunnel entrance. He sounded anxious. ‘Ma’am, what are you doing in there?’

She walked back down the tunnel. It got softer underfoot the lower she got. Jessie passed Fry the coat without saying anything, then picked a high ridge and walked down the sloping bank to the skeleton. The ground was still getting softer with every step. She stood over the bones. Slowly sinking. Thinking. What had bothered her about the bones when she’d studied them through the binoculars bothered her even more now. She looked back to the gaping archway of the tunnel, staring at her like a one-eyed monster. Dormant. But dangerous. Her eyes returned to the skeleton. It wasn’t what Jessie expected a river to regurgitate. Bodies pulled from the Thames were the worst kind. Like leaves left in water, the skin formed a translucent film over flooded veins. Bloated with river water, corpses would burst at the touch, emptying their contents like a fisherman’s catch. There was something about the whiteness of this ribcage, rising out of the brown-black mud like a giant clam, that made her think the river had not claimed this body. Human hands had put it there. Nature was never that neat.

The forensic team arrived eventually. With no sense of urgency, they ambled along the sliver of countryside towards her, laughing and joking, in a pack. Shift workers all. Bodies had a habit of turning up at odd times; theirs was not a nine-to-five existence. They looked confused when they saw the bag of bones they’d been called out for.

‘I want everything picked up inside the area. Film it, photograph it, then bag it up. I’ve called the River Police. Low tide is in fifty minutes, then the tide will be racing back in. Take mud samples, water samples and get the temperature of the water and air.’

They looked at her the same way as DC Fry had. What? For this?

She felt unsure in front of these men. They knew more about the nature of death than she ever would. She tried to keep the nerves out of her voice. ‘The head, hands and feet are missing. Keep an eye out,’ she said.

‘They’d have fallen off during decomposition. The head is probably in Calais by now.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jessie. ‘So why isn’t the rest of this poor soul in Calais too? The tide is too strong. This skeleton should be completely broken up, not sitting neatly in the mud like that.’

‘What are you thinking?’ said one of them, softening immediately.

‘I don’t know yet. But bones don’t emerge clean and white from years of being buried in the mud, without a billion micro-organisms making them their home. Just because it’s a skeleton, doesn’t mean it’s old news.’

She left them standing in the mud.

‘This is a wind-up,’ said one.

‘Sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,’ said another.

‘Trust me,’ said the first. ‘I heard it from a mate at her AMIT. She’s being taken down a peg or two.’

DC Fry looked up into the sky. ‘Bloody Nora, you got the flying squad out!’

Jessie didn’t look up.

‘They are filming the foreshore and surrounding area. On my orders.’ Was she mad? She should never have risen to the bait. Jones would go ballistic.

‘Ma’am, that isn’t our lot up there, that’s the press.’ PC Ahmet pointed as he walked, his long frame almost reaching the sky.

‘What?’ She looked up. A helicopter hovered above. She could feel the telephoto lens aimed at them.

‘Like sharks, they have a great nose for blood,’ said the sombre PC.

‘Get that skeleton covered,’ she screamed at the scenes of crime officers. ‘Now! Jesus Christ, how do they know so quickly?’ she said. ‘The body was only reported to me an hour ago.’

‘Their technology is more advanced and they are permanently tuned in to police scramblers.’

This young constable continued to surprise her.

‘Right,’ said Jessie, trawling her memory for correct procedure. ‘Fry, get on to Heathrow, get an exclusion order and get that thing out of here.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that its propellers are disturbing a murder scene!’

‘With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t know that it is a murder scene –’

‘And you don’t know that it isn’t.’ She faced Fry full on and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Unless there is something you aren’t telling me?’

He shook his head. She smelled a rat, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

Jessie watched the helicopter withdraw to the limits of the exclusion order. The tide was rising, and she’d been denied a Home Office pathologist. News was out about the circus she was whipping up on the banks of the Thames. Mark was probably somewhere watching her hang herself and Jones was nowhere to be found.

‘Ma’am, the pathologist has arrived,’ said DC Fry. Her reluctant shadow.

A smart, auburn-haired woman held out her hand. She looked almost too delicate for the job, but her handshake was firm and her boots were caked in mud from previous grisly expeditions. ‘Sally Grimes,’ said the pathologist.

Jessie turned back to DC Fry. ‘I want those rowers filling out PDFs.’

Fry looked horrified at the amount of paperwork Jessie was accruing, but kept his mouth shut. The two women walked out to the skeleton. The water level was rising. ‘PDFs?’ queried Sally Grimes.

‘Personal description forms,’ Jessie said, ducking under the tarpaulin. ‘They describe themselves on it for the Holmes database back at the station.’

‘I know what they are. I was wondering why you were using them.’

‘Because I haven’t got a clue who this person is, or why they ended up here, and I’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘Bodies from the river are usually just picked up and matched to missing persons.’

Jessie studied the pale-skinned woman. ‘I was told you weren’t an investigative pathologist?’

‘I’m not. Yet. So what do you think you’ve got here?’

‘No idea, to be honest. I suspect I’ve been set up with a dud call by my fellow DI, who thinks I need bringing down several pegs. I thought I’d get him back by going by the book, give them the classroom detective they are waiting for.’

The police helicopter made another pass, its shadow gliding over the milky-white tarpaulin. It was getting hot under the plastic.

‘With bells on,’ said Sally.

Jessie shrugged. She wouldn’t admit she was wrong to call out the police helicopter. Not yet.

‘So they sent me and not a Home Office pathologist, because they don’t think you have anything,’ said Sally.

‘Like I said, I’ve been set up. Thing is, while I’ve been here, something about this skeleton has been bugging me.’

Sally smiled conspiratorially at Jessie. ‘Well, let’s see if we can find something to wipe the smile off your fellow DIs’ faces. What’s been bugging you?’

‘The smell.’

‘It is aromatic, I agree.’

‘I don’t mean the river smell. There’s something else. I only noticed it when the tarpaulin went up. It isn’t organic. In fact, it’s almost like bleach.’

Sally got down on her knees in the mud and smelled the bones. Jessie made a mental note to buy the woman a drink. The pathologist repeated the action at two more locations on the skeleton, nodded quietly to herself, and stood up. From her bag she took a swab and ran it along the exposed clavicle, then another down the fibula.

‘I’m not touching this until I’ve sent these to the lab.’

‘What is it?’

‘This corpse is too clean and too intact to have been here for years, and too decomposed to have died recently, unless someone has taken a cleaning fluid to it. How far would your DI go to make you look a fool?’

Jessie couldn’t answer that. She was too new on the scene to know. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

‘Would he get a freshly preserved lab skeleton, place it here and call you out to get you fired?’

Jessie’s face collapsed in panic. ‘A lab skeleton?’

Sally nodded. ‘I’m pretty sure these bones have been treated.’ They emerged from the tent. Sally arched backwards, stretching her spine. Jessie was too distraught to speak. ‘The undertakers are here. Let them bring the remains to the hospital. We’ll wait for the results on these swabs, see what we’ve got. If your DI has borrowed this from a medical college, we’ve got him. If he didn’t, then we’ll do a PM tomorrow and find out what we are dealing with. Okay?’

No, she was not okay. She had danced right into Mark Ward’s trap.

‘Tell all the undertakers to wear protective clothing,’ said Sally.

Jessie lifted her head. ‘Why protective clothing?’

‘The smell could be a cleaning agent mixed with formaldehyde, but it could be worse. We don’t know and it isn’t worth taking the risk. Plastic gloves will protect them from germs, not acids.’

‘Acid?’

‘It’s possible. Acid is still used as a way to make people disappear. No skull means no dental records. These bones are virtually unidentifiable.’ Sally touched Jessie’s arm. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing. Leaving it to the undertakers to pick up without examining it first could have got someone hurt.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes. Something is not right here. Stick to your guns, Detective. Whoever this dead woman is, she did not end up here by accident.’

‘So it’s a woman?’

‘Yes. But that’s all we know.’

The two women made their way laboriously up the bank. The mud sucked at their boots. Jessie looked back at the staked-out area. Already the furthest two poles were being licked by the rising water.

‘We going?’ said DC Fry hopefully.

‘Once you’ve checked that lot have picked up everything and photographed everything. I’m making you exhibits officer, don’t let me down.’

‘Come on, ma’am. You’re not still going through with this?’

‘Through with what, Fry?’

He did not answer her. Not directly. ‘It’s just … I thought you were doing something special with DCI Jones.’

There was no point in saying anything. Jessie left him smirking. Fry sat so neatly in Mark Ward’s pocket she kept forgetting he was there.

PC Ahmet was still taking the rowers’ statements. ‘Can you stay here, guard the site until it is completely covered in water, then be back here when the tide falls?’ said Jessie.

‘Would overtime commence at the appropriate time?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I accept your request.’

‘Thanks. Here’s my card – if anything strange happens or anyone comes asking questions, take their details, get a PDF and call me. Only me. Got it?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Thanks, PC Ahmet. You’ve been great.’

CHAPTER 6

Clare Mills stood at her father’s grave and listened to the belching buses trundle by. Cars hooted, mopeds buzzed and boys swore loudly. Not a very peaceful resting place, Whitechapel. She knelt down and swept away dead leaves. Here lies Trevor Mills. Loving husband and father. Born May 13th, 1933. Died April 27th, 1978. RIP. When Clare had first found the plot, she’d been angry that it didn’t say murdered. ‘Died’ implied that her father had something to do with his own death. He’d had a bad heart, weak genes, hadn’t eaten his greens, or had fallen at work. Drowned. Clare watched a drunk urinate against a once majestic headstone. The angel’s head was missing. Vandalism was a great leveller.

She looked back at the small flat square of stone under which her father’s bones lay. ‘Good news, Dad,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘The police are finally taking us seriously. I’m going to find Frank.’ Her mother was in Woolwich burial ground. Another almighty disaster in a life coloured by other people’s mistakes. Even in death, they couldn’t be together. Clare always felt bad that she visited her father more often than her mother. She felt guilty whenever she walked into Woolwich and saw the fresh yellow roses that Irene had dutifully brought. Irene had been her Mum’s best friend. It was Irene’s family who took Veronica in when her mother had run off. In a way, Irene was Clare’s only real friend too, if she thought about it. Irene never said she left the flowers. Clare knew that it still hurt her to talk about it. Irene missed her friend as much as Clare missed her mother, they were united by that common denominator. It was their foundation. Irene had been with her all through the search for Frank. Given her valuable clues and held her when, again, they came to nothing.

A man stood by the bench behind her. She glanced at her watch. Trawling time again. She was due at work. She blew a silent kiss to the ground and turned away. Two men were emerging from behind an ivy-clad tree. One was rolling up a rug, the other was struggling with his flies. It made her sick what went on in the graveyard, but she’d never seen anyone do anything near her father’s grave. No grip on a small flat stone. The tombs were the worst off. Illicit sex: another of life’s levellers. Judges or bricklayers, they all looked the same with their trousers down.

Clare took the bus to work, changed into overalls for the morning shift and began to sweep. She liked autumn. Red leaves made a welcome change from fag butts and beer cans.

CHAPTER 7

In the police station’s yard Jessie rinsed the mud off her boots, watching the dirty water mingle with the soapsuds that bubbled in the drain. Above her was the shower-room window, where the washing men’s words billowed out into the yard, enveloped with steam and the smell of expensive soap. Jessie wished she smoked; she needed more time to think about how she would handle Mark. The men were talking football. Something about transfer rules. Then she heard something that made her concentrate.

‘That was gross, wasn’t it?’

‘This fucking job is bad enough without rotting jellyfish pouring out all over us.’

‘Insides is one thing, jellyfish have always given me the willies.’

Jessie catapulted herself into a run.

‘Do you think it was part of the joke?’

‘What, some metaphor about a stinking fish?’

They laughed.

‘Fucking hell, ma’am!’

‘What jellyfish?’ demanded Jessie.

The scene of crime boys slipped around on the wet tiles, frantically trying to protect their modesty.

‘Jesus Christ –’

‘Do you mind –’

‘This is the men’s locker room.’

‘What fucking jellyfish?’

A ballsy lad put his hand on his hips. Jessie’s eyes did not leave his.

‘The one that fell out of the skeleton’s torso.’ He gave her a challenging half-smile.

‘Did you bring it in?’

‘No way.’

Jessie turned to leave. They could tell she was pissed off.

‘It was just a rotting piece of fish. It was nothing.’

‘One jellyfish maybe, but not two, not in the Thames.’ She hurried to the evidence room, where the booty from the morning’s crime scene was being examined and labelled by DC Fry. ‘Where’s the jellyfish?’

‘What?’ he said, looking up.

‘I asked you to bag everything around the body. There was a jellyfish. Where is it?’

‘I didn’t think you meant that. It was dead, slimy, it wasn’t anywhere near the thing.’

‘When I said everything, I meant everything.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What about the one that fell out of the body?’ He looked at her blankly. ‘You did stay until the others had finished, like I asked you?’

He looked around the room nervously.

‘Fuck!’ She glanced at her watch. ‘The tide will be back up by now. We didn’t have a second chance.’

‘Sorry.’

She ignored the tone in the guy’s voice. If he didn’t like taking criticism from someone his own age, he shouldn’t get things wrong in the first place.

Jessie put on a pair of waders and some long rubber gloves. The tide had turned and was lapping at the area where the body had been found. Smaller bits of the river’s cargo moved in rhythm with the tide: a condom, a small plastic bottle, a recently devoured packet of cheese-and-onion crisps. A pole had been sunk into the mud to mark the crime scene. She couldn’t risk taking the steps and wading a hundred yards back through water. It had been bad enough when the tide was fully out. She was scared that if she attempted it now she might step into a run-off channel, lose her footing and be dragged out by the current.

As she removed the rope from her backpack, Jessie was glad of the hours she’d spent being dragged up mountains by her brothers. She wrapped the rope around a tree trunk and tied a slipknot. She pulled against it and, when satisfied, threw the length of rope over the side of the river wall. Waders did not make good rock-climbing boots. Her arms had to take all the weight as she slid down the wall on the base of her boots and landed in a few inches of water that disappeared as quickly as it reappeared. She’d had no idea the Thames was so mighty. Every time she looked back, the water seemed to be reaching higher up the wall.

Sinking deeper with each step, Jessie waded through the mud until she got to the pole. As each wave receded, she put her hands flat and felt around the area where she thought the chest cavity would have been. It was no use. Everything felt the same through the thick rubber. Reluctantly, she peeled off one glove and bent forward again. The glistening top layer of mud felt like thick, viral mucus. She withdrew her hand and waited for the water to be sucked back by the weight of the Thames. Then she dug her nails and fingers in deeper and found purchase on the more compact riverbed below. It was no use with one hand, the water was coming in too fast. She took off the other glove and began to dig. She stepped into the hole left behind by the search for the skull, but still nothing.

Jessie stood up and looked around her. More condoms, more crisp packets and Coke cans. Further down the bank, she thought she saw something move in the water. She trudged towards it as quickly as she could, knowing she was getting dangerously deep. Many anglers drowned in shallow stretches of water, held down by water-filled boots. She felt the cold water push against the rubber. She saw it again. A semi-suspended jellyfish. She watched it ebb and flow with the rest of the flotsam. Her hands reached out for the slippery lump. Resisting the urge to pull away, she made a cage with her fingers and held on to it as an incoming wave rushed between her forearms. The water was now above her knees and the mud had sucked her into a vacuum. One boot was stuck. Jessie looked up to the bank. Even if someone had been on the path, they wouldn’t have been able to see her unless they were standing on the wall. This was not a spectator sport. If she got sucked under, no one would know until she rose to the surface two weeks later, bloated with river water and methane.

She tried to pull her leg out of the mud again, but it was only making the other foot sink deeper. Jessie took a deep breath, exhaled, fixed her vision on the post and, once she’d found her balance, slowly lifted one leg fully out of the boot. The tide nearly toppled her, but she threw the bare foot out behind her and her arms in front, with the jellyfish oozing between her fingers, and somehow she managed to stay upright. The mud squelched between her toes as she retraced her steps.

The area PC Ahmet had shown her earlier was under two foot of water, the saturated mud was even more dangerous. If she fell, she would be dragged under and carried downstream within seconds. She had one jellyfish. It had to be enough. Water was rushing in and out of the tunnel. It was too dangerous to stay down there any longer. With stinking, itchy, cold arms and a filthy, numb foot, Jessie carried the jellyfish back to the wall. She shrugged off her rucksack and placed the jellyfish in the container she had brought. Then, flinging the bag back over her shoulder, she grabbed the rope. It had got wet lying against the sodden brickwork. The first few times her hand simply slipped straight off it. She was getting very cold. Jessie rubbed her hands together, kicked the other boot off, peeled off her wet socks, wrung them out and wrapped one round each palm. The looped cotton absorbed the damp and gave her something to hold on with. She lifted herself out of the mud and, with burning biceps and frozen feet, worked her way back up the slimy wall. At the lip she dug her knee into a small ridge and hauled herself over the top. Lying face down on the wall, breathing heavily, she looked back to where she’d found the jellyfish. The wader had already been claimed as the river’s own.

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