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The Unquiet Dead
Gay Longworth


Jessie Driver returns in the second of this fresh, streetwise London-based series from ‘the new Mistress of Thrillers’ Sunday ExpressThe decaying Marshall Street Baths in the heart of Soho are a den for drug-users and the homeless – the perfect hang-out for a teenage runaway. But when DI Jessie Driver goes there in search of a missing girl, she finds something quite different: the mummified body of a man, buried in the rat-infested basement. Who was he? And how does this murder relate to the tragic drowning of a young boy years earlier?Jessie's investigation takes her on a journey through the past – the kidnapping of a little girl; the descent into madness of a bereaved father – but the dangers she'll face are very much in the present.








GAY LONGWORTH




The Unquiet Dead










Dedication (#u4e103afd-e93b-5b26-bb67-84329901def2)


To Alicia and Matt Suminski




Contents


Cover (#u2499e7f8-d8a3-59af-86b4-b47d11ecd32a)

Title Page (#u931fafd1-1e6a-5671-b6c4-da83d7d6064f)

Dedication (#ua2bf2e79-1649-5645-9bf8-7b9f6f418461)

Prologue (#u90759c7a-dc8a-59c8-93e1-b0048e520a44)

1 (#ue7e27242-b137-5054-934b-f69aee6d0145)

2 (#u2c790b4f-0560-5552-870e-c3707e338a8b)

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19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_0cb49eab-db4b-5d16-a123-7d414162ad07)


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 (#ulink_5fe71a7f-ab81-55ba-83df-9a100478ff29)


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?’

‘But that’s just it –’ Mark stopped but Jessie had already felt the draught. Her office door was open. She turned. Sarah Klein’s clone was looking at her with a very unnerving expression on her face. Clearly she’d heard what Jessie had said. Her only option was to bluff it. But before she’d even managed to force her mouth into a smile, or utter polite platitudes, the angry woman spoke.

‘That was very unimpressive.’

‘I’m sorry if you think that, but in my experience –’

Mark pushed the back of his shoe into Jessie’s heel. She ignored his warning. She’d had enough of the arrogance of vaguely famous people, assuming they were more important than everyone else and therefore deserving of special treatment.

‘– these sort of situations –’

‘How can you possibly judge the situation when you didn’t ask the right questions?’

‘If you have anything to add, please go ahead.’

Mark pushed her aside and stepped forward. ‘Driver, perhaps you haven’t met –’

‘Careful,’ protested Jessie.

‘I think he is trying to tell you to be careful. Thank you, Mark, but I think we can handle this from here.’

Jessie looked from her colleague to the heavily made-up woman and back again.

‘Handle what?’ asked Jessie.

‘That will be all, Mark. Thank you,’ she said imperiously. To Jessie’s astonishment, Mark nodded curtly and left. A little hole opened up beneath her feet and she looked longingly into it. But the ground was solid; she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘DCI Moore,’ said Jessie, offering her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve properly met.’

‘No. Seems you were unavailable to attend my induction yesterday afternoon. DI Ward said you were …’ she paused looking Jessie up and down, ‘indisposed.’

Bollocks was the only word that sprung to Jessie’s mind. Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.

‘I wouldn’t have got where I am if I didn’t know the difference between indisposed and a hangover. You, DI Driver, have a hangover. I can smell it.’

Jessie opened her mouth, then closed it again. A series of other swear words were now filling the void in her head where fabulous excuses should have been.

‘I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume your performance in there is down to your,’ she paused again, ‘indisposition. However, had I been Ms Klein’s lawyer – and for all you knew I might have been just that – I would have advised her to make a formal complaint against you. Don’t ever treat a victim of crime like that again.’

Getting defensive wasn’t going to get her out of this. ‘I apologise,’ said Jessie. ‘I shall take over from Niaz immediately.’

‘Who is this Niaz? What’s a PC in uniform doing here in CID?’

‘He’s been seconded to CID from Putney. He shows true promise and I’m hoping he’ll take the exams.’

‘“True promise” in whose judgement?’

Jessie didn’t reply. She wasn’t going to let DCI Moore tar Niaz with the same brush. Moore turned on her high heel and walked away, leaving Jessie reeling. What bloody induction? Where was Jones? He wasn’t supposed to be leaving for another week. And why didn’t Mark warn her? She kicked Mark’s door open. He held up his hands as if she were wielding a gun.

‘She turned up about an hour after you called in.’

‘Why didn’t you phone me, tell me to come back?’

‘I tried to, but your mobile was switched off.’

Jessie had a vague memory of listening to some messages when she and Bill got home that evening. But by then she’d been drinking for ten hours and was in a fairly shoddy condition.

‘I feel like shit.’

‘You look like shit. I came to find you first thing. I didn’t know she was going to hide in your office like that.’

‘What was she doing there, anyway?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you share a common hobby.’

Hungover and slow on the uptake, Jessie just frowned.

‘Star-fucking,’ said Mark gleefully.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Only because you can’t.’

‘What is it, fuck on Jessie day? And what the hell does “indisposed” mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You told that overly made-up harridan that I was indisposed.’

Mark’s eyes suddenly widened and he appeared to swell. Jessie didn’t dare turn around.

‘Mark,’ said the cool voice of DCI Moore over Jessie’s left shoulder, ‘I was wondering if you would give me a tour of the premises. Jones isn’t going to be able to make it in again today.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The words exploded out of him on his pent-up breath.

‘Thank you.’ Jessie heard the heels click away from her; she must have been tiptoeing earlier. The clicking stopped. Jessie braced herself. ‘Incidentally, Driver, you should think of doing something about your hair.’ Jessie turned reluctantly, imagining what it would feel like to turn into a pillar of salt. ‘You may not be in uniform, but you still represent the police force. Most importantly, you reflect your superiors and that means more than getting out of bed in the morning and hoping for the best.’

Again, the doors closed behind her. She turned to Mark. ‘I’m fucked.’

He shrugged.

She could have killed him.

Bill and Jessie sat on her sofa, their feet up on the coffee table, tea in hand. Neither her day nor her hangover had improved. Bill had made comforting noises when she finally fell through the door, but Jessie knew he didn’t really understand. He wasn’t a locker-room sort of man, whereas Jessie lived in one.

‘So what have you been doing all day, while I’ve been having my balls busted?’

‘Eating crap food and watching videos. Malcolm X, excellent film. I’d never got round to –’

She lifted the remote control and increased the volume. ‘Shh, this is it.’

‘Our main story tonight,’ said the newsreader. ‘Anna Maria Klein, the only child of actress Sarah Klein, is missing. The schoolgirl was last seen in London’s red-light district –’

‘She won’t like that,’ interrupted Jessie.

‘– where she was supposed to be meeting friends at a coffee shop. Amanda Hornby is there now. Amanda, what can you tell us?’

‘She’s foxy,’ said Bill. Jessie hit him.

‘Good evening. Well, the police are telling us very little at the moment. Anna Maria was reported missing by her mother this morning at West End Central police station. After initially being told to wait and see by one senior officer, the panicked mother was finally taken seriously late this afternoon.’

‘Why the change in approach?’

‘Sarah Klein apparently spent the day calling her daughter’s friends, until she found who Anna Maria was supposed to be meeting. The friends then confirmed that Anna Maria had never arrived at the coffee shop just behind me.’

‘And this had them worried?’

‘No. They say that Anna Maria often changed her plans.’

‘See? Flaky,’ said Jessie.

‘But time is very much of the essence in situations like these,’ redirected the newsreader.

‘That’s right. Every second counts, and it’s true many hours were lost before an investigation into Anna Maria’s whereabouts got underway. Now the teenager is facing her second night away from home and all her mother can do is hope for her safe return. This is Amanda Hornby, Soho, in London, for Channel Five News.’

Jessie quietly shook her head.

‘It sounds serious,’ said Bill.

‘Wait for the CCTV footage and then tell me if you think she’s been abducted. They’ll show it at the end of the bulletin, that way they keep the viewers glued.’

‘This cynicism doesn’t suit you, Jessie.’

‘It isn’t cynicism,’ she said, looking at her brother. ‘It’s instinct. And if I’m wrong, Moore will have my guts for garters.’

The newsreader went on until it was time to go to a break. After the ads, as Jessie had predicted, they showed the CCTV clip. Jessie had rounded up the film from all the public cameras around Soho that covered the coffee shop and its various approaches. She had also checked the ones around the actress’s house. If suspicious circumstances were ever confirmed, Jessie’s next step would be to gain access to the non-public CCTV footage: the cameras outside local shops, garages and offices. Jessie didn’t think it would come to that. By five that afternoon, after hours spent scanning the footage frame by frame, Anna Maria had been caught on film. The cab she had taken from her mother’s house had dropped her at the beginning of Carnaby Street. She had walked through the throng to the corner of Poland Street and Broadwick Street. There, directly under the eye of a surveillance camera, Anna Maria had waited for some time before moving off towards Marshall Street. Once out of range of the camera, she simply disappeared.

Bill and Jessie watched the actress’s daughter, stationary amidst the rushing crowd. She was noticeable by her stillness and her Dolce & Gabbana fur-trimmed coat and high-heeled boots.

‘Obviously she’s waiting for someone. Perhaps she misunderstood the plan with her friends?’ said Bill.

‘If she was waiting for someone she’d be looking around, glancing at her watch, maybe making a call to see where her friends are. She’s doing none of those things; she’s just standing there. And look at the bag.’

‘It’s big,’ said Bill.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘But that’s fashionable.’

‘Bill, you’ve been in the back of beyond for months, how do you know what is fashionable?’

Bill grinned. ‘Didn’t I tell you about the air hostess on the flight back?’

‘You swapped fashion tips with an air hostess?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Remind me not to let you anywhere near my friends.’

‘You’ll have to if you’re going to be burning the midnight oil on this case.’

‘Bill, there isn’t a case, unless it’s a prosecution for wasting police time. I offer you my final piece of evidence.’ She passed him a copy of the previous day’s Evening Standard. ‘You find me a programme at five o’clock that a sixteen-year-old girl would leave her friends for to return home and watch. There isn’t one. Anna Maria Klein is up to something, and it’s possible her mother is directing the show.’

‘I don’t know, Jess, she looked distraught on the news piece I saw.’

‘She’s an actress. It’s her job to convince people.’




2 (#ulink_83c3c0f0-7165-5d1c-a8f4-a6b105b0e113)


Jessie woke early to wash her hair. Determined to rectify the situation with DCI Moore, she dressed with her new boss in mind. She wouldn’t stretch to a skirt; not just because they made chasing criminals very hard, but because the piss-take she’d receive would be extreme. More extreme than normal. Instead, she opted for her black trouser suit, hoping it would endear her to the woman. If looking good was important to her new boss, well, this suit made Jessie look good, even if she said so herself. DCI Moore was obviously a hard nut. Fair enough, you had to be hard to succeed in this game. Jessie would dance to her tune. The line of command was more important than personality.

Clipping her hair off her face with slides, she put on enough make-up so that a woman would notice but a man wouldn’t. If Anna Maria hadn’t reappeared from wherever she was holed up, there was the possibility Jessie would be in front of the camera before the day was out. But when she saw herself in the hall mirror she nearly tore it all off. Dressing like this went against her self-imposed laws of survival. Rule number one: camouflage. You can’t attack what you can’t see.

Bill appeared from his bedroom in his boxer shorts, smiled at her sleepily and went to the bathroom. She envied him his fitness. The more she progressed in the police force, the more sedentary her life was becoming. She made a promise to herself that she would run home from work at the end of the day and went into the spare room to fetch her kit.

‘Jesus, Bill, you should think of opening a window occasionally,’ shouted Jessie. ‘It stinks in here.’

‘Sorry,’ replied a voice as the loo flushed. ‘Give me a second and I’ll buy you breakfast.’

Jessie glanced at her watch as Bill entered the room.

‘Come on, just a quick fry-up round the corner. It’s still early.’

‘Don’t you want a lie-in?’

‘This is a lie-in. I’m used to getting up at five.’

‘Well, all right – but we’d better make it quick.’

Jessie walked down the deserted hallway of the CID unit and felt very uneasy. She sat at her desk and listened to the sound of traffic from the street below. No doors opened and closed, no radios crackled, no phones rang, so she got up again and went upstairs to Jones’ recently vacated office. A group of her fellow officers were coming out of his room; perhaps she was being paranoid, but they appeared to be giving each other knowing looks.

‘What’s up, Fry?’ she asked one of the passing detective constables.

‘Best you ask the new boss,’ he muttered before shouting to another group of officers about meeting them in the canteen. When Jessie got to the office door she saw Mark sitting at the former DCI’s desk. He was looking out of the window, which offered a remarkable view across Mayfair to Hyde Park. In the evenings it filled with the rarely seen light of the setting sun. Jones had always had the blinds down, but Moore obviously had other decorating plans.

‘Hi, Mark, you been promoted after all?’

‘No,’ said a now familiar voice. DCI Moore walked into the office from the secretary’s side room.

‘Morning, ma’am. Have I missed something?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

Okay, so the woman was a hard nut and didn’t mince her words. All good qualities in a commanding officer, Jessie told herself. ‘What’s going on?’ she continued.

‘Don’t you think, given the circumstances, it would have been wise to get in early?’

It was only eight thirty, but Jessie didn’t think it ‘wise’ to argue.

‘Sorry.’

‘I’ve spoken to you twice, Driver, and twice you’ve had to apologise. Is this going to be a running theme with you?’

‘No,’ said Jessie, stiffening.

‘Good. DI Ward has made some rather interesting discoveries regarding the Klein case. Mark, although it’s a waste of your time, would you mind telling DI Driver what you told everyone this morning?’

He tried to look humble, he even tried to look sympathetic, but neither look could hide the way his body inflated slightly. The man was enjoying this more than he should. Jessie saw months of team-building slip away from her and wondered if he had really tried as hard as he claimed to track her down. Even if her mobile didn’t have any reception, she had a pager and he hadn’t called that.

‘Anna Maria Klein has form,’ said Mark.

‘At her age?’

‘At her age an official warning is as close to form as you can get,’ said Mark indignantly.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t look into this yesterday,’ said Moore sternly.

Jessie wasn’t going to apologise again. ‘What was it for?’ she asked Mark.

‘Possession.’

‘Dope?’

‘That doesn’t lessen the charge,’ said Moore. ‘Buying any kind of drug at fifteen is a serious concern.’

‘I don’t dispute that, but there are often extenuating circumstances. Buying it once to show off to your friends about how “showbiz” you are is not the same as mugging pensioners to get a crack fix.’

‘Do you know Dufour’s Place?’ asked Moore, ignoring Jessie’s observation.

‘Yes, it’s a cul-de-sac at the back of Marshall Street, it doesn’t go anywhere.’

‘It may not go anywhere, Driver, but it houses rather a historic building, as Mark has been explaining to us all this morning.’

Jessie looked to Mark for back-up and was saddened when she saw that he was busy with the papers on his knee. She waited. He didn’t look up.

‘I presume you’re referring to the Marshall Street Baths. I believe it was built in the twenties as a communal bath house, and was still in use up to the end of the nineties as a public swimming pool. Then Health and Safety closed it down. The City of Westminster has been trying to work out what to do with it ever since. It’s a listed building –’

‘Used by addicts and dealers,’ said Mark, cutting Jessie short.

‘I thought the drug unit had cleared up that problem?’

‘Drugs are a recurring problem,’ said Moore, sitting on the edge of Jones’ old desk.

‘Normally the baths are patrolled and checked by a caretaker called –’ Mark checked his pad – ‘Don Firth. But he’s been off sick for three weeks.’

‘We have reliable information that the addicts are back,’ said DCI Moore.

This was all getting a little chummy for Jessie’s liking. ‘So what are you thinking, Mark?’

‘Anna Maria makes a prearranged rendezvous with her new dealer. He doesn’t show, so she goes to Marshall Street Baths where she knows she can score.’

‘It’s all chained up,’ said Jessie disagreeing.

‘If the addicts and dealers can get in, so can anyone.’

Jessie didn’t think so, not in those heels.

‘We think something happened to her inside the building,’ said Moore.

‘I see,’ said Jessie. And she did. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked. Knowing the answer. It was in those knowing looks.

‘Nothing. It’s DI Ward’s case. It’s a high-profile assignment, Driver, so it’s probably better handled by Mark until last year’s debacle is forgotten about.’ Jessie tried to remain passive. ‘Aren’t you pleased? You didn’t seem very interested in it yesterday.’

She wasn’t pleased. Being uninterested and being uninvolved are two different things. She’d messed it up with Moore, she admitted, and it was her own fault, but she couldn’t understand why Mark was so happy to put the boot in. Just in case she was being paranoid, she tried a final litmus test. Principles of reason.

‘Ma’am, there was nothing in Anna Maria’s body language to indicate that she was waiting for anyone,’ said Jessie. ‘The poor creatures in Marshall Street Baths aren’t going to attack anyone. They’re there because they’ve got the money, they’ve scored, and the only thing they can think about is the fix, which once administered renders them impotent.’

‘That does not apply to the dealers,’ contradicted Mark. ‘And Anna Maria stood out like a sore thumb.’

‘Exactly. You don’t buy drugs in broad daylight in a fake-fur coat and six-inch heels.’

‘You didn’t see what she was wearing when she got busted last time,’ Moore interjected.

Jessie knew when she was outnumbered. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Search Marshall Street Baths,’ said Moore. ‘As soon as possible.’

‘And you really expect to find her in there?’

This question was followed by an exchange of glances between Ward and Moore. ‘We just hope it’s not too late and she’s still alive.’

They’d failed the test. She wasn’t being paranoid.

A thousand arguments and counter-arguments revolved around Jessie’s head as she returned to her office. We think something happened to her? We hope she’s still alive? We? Moore had only been in the building twenty-four hours and already they were a ‘we’. Where the hell was Jones? Surely he wouldn’t leave her like this, surely he’d have given her a heads up, some warning that DCI Moore was one of those women who pulled the ladder up behind them. Obviously Jessie wasn’t going to appreciate Moore’s legs folded provocatively over her desk, so of course Mark should get the case. It stood to reason, thought Jessie as she unconsciously pulled the slides out of her hair and let her fringe fall across her eyes. She would have been willing to dance to Moore’s tune, but not if she was the only one dancing. Jessie slumped into her chair, deflated and a little scared. Jones had made the differences between Mark and herself work. Under his guidance, Ward and Driver were quite a good balancing act. Not good cop, bad cop, but old cop, new cop. With Moore and Ward in bed together, it would turn what had been complementary back to being contrary. A horrendous thought passed through Jessie’s head. Mark and Moore in bed together, actually in bed together.

‘If that happens, I’m putting myself in for a transfer,’ she said aloud.

‘If what happens?’

Jessie looked up. Mark had pushed the door open with his foot. He was holding a box of files.

‘Gee, thanks for the support back there, Mark.’

‘What did you want me to do, climb up on the gallows next to you?’

‘No. Just act like a reasonable human being and take your nose out of Moore’s arse.’

‘Oh dear, are you a little worried because you’re not the teacher’s pet any more.’

‘Mark, listen to yourself.’

‘You’ll put yourself in for a transfer if what happens?’

She tried to defuse the tension by smiling. ‘Don’t get all excited, I’m not going anywhere.’

But Mark didn’t want it defusing. ‘If what happens?’

‘If you find Anna Maria’s body in Marshall Street Baths,’ she replied coolly.

‘Would you be willing to make that into an official wager?’

‘What is wrong with you? You’ve been bolshie for days,’ said Jessie.

‘It isn’t rocket science. If we find her body at the baths, you get your arse transferred out of here.’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘Name it,’ he said confidently.

It dawned on Jessie then what Mark was doing with the box of files. They were his files, from his office. His old office: the matching shoebox across the hall from hers.

‘I get your office.’ He looked back over his shoulder and smiled. ‘No, Mark. Your new office. Upstairs.’

‘Who told you?’

Jessie smiled sadly to herself. Was his professional opinion of her really so low? The fact she’d seen him sitting at Jones’ desk in the presence of the new DCI, the fact that he was now carrying a packing box, these giveaways were obviously not enough. ‘A white rabbit,’ she said. ‘Okay. Deal: my transfer for your office.’ Jessie stood up.

‘Are you prepared to shake on it?’ demanded Mark.

‘Is this for real, Mark?’

Mark set the box down on Jessie’s desk.

‘Yes,’ he said, putting out his hand. Somewhat dazed, Jessie shook his hand. As she did so, he laughed. ‘And by the way, Jessie, this isn’t a transfer out of CID, this is a transfer out of West End Central. That way I can get you out of my hair once and for all.’

‘Mark, you haven’t got any hair.’

Mark glared at her. It was her turn to shrug. ‘What? You started this. Remember that, won’t you?’

Mark had officers stationed around the perimeter of the building, up on the roof and on the top storey of the Poland Street car park. The drug squad had sent a team and they now joined Mark’s men outside the chained double doors of the old public baths. Everyone was wearing body armour. The handcuffs glinted against the black flak jackets, radios crackled with expectation. A SOCO team waited by their van. The street was cordoned off, which gained the attention of workers in the adjacent offices. Everyone was waiting for the whistle.

Jessie sat in the surveillance room and watched it all live via a video link. She was tuned in and ready to go. A slightly stooped man with a thick moustache inserted a key from a large selection into the padlock that held the chains in place. He turned the key and pulled; the chain slithered to the ground like a boa constrictor dropping from a tree. The team entered in twos. Jessie watched as the video camera followed them in. The first room was a foyer complete with a wood-and-glass kiosk. One of the doors hung haphazardly from its rusting hinge. The floor was laid with intricate diamond-shaped tiles worked into a graphic design, the type you see in the entrances of elegant Victorian terrace housing. Peppermint. Cobalt. Burnt sienna. Black and white. The once majestic windows were coated in grime and protected by a thick wire mesh. The camera automatically adjusted to the reduction in light. They’d gone through the portal of a time machine and entered a long-forgotten era. Victorian bath houses, where the great unwashed came to bathe en masse. The team moved further into the building. The screen went fuzzy, then a new image came into focus.

‘Jesus Christ –’ Jessie heard Fry mutter – ‘it’s a bit fucking spooky.’ Jessie saw what he was looking at. The pool was enormous, a marble-tiled gaping wound in the ground, the swimming lanes neatly delineated by black tiles. What must once have been a majestic pool was now empty except for the green sludge that filled the deepest part of the deep end. The high glass-domed ceiling was mottled with moss and grime. Lines of empty spectator benches flanked each side of the drained pool; it looked like the whole structure was sitting dormant, waiting for people to return. Waiting for life.

Men in waders began to walk a slow line along the bottom of the pool until they reached the dark green water. On the count of three, they all took a step forward. Jessie grimaced as she watched the water level rise up their boots while they poked at the water with sticks. There was a shout. Jessie’s heart leapt. The line stopped. Someone dragged up a sodden, rotting piece of cloth. It was a blanket. There was a tremor of excitement. It was well known among the police that bodies often came wrapped in blankets. The search increased in intensity but they reached the end having found nothing more. Mark ordered them to retrace their steps. Still nothing. Jessie watched as the camera followed them to the second, smaller pool. This pool was in much worse condition. Jessie could hear the trickle of water before the camera turned towards the sound. Water was falling from the ceiling to the floor along the wall on the left-hand side. The building must have been leaking for some considerable time, for the tiled wall was coated in a slick of green slime. A similar puddle of brackish water had accumulated in the deepest part of the swimming pool. The men in their waders jumped down into the empty pool and walked to the water’s edge. The search began again.

Elsewhere the drug squad must have been having some success, because people, or shapes that resembled people, were being taken, dragged or carried out. There were ambulances waiting outside, along with specialist care workers who would deal with these sorry few. The camera ran its critical eye over them, searching for Anna Maria. They were Dickensian in their ghostliness: milk-white skin flecked with scabs and sores, stretched over malnourished features. None of them were Anna Maria. Half a mile away, Jessie shuddered. If few had the strength to walk, then none had it in them to summon the enormous amount of energy required to kill.

The team moved upwards floor by floor. There was one smallish circular room with a domed glass ceiling that became a temporary focus of attention. One of the glass panels had been smashed and was letting in the rain that had steadily begun to fall. Desperation had forced the addicts over the rooftops and through the glass panel. But not Anna Maria. Jessie was sure of it. There was one long room where many of the homeless people had been huddled together. The lino floor was badly soiled with human faeces, but what the camera zoomed in on was the rat’s droppings. Jessie could only imagine the smell. Moore had been right in one respect: drug addiction was a recurring problem.

There was a sense among the search team that the raid was over. They had been to the top of the building and found it empty. None of the addicts had had the energy to mount the extra flight of stairs; they had fallen on the floor that they’d arrived at. The general level of chat increased as the team made their way back down to the lobby, but silence fell when a call summoned them to the boiler room, the beating heart of Marshall Street Baths. Jessie wasn’t out of danger yet.

When the person holding the camera walked into the engine room, Jessie’s spirits rose. It was like returning to modern times. The lighting was bright, the tanks were new and painted in shiny red Hammerite, the flumes looked like concertinaed silver foil, while the network of water pipes resembled Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. It was immediately obvious that the water tanks had not been tampered with. It was a closed-loop water system and the bolts had not been removed since installation; the original paint still covered the joins. No one had used this scalding water to make evidence broil away.

Jessie was beginning to envisage the view from her new office. A good sunset was like a religion to her. In fact it was a religion. She believed in the cosmos. In the structure of the world around her. In what she could see and feel. The sea. The air. The stars. The moon. The sun. And watching it set gave her a feeling of peace; she felt united with the vastness of their universe on one hand and infinitesimally small on the other. It was another remedy for a bad day in CID. Having the high office would mean that she’d no longer need to make detours to the elevated section of the Westway in order to get a look at a mammoth red sun drop below West London’s skyline. Now she would have it for her delectation and delight at the end of every day.

‘There is another boiler room,’ said a voice over the radio. ‘The original one, built in 1910. They stopped using it in 1953, but you can still get down there.’ Jessie snapped out of her reverie. It was the man with the moustache. The man with the bunch of keys. He must be the caretaker, thought Jessie, back from his sickbed for this sickly spectacle. ‘It’s one floor below. I don’t go down there unless I absolutely have to.’

‘Why not?’ Jessie heard Mark Ward ask, but she didn’t hear an answer. Everybody else had; they had all gone quiet. Jessie followed the camera out of the brightly lit boiler room and through a set of double doors. Suddenly the screen was plunged into darkness.

‘Hang on,’ said a voice. ‘We need the generator for this bit.’ For a few quiet, dark moments everybody waited. Then a hiss, and a faint glow that increased until a struggling light filled the gloom. The low-ceilinged corridor in which the men stood looked like a concrete trench. Their boots echoed like hammers as they proceeded along it. Jessie leant forward to get a better look. A small knot of anxiety had tightened in her stomach. At the end of the corridor was a set of steep concrete steps leading down to a rusty steel door that swung on its hinges. The man with the moustache tutted. ‘It’s supposed to be locked,’ he said. Unaware, Jessie had put her hand over her mouth. The camera shook as it went unsteadily down the steps. No one was talking now. Someone pushed the door open. It was obviously heavy, because whoever was opening it was using two hands. The interior was pitch black.

‘Just a minute,’ said the disembodied voice of the caretaker. ‘The light switch is through here.’ Jessie heard the heavy sound of rattling chains and jangling keys. It was so deliberate that she wondered whether he was doing it for effect. If he was, it was working. Still no one spoke. There was no other sound except the familiar hiss of electricity.

A murky image appeared on the screen: DO NOT ENTER. The cameraman ignored the sign and went in. Jessie found herself transported to the bottom of the Atlantic. In the pale light the ancient redundant machinery reminded her of a documentary about the Titanic. She’d been inside the engine room via a submersible eye. She was inside it again. Placed between a grid of square wooden pillars that looked like the underside of a disused pier were four huge round boilers, each covered in a thick skin of rust. She could see the breath of the men, huddled in a pack at the edge of the room. It was cold down there. Something was making the policemen wrinkle their faces and grimace. Jessie hoped it was the musty odour of age, not death.

In front of each tank was a rill. The first two disappeared into black holes; the two furthest away from the door ended at what looked like a large manhole cover. Beyond them were brick archways that led to recesses in the back wall. Above them was a series of steel girders held up by wooden beams. Rotten wooden beams.

‘Careful,’ said Jessie, but the men on the screen couldn’t hear her.

‘What are those?’ Mark asked. Jessie couldn’t see what he was pointing to.

‘Coal was used to fire ’em up.’ The caretaker patted the belly of the boiler affectionately. ‘Men would shovel it out of the coal stores to the bottom of the Archimedes screw. That way the fires were always stoked.’ Four steel posts rose up from the ground. ‘’Course, the screws have long gone. Nicked and picked at over the years, like everything else. Got no respect.’

‘Yes, but what are those?’

Jessie knew Mark was talking about the two open pits in the ground. It would have been the first place she would have looked, too. The man with the moustache hadn’t let go of the boiler, and it occurred to Jessie that he was hanging on to it.

‘The ash would fall out the bottom and be taken away by running water, along these narrow channels into the pits to cool.’ The camera pointed down into the pit.

‘Where do they go?’

‘Hell,’ said the caretaker.

‘What?’ said Mark and Jessie in unison.

‘Smell,’ he said. ‘Then tell me where you think they go?’

‘Sewers,’ replied Jessie to the electronic image. That was why all the men were pulling faces.

‘Get the torches down there!’ shouted Mark.

‘Careful, the ground isn’t stable,’ said the caretaker.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t know when the ground is going to give way and swallow you up.’

Jessie felt a chill up the back of her neck. This guy was freaking her out. She watched as four police officers pointed torches into the pupil of the pit. One of them beckoned for the boat hook and a few seconds later he fished out a shoe.

‘They should all have been covered,’ said the caretaker.

The old shoe was discarded. They moved on to the next pit, wading through filth. Once again the search was fruitless.

‘What about the other two?’

‘There’s nothing down there.’

‘Get those lids up,’ shouted Mark. His voice trembled as much as the caretaker’s, whether with excitement or fear, Jessie couldn’t tell.

The elderly man was still hanging on to the boiler when the crowbar arrived. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said.

Jessie didn’t want to know why not.

They prised open the first lid. The camera gave her a bird’s-eye view of a dry, lead-lined pit with a grate at the bottom. It was empty. One more to go.

‘Mind your heads, boys, the ceiling gets lower.’

Jessie was out of her seat and pacing. The crowbar was inserted into the dusty ground. The men heaved with exertion. A corner came up.

She heard a voice. The caretaker’s voice: ‘We shouldn’t really be down here. They don’t like it when people come down here.’

The screen started to flicker like mad.

Jessie could make out Mark as he knelt down and stuck a torch into the gap.

The screen went fuzzy. And then nothing. Jessie hit the television screen. The radio clicked.

‘I can see someone!’ shouted Mark.

‘Alive?’

‘Can’t tell – they’re not moving!’

There was a terrible crack.

‘Move!’ shouted a voice over the rumble of falling masonry. The radio clicked again and Jessie lost contact with the boiler room.




3 (#ulink_64876671-5a4a-530c-88ca-85af1d2a64d0)


For a few seconds Jessie continued to stare at the blank screen. Then she pulled on her leather jacket and ran down the stairs to the exit. Outside, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. Her bike was parked in its normal place; it only took a minute before she was in her helmet and off the stand. It wouldn’t have taken long to walk to Marshall Street, but she didn’t want to waste any time. Something serious had happened in that boiler room. Why did she feel as if she had known it would?

Up ahead she saw the blue-and-white police tape spinning in the wind. The search crew were just beginning to spill out of the monolithic building as she pulled up. She dismounted, flashed her badge and joined the constable on guard.

‘What happened?’

‘Roof caved in. One man down. They’re bringing him out now.’

‘Came from nowhere,’ said a young man covered in dust.

‘I knew something was up with that place,’ said another. ‘You could just feel it.’

Jessie followed paramedics through the labyrinth that was the underbelly of the baths until she reached the cement corridor. The clattering wheels of the medics’ trolley stopped; they snapped up the undercarriage, lifted it and carried it down the flight of steeply cut steps. DCI Moore was standing at the bottom. She looked Jessie up and down but said nothing. Jessie’s high-heeled boots and trouser suit looked ridiculous now.

‘Is is Anna Maria?’

‘Too early to say,’ said the DCI. ‘A beam came down on the lid, sealing it shut. Now the fucking structural engineers won’t let anyone in until they’ve given us the all clear. Meanwhile, she may be down there, suffocating, and we’ve got an officer with serious concussion after being hit by a falling brick.’

‘Where’s Mark?’

‘They’re patching him up. He nearly had his arm sliced off by that lid.’

‘Four people and they still couldn’t lift it,’ said Jessie.

‘What’s your point?’

‘I don’t know. Pulling something like this off would have taken planning, people.’

‘Maybe all that was required was a victim.’ DCI Moore suddenly pushed herself away from the wall. ‘I can’t just wait around gossiping. I’m going to talk to that bloody engineer again. Call me if anything happens.’

Jessie felt the insult keenly, but did not respond. She sat on the bottom step and waited, her bad mood deepening with every minute she sat there. How could she have been so stupid as to bet on something as unpredictable as other people’s lives? The paramedics returned with their trolley. The injured officer’s head and neck were encased in a thick padded yellow brace. He was fastened to the stretcher. What they couldn’t strap down were his eyes, which were rolling in his head like a mad mare’s. He was singing nursery rhymes. When he passed Jessie, his eyes fixed on her for a long moment that left her feeling as if she’d just seen something she shouldn’t.

‘Go away,’ he said. Then his eyes started rolling again.

The medic made a sign and the trolley was again lifted into the air and Jessie was alone once more. Soon the damp had seeped through her trousers, leaving her skin cold and itchy. Men with measuring instruments came and went; she took no notice of them. The cold air chilled her to the bone, but she did not leave. The voice behind her made her jump.

‘I was thinking Reading – lots of petty crime that creates an avalanche of paperwork and no results,’ he said, walking heavy-footed down the steps towards her. ‘Or maybe Birmingham, where the men really know how to treat a woman.’ In the poorest areas of Birmingham rates of domestic violence were extremely high. ‘And don’t get on your high horse, Driver. You know they often ask for it.’

The black mist turned red. Jessie felt the fury whip through her like the wind as she turned on Mark. ‘Did you ask for it when your mother abused you?’ she said in a mean whisper.

‘You bitch,’ spat Mark.

Jessie stood. ‘And when you said, “No, don’t lock me in this cupboard,” you really meant, “Yes, leave me here in the dark for hours.”’

Mark didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, ‘I’ve been waiting, wondering how long it would take you to throw that back at me. All that bullshit about how I could trust you – what a load of shit. Mum had no choice and you know it.’

‘Trust! You don’t know the meaning of the word. Moore has been here two seconds and you turn on me in an instant. And as far as choice is concerned, there is always a choice.’

He flew down the stairs towards her. ‘Sanctimonious cunt.’

It was reflex. A spasmodic response to his ugly words. To his descending mass. A bent elbow, fast and hard, into the solar plexus. Mark fell forward, letting out a high-pitched wheeze, landing on his knees on the hard floor. Jessie reeled from the shock of the words, from the shock of her own actions. Mark coughed. Jessie stood motionless.

‘You all right, Mark?’ asked Moore from the top of the stairs.

‘It’s the damp,’ he croaked.

Jessie bent down to his level. ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ she whispered.

He turned to face her, a look of real hatred in his eyes. ‘I’m going to see to it that you end up in fucking Dundee.’

Jessie stayed low, talking low. ‘Don’t count on it, Mark. That lid hasn’t been moved for years. You’ve just stumbled across some old skeleton, that’s all.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ They both ignored Moore.

‘I saw hair. I saw flesh. I saw clothes. You’re wrong, and that’s something you can’t stand. Go away,’ he seethed, echoing the words of another delirious man.

Jessie backed off, but only because she was so frightened of her own feelings. She had already hit him, but still she wanted to grind her nails into his face and pull the flesh off. She wanted to hurt him, destroy him.

‘We’ve been given clearance,’ said Moore as she passed. Jessie didn’t care. She wanted to get out. She ran up the steps, back along the corridor, through more doors and up more steps until eventually she found herself bursting out on to the street. A dozen cameras flashed. The news was already out. Behind the barrier, men and women jabbed microphones and shouted questions. Jessie took gulps of air as the name Anna Maria filled the cul-de-sac. The dead end. There were only two ways to go. Through the pack on the street or back into Marshall Street Baths. For the first time ever, she preferred the press pack to her fellow police officers. Nothing would induce her to return to that place. She may have been at loggerheads with Mark on many previous occasions, but nothing like that had ever happened. She had been taught unarmed combat in order to be able to disarm a person, defend herself, break up a fight. She never thought she’d use the skill to start one. A small corner of her brain had to applaud Mark for not hitting her back. He must have wanted to, but he didn’t. She’d lost control. He hadn’t. Now she’d have to apologise to him. Violence was never the answer. Wasn’t that what she was always telling the schoolkids, the young men banged up time and time again?

‘DI Driver,’ called a woman’s voice as she walked to the car. Jessie turned. It was Amanda Hornby, the Channel Five crime reporter. ‘Have they found a body?’

‘No comment.’

‘They’ve sent SOCO in there, so they’ve found something.’

‘No comment.’

‘Come on, Detective, give me a break.’

‘Leave me alone,’ Jessie hissed, pushing on past her and out into the gathering crowd. Dazed, she walked on as the pavement grew thick with onlookers, some staring without shame, some shuffling past and smiling into mobile phones, trying to pretend they weren’t really interested, while others stood away from the gossipmongers, watching and waiting for the body-bag. She had to elbow her way through the crowd. ‘Excuse me –’

‘They’ve found a body,’ Jessie heard one woman say.

‘All cut up,’ spoke another.

‘I’m trying to get through –’

‘That poor girl,’ said a third. ‘Her dad buggered off, her mother’s always away …’

An old man blocked her way. ‘Will you please move!’

The man turned, tipped his hat and stepped aside.

‘Thank you,’ said Jessie, escaping at last.

The man nodded. ‘Check the date,’ said a voice. Jessie turned back, but the man in the hat had already merged into the crowd.

Jessie moved on, turning down streets in no particular order, fuelled only by a desire to lose herself. She looked down at her hand and saw that she was shaking; the fight had caused adrenaline to rush around her system. Wanting Bill, she phoned the flat but there was no answer. She cursed herself for not making an arrangement with him, she should have hired him a phone. Where would he be? Where was she, for that matter? Jessie’s phone buzzed in her hand. It was a local number she didn’t recognise.

‘Hey, Jess, fancy a drink?’

‘How did you know?’ she said, smiling with relief.

‘Because you’re terribly bad at hiding your alcohol dependency,’ he replied.

‘Where are you?’

‘In a phone box, outside, hang on …’

Jessie saw the glass door rotate towards her. Bill emerged, looking skyward.

‘It’s okay,’ said Jessie. ‘I know exactly where you are.’

‘You do?’

She put her phone away and called his name. He waved, astonished. She hugged him tightly.

‘That’s weird,’ said Bill.

‘That’s magic.’

He took her arm. ‘I always thought you were a bit of a white witch.’

Jessie took the seat opposite her brother. Before picking up the tumbler of neat whisky, no ice, she slid Bill’s packet of fags towards her, pulled one out and lit it. Bill said nothing. She inhaled deeply, took a sip of whisky, inhaled again, then stubbed out the cigarette. Bill winced. ‘I’ve got some fairly serious codeine at the flat,’ he said.

‘Thanks, but I like to annihilate myself the old-fashioned way.’

‘I thought you didn’t smoke.’

‘I don’t.’ The alcohol hit her empty stomach and the nicotine rushed to her head. Her heart beat a little faster for a while and then settled back down again. She finished her drink.

‘Feel like a new woman?’ said Bill.

Jessie nodded. ‘Yeah, and that new woman’s thirsty.’ She stood up. ‘Same again?’ Bill passed his glass over. ‘You’d better grab a menu – they do food and you look like you need some.’

‘Liquid lunch today.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you when I get back.’

Jessie ordered another round, picked up a menu for Bill and returned with the drinks in hand.

‘I hit Mark Ward,’ she said, once a good amount of the second drink had hit her stomach. ‘Don’t worry, no one saw.’

‘You hit him? Why? Where?’

‘In the solar plexus.’

‘No, I mean where were you?’

‘In this horrible place around the corner. I’m feeling a bit better now, but as soon as I walked in there, I don’t know …’ She frowned, trying to remember where the feeling had come from. ‘I can’t explain it. He’s called me names before. Big deal, right; don’t dignify it with a response, all that crap … So why today? I could have killed him. I’m not joking. I have never felt so angry in my life. Except … no, not even then.’

‘Except when?’

Jessie paused for a moment. No one really touched on this subject. It was taboo. ‘When Mum died, and the doctor told us she’d known for months. I was furious, still am. But not like today. I didn’t want to kill the doctor.’

‘But you wanted to kill Mum?’

‘Yeah, well, the cancer had done that for me.’

They sat in silence for a while.

‘Do you miss her?’

‘That’s a stupid question, Bill.’

‘Sorry.’

‘We never talk about her,’ said Jessie quietly. There was another pause.

‘It’s been five years, what more can we say about it?’

‘Nothing. But we should still talk about her.’

Her mother had energy enough for all of them. A husband, three sons and a daughter. That it was not inexhaustible, as Jessie had been led to believe, was something she still could not comprehend.

Bill lit a cigarette. He offered the packet to Jessie. She refused. The moment had passed.

‘I dream about her,’ said Bill, halfway down his cigarette. ‘She’s always laughing.’

‘I don’t,’ Jessie admitted. ‘You know the thing that terrifies me the most? I can’t remember what she sounded like. I can’t hear her voice.’

‘I’ve got tapes she sent me when I first went to Africa. I’ll send them to you, if you like.’

She looked away from her brother crossly. ‘I don’t want tapes, Bill. I want her.’

This statement was followed by the awkward silence that Jessie was used to getting from her brothers when she tried to talk about their mother. Her father was the same. None of them would talk to her about it.

‘I feel cheated,’ she said to the windowpane. ‘I want to go shopping with her for my wedding dress.’

‘Christ, Jess, I thought you said it was over with that guy.’

‘It is.’

‘Who are you getting married to then?’

‘I’m not getting married to anyone.’ Bill looked more perplexed than ever. ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jessie, finishing her drink. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘Boss?’ said a voice behind her. It was Burrows. ‘They need you at Marshall Street Baths.’

‘Is is Anna Maria?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me.’

Burrows looked over at Bill, nodded curtly then returned to the door, which he held open for Jessie. She kissed her brother on the cheek; he held her hand.

‘You’ll be all right, Jess,’ he said.

She pulled her hand away. Sometimes she wasn’t so sure.

The media frenzy had doubled in the short time Jessie had been in the pub. White vans with satellite dishes and company logos were stretched back into Broadwick Street. She and Burrows made slow progress through the crowd. No one took much notice of them, they blended in with all the other hacks and hawks. As they pushed to the edge of the pack, in a quieter place further away Jessie saw Amanda Hornby. She was standing in front of a camera, a small microphone clipped on to her lapel. She glanced nervously at the spiral-bound pad she held in her hand. Jessie looked at her watch. A special bulletin. Live from the scene. There must have been some development or else there wouldn’t be this frenetic activity. Amanda looked up and caught her staring. Jessie tried to look away but it was too late, the news reporter had clocked her and she was coming over.

‘Oi, get back here!’ the cameraman shouted.

‘I’d do as he says,’ said Jessie.

‘Why are you back, Detective Inspector? What’s going on? Is Sarah Klein here to identify her daughter?’

Sarah Klein? Here? ‘Three minutes to air,’ said the cameraman, sounding exasperated.

‘It’s not my case.’

‘But you’re here.’

Jessie couldn’t argue with that.

‘Why?’

A car pulled up to the barrier and Jessie inadvertently looked around. She saw the familiar red hair emerge.

‘Sally Grimes – isn’t she the pathologist who helped you with the celebrity murders?’ said the reporter. Jessie ignored her. ‘So you’ve definitely got a body then?’

Jessie turned back to Amanda Hornby. ‘You know too much.’

‘That’s my job.’

‘Amanda!’ shouted the cameraman. Amanda put a finger to her ear then glanced down at her watch. She started walking slowly backwards. ‘I know nothing. Just one thing, give me one fact, that’s all I’m after.’

Jessie watched her retreat.

‘One fact, that’s all,’ she pleaded again.

‘My brother fancies you,’ said Jessie flippantly. ‘And that’s a fact.’

Amanda swore silently, turned to the camera and nodded once. ‘That’s right, Sarah Klein the mother of the missing girl arrived here ten minutes ago, creating quite a scene. She was driving her car, turned into Marshall Street just behind me and was blocked from continuing any further by the growing number of photographers and journalists who have congregated here. Eventually she got out of the car and forced her way though the crowd, refusing to answer any questions. It was only when the extent of her distress became evident that they allowed her to pass.’

Jessie listened in horror.

‘That’s correct. The actress was due to appear in a West End production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf in a month’s time. The much-revered director, Timothy Powell, isn’t saying anything at present as to whether this is still the case, though it is assumed she will not carry on with a play the subject of which is a couple with an imaginary child. Things are looking less hopeful here. Just a few moments ago the pathologist Sally Grimes arrived and was rushed inside. Although the police are saying nothing at this stage, I think it is safe to assume that rumours regarding the discovery of a body are true. The exact cause of death is unknown, but it is being treated as suspicious. Sally Grimes became a fully qualified Home Office pathologist just a few weeks ago.’ Jessie watched the reporter’s face go taut with concentration as she listened to the next question from the studio. Amanda nodded. ‘That’s right, it means that Ms Grimes’ evidence can be used by prosecutors, in this case the Crown Prosecution Service, in a court of law. However, the police are refusing to confirm that Anna Maria Klein’s body has been found, so for the moment –’ she glanced briefly at Jessie – ‘nothing is fact.’

Jessie fell in behind Burrows, and they made their way slowly to the front where Jessie showed her badge once more. Waiting at the door was Sally Grimes. Burrows raised the crime-scene tape for Jessie to duck under and she went to join Sally.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jessie whispered.

‘Carolyn Moore paged me.’

‘You know her?’

Sally nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘What did she want?’

‘They’ve found something they’ve never seen before. They want me to have a look at it.’

“‘It”?’

‘That’s what the message said.’

‘How well do you know her?’

‘She’s a ball breaker.’

‘Any advice?’

‘Give her a wide berth,’ said the redheaded pathologist. ‘She wasn’t always like that.’

The officers who had performed the search that morning milled around the foyer in silence. Somewhere a radio was on.

‘… Clinical psychologist Dr Martin Rommelt is here in the studio discussing the disappearance of Anna Maria Klein. Dr Rommelt, what effect do you think being rejected from Celebrity Big Brother, Jnr would have had on Anna Maria?’

Jessie looked at Sally for explanation.

‘I heard this on the radio coming down here. Some journo found out that she’d put her name up for the Big Brother house, but was turned down because she wasn’t famous enough.’

‘And they think what exactly?’

‘They don’t think anything. All they can do is speculate until you lot make an announcement. Before the Big Brother story broke they were discussing what effect having an absent father and famous mother would have on a teenager.’

Sally and Jessie walked back through the increasingly familiar network of subterranean passageways and doors. Outside the new boiler room another group of people stood listening to another radio.

‘… Friends are saying that Anna Maria was depressed recently. Normally a gregarious girl, she had become a little withdrawn, secretive. One schoolfriend who wishes to remain anonymous said that Anna Maria had been fighting with her mother more than usual. When asked what was usual, the friend replied, “Most days there was something …”’

‘I hope the poor woman isn’t listening to any of this,’ said Sally.

Jessie experienced the same feeling of apprehension as they left the bright light of the boiler room behind them and approached the final set of doors. Sally pushed them open and they both felt a rush of cold air. It was Sally’s turn to shudder. The long narrow walkway came to an abrupt end where it fell away to darkness. Jessie could hear someone crying. A woman. They walked towards the sound. Sarah Klein was sitting at the bottom of the stone steps, her head in her hands. Jessie immediately changed her mind about the actress. She’d heard too many women cry not to know the difference between crocodile tears and the real thing. When she heard them approach, Sarah Klein looked up, startled.

‘Sorry,’ said Jessie. ‘We didn’t mean to frighten you.’

The woman started sobbing again. Sally carried on without stopping, but Jessie held back. Sarah Klein shouldn’t be on her own. There should have been a family liaison officer with her. Where was the tea, the hanky, the gentle arm on the shoulder, the offer to call someone, drive her somewhere? Why wasn’t she being looked after? Sally called her from inside the ancient boiler room. Jessie didn’t respond.

‘Jessie –’ it was Sally again, this time more insistent – ‘I think you’d better come in here.’

Reluctantly, Jessie left the sobbing woman and walked into the dank and dimly lit room. Curled up on a piece of tarpaulin, on the dry earth between the tanks and the coal stores, was the body of a perfectly preserved middle-aged man.




4 (#ulink_18e9cafd-fe67-53c6-9610-ac3a2f3a179d)


His skin was yellow and pulled taut over the bones. His eyelids sunk over the empty sockets. His lips were stretched back over his blackened teeth. His dark hair was slicked back and held in a ponytail. It was a terrifying death mask. His clothes had stiffened as hard as armour; each crease in the jacket, each fold in the shirt as unyielding as bronze. He was not a man any more, he was a mummy. The sleeves of his jacket were rolled up to the elbow, revealing more yellowing flesh that bore the signs of a vicious attack. Worse still, the tip of each preserved finger was missing. His thumbs were nothing but stumps.

‘What is it?’ asked DCI Moore. ‘And how the hell did it get here?’

‘It’s the corpse of a Caucasian male, approximately forty years of age.’

‘Is it real?’

‘Yes.’ Sally pulled on a pair of synthetic gloves and began to feel around the body.

‘Are you sure? It looks plastic.’

‘The corpse is showing visible signs of preservation. The body has been drying out, not decomposing. The skin takes on a leathery consistency, like biltong.’

‘How long has it been here?’ asked DCI Moore.

‘Check the date,’ interrupted Jessie, peering over Sally Grimes’ shoulder. ‘On the watch.’

Sally leant over so that she could get a better look. ‘That’s strange.’

‘What is?’ asked DCI Moore.

‘It’s today’s date.’ Sally put her ear to the timepiece. ‘It’s stopped.’

Mark Ward was pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged beast. One of the lights flickered on and off, making his actions look jerky and disconnected. He stopped and barked at Sally: ‘What does that mean, if he didn’t die today?’

‘I don’t know, but he definitely didn’t die today.’

‘What the hell can you tell me?’ DCI Moore’s red lips were outlined by a faint trace of blue. She’d been standing in the cold room for some time.

‘I’d say he’s been here since the eighties,’ said Jessie, jumping to Sally’s rescue.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mark. ‘A watch battery doesn’t last that long.’

‘Look at the clothes. My elder brothers used to dress like that – winklepickers, baggy trousers. Look how the jacket sleeves are folded and pushed up the arm. It’s the New Romantics: Depeche Mode, Nick Kershaw, Madness – remember?’

He clearly didn’t.

Sally bent down to get a better look. She carefully slipped her fingers into the back pocket of the jeans. She pulled. Nothing happened. After a few more attempts she took a pair of scissors and began to cut off the pocket. The square of stiff material came away in her hands. Sally turned it over. Stuck to the material was a canvas wallet of indeterminate colour. It was the type that folded over itself and fastened along a Velcro strip. She pulled the Velcro apart. The inside was orange. Bright orange with black edging.

‘I remember those,’ said Jessie. ‘They were very trendy. They came in all the fluorescent colours.’

‘So this man took his eighties retro look very seriously,’ concluded DCI Moore.

‘Not retro,’ said Sally. ‘This is genuine. Look at these –’ she held up some flimsy rectangles of paper – ‘one-pound notes.’ In the side zip pocket there was a collection of change. Sally ran her fingers over the coins. ‘I’d forgotten how big they were.’ The ten-pence pieces looked like giant money, filling her dwarf palm; the five-pence pieces were twice the size of the new ones, and there was something that Jessie had almost forgotten existed: a halfpenny.

‘Anything useful like ID in there?’ asked the DCI.

‘No.’

‘Are you telling me this man has been down there since the eighties?’

‘Not necessarily, but it looks as though he’s been dead since the eighties. He should have decomposed by now. Where did you find him?’

Moore pointed to the cleared site of the fourth open pit. ‘It’s an old ash pit – lead-lined and sealed.’

Sally touched the wall. ‘It’s very cold, but it would have to be dry, too.’

‘It was when we prised it open, but all four pits used to be connected to the sewers.’

‘And they’re not any more?’

‘We won’t know until the contractors have been down here. Something still is, you can smell it.’

‘What I can tell you is that he’s been in this foetal position for a long time. Either here, or a large domestic refrigerator. Because of his immaculate condition, the day he died, and therefore the way he died, is set in stone. I’ll get him to the lab and –’

‘No,’ said DCI Moore.

‘What? Why did you call me down here?’

‘As a favour.’

‘I don’t mind doing favours, Carolyn –’

‘DCI Moore.’

‘I don’t mind doing favours, DCI Moore, but I like to know when I’m granting them.’

‘I have to think about our budget,’ Moore replied tartly.

Jessie stepped forward. ‘But, boss, this is a suspicious death. Look at his hands – someone cut his fingers off. No fingers, no ID.’

‘That may be, DI Driver, but according to you he could have died twenty years ago. Hardly the sort of case we want to blow a lot of money on.’

‘Unlike Anna Maria Klein, you mean, who guarantees the police much more press?’

DCI Moore pulled herself up. ‘If you care so much about this, it’s yours. I’m putting you in charge. Identify him, find a match in Missing Persons and if any of his family are still alive you can let them know. But you don’t get Sally. Now that she’s a fully qualified Home Office pathologist she’s become far too expensive. Bad luck,’ she told Sally. ‘You’ve priced yourself right out of the market.’

Jessie turned to the scenes of crime officers. ‘Can we get a sample of –’

‘Hold your horses, Driver,’ said Mark, suddenly bounding forward. ‘This is my crime scene, my search party, my lads from SOCO. Off you go, boys – time for a break.’

‘Don’t go anywhere. I don’t mean to state the obvious, but Anna Maria isn’t here,’ said Jessie. ‘You heard the boss, this is my crime scene now.’

‘You don’t know that this is a crime scene,’ said Mark. ‘And we haven’t finished the search yet. You may not have noticed, but there are four old coal stores we haven’t investigated and below this level are the foundations of the workhouse that was originally built on this site. We haven’t even started this search.’

‘You think this guy mutilated his own hands and dropped himself in a hole and pulled the lid over his head? Come on, of course this is a crime scene. I can’t have you lot trampling all over it – you’ll contaminate it.’

‘That is quite enough melodrama, DI Driver.’ DCI Moore moved towards the exit. ‘Mark has a point. This place may still be unsafe. Let’s keep going with what is essential: finding Anna Maria Klein. When Mark is finished, you can continue with your investigation. But, please, don’t move the body until the hyenas have moved on. Sarah Klein and I are going to make a statement.’

‘I bet you are,’ whispered Jessie under her breath.

DCI Moore shot her a look, then left. Sally took out a card and quickly scribbled a name and number on it.

‘He’s a doctor, but he’s studying forensic pathology. He’s got great potential and passion, and he’ll relish a challenge like this. Send him the body. That way we’ll get it examined without the cost of a coroner, and if he finds anything we’ll go down the normal channels.’

DCI Moore reappeared as Jessie pocketed the card. ‘Sally, would you accompany me back up to ground level? There is something I’d like to discuss with you.’

‘It’s not balls this woman is after,’ whispered Jessie as Sally made to leave.

As soon as they were out of the door Mark moved in. He started by picking up one corner of the tarpaulin and dragging it across the floor. The stiff shifted.

‘Wait,’ shouted Jessie. ‘Let’s at least take a photo of it.’ She reached out to the police photographer hovering by the rusty boiler tanks.

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I need you upstairs, where they found that blanket. Quick, before we lose this light.’

‘She isn’t here and you know it.’

He raised his heavy lids to meet her eyes then slowly rubbed his chest.

‘Fine,’ she retorted. Placing herself between the body and the hole in the ground, she pulled her backpack off her shoulder. ‘I have my own camera. So go to hell.’

The flickering light stopped flickering, popped and then went out, taking all the other lights out with it. A soupy darkness wrapped itself around them.

‘Shit,’ said Mark. Jessie heard a thud. The corpse of an unknown man being unceremoniously dropped.

‘No one move,’ shouted Jessie. ‘Torches, anyone?’

‘Someone go and find out what’s going on!’ shouted Mark.

‘No, don’t move. You don’t know where you’re walking. Burrows, you’re nearest the door, you go.’

Jessie heard a rustle.

‘No one else move, the pits are open!’

‘We’re not,’ came the chorus.

‘Someone is moving!’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mark. ‘Fucking pussies, the lot of you.’ Jessie heard the strike of a flint. Mark was holding up a lighter. Two more strikes. Two more lighters. Then another, then another.

Mark started waving his lighter in the air. ‘It’s like a fucking Barry Manilow concert.’ There were a few laughs.

‘What can we conclude from this?’ asked Mark.

‘That the place is spooked?’ said a voice from the darkness that Jessie recognised as Fry.

‘No, lad. That coppers smoke too much.’ More laughter. ‘Now, let’s get the fuck out of here and have a break and a smoke, like I suggested.’

All the lighters moved at once.

‘Not all of you,’ exclaimed Jessie. But the lighters kept on moving until there were none left. Jessie felt warm air on the back of her neck. Finally she found her torch. She swung round with it, illuminating Mark’s face. He stood a few feet away.

‘Very funny,’ she said, with no trace of humour in her voice.

‘What? Get that light out of my face.’

‘Stop pissing about.’ She could feel little hairs bristle as she rubbed the nape of her neck. She shone the beam of light towards the floor. Open, empty eye sockets gaped back at her. Startled, she nearly let go of the torch. ‘Now look what you’ve done, Mark!’

‘What? I didn’t do anything.’

‘You dropped him.’

She passed the light over the body again.

‘I didn’t.’

Jessie frowned. The lids lay closed as before. Hiding the holes that lay beneath. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it must have been a trick of the light.’

‘Trick of your mind, maybe,’ said Mark. ‘Don’t tell me this place is getting to you. Not the fearless, indomitable Jessie Driver.’ He took two steps towards her, snatched the torch from her hand and switched it off.

‘Mark, don’t!’

She could hear him moving about in the darkness.

‘This is so childish. You could fall.’

He didn’t reply. She imagined the infantile grin on his pasty face.

‘Turn the light back on before you do yourself an injury,’ said Jessie, following the sound of him feeling his way through the dark. Still he didn’t reply. He was mistaken if he thought she’d fall to her knees and sob like a baby. That was his speciality.

‘I thought you didn’t like the dark?’

Silence.

‘Remember? In the dark, alone, scared.’ A cold blast of air came from nowhere, wrapped itself around her legs and made her shiver. She could still hear Mark. His shuffling was getting closer. She braced herself for whatever was coming. Blinding light in her eyes. More warm air on her neck. A soft moan. Rattling chains. What? What was it going to be?

‘I can hear your elf-like footsteps, arsehole.’

There was a bang. The sound of something heavy being dropped.

‘Stop messing around and put the fucking light back on!’ she shouted.

A pale blue bulb popped and glowed, then another. They got brighter as the power seeped through the circuit, gradually illuminating the long-forgotten boiler room. Jessie looked around. She was all alone. Curled around her feet lay the lifeless body.

Jessie sat high up on one of the spectators’ benches. She’d watched the last of the police officers leave and was just waiting for Moore to phone her with the all-clear to move the body. She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Sarah Klein.

‘I didn’t know anyone was still here,’ said Jessie.

Sarah Klein sat down on the thin wooden seat next to her. ‘I can’t go out there.’ She looked at Jessie with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Just look at me.’

‘Ms Klein, did P. J. Dean really recommend me to you?’

She looked sideways at Jessie. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I thought – hell, what does it matter what I thought?’

‘What statement did you make?’

‘I told you, I couldn’t go out there. Your boss did it.’

They fell into an awkward silence. Jessie stared down at the empty pool and imagined what it must have looked like in its heyday. Line upon line of Italian marble tiles. Chlorine and laughter rising off the warm water. Sunshine streaming through the now filthy domed glass.

‘It’s a work of art,’ said a voice above them. Jessie and Sarah Klein jumped. ‘Do you know, that pool never leaked a fluid ounce of water since the day it was built? Not one. That’s real craftsmanship. Something to be proud of. Seeing it reduced to this … Well, it isn’t right, is it?’ He moved down the terraces. ‘Give me a shout when you want to go, and I’ll lock up.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jessie.

‘Who is that?’ whispered Sarah Klein.

‘The caretaker,’ Jessie replied quietly.

‘She isn’t here, you know,’ said the moustached man, looking back at them.

‘No, I don’t think she is either,’ said Jessie. Anna Maria didn’t look so lacking in streetwise that she would climb into a drug hovel for some spliff. In all likelihood she’d never been here. She was probably unaware such a place existed. In an area where space cost £60 per square foot, a disused building of this magnitude was unimaginable.

‘How do you know?’ asked the missing girl’s mother.

‘I’d have heard her.’ Jessie and the actress exchanged mystified glances. The caretaker looked back at the heavy set of keys in his hand. ‘Let me know when you want to leave.’

He climbed down the benches and disappeared through the double doors that led to the foyer.

‘What a strange man,’ said Sarah Klein.

‘Eccentric but harmless, I think.’

‘All mad people are harmless until they slash you with a razor,’ the actress said dramatically. ‘Maybe he did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Killed my daughter.’

‘I don’t think so. The truth is, I don’t think your daughter’s dead,’ said Jessie. ‘And I’m not sure you do, either.’

The actress didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t even think you believe she’s been abducted,’ said Jessie, pushing a little further.

Sarah stared straight ahead. Finally she spoke, very quietly. ‘I did at first.’

‘But not now?’

She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. According to your colleague, she hasn’t spent any money. That isn’t good, is it?’

‘Not necessarily. She might be staying with someone – a boyfriend … ?’

‘I’ve rung everyone.’

‘Everyone you know.’

Jessie watched the actress swill the thought around in her head, then dismiss it. ‘There is too much coverage of her disappearance. Even if someone had lent her a large sum, surely they’d come forward?’

‘Has anything been stolen recently, any money missing?’

‘What? No! Are you suggesting my own daughter would …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘There was …’ She stopped herself. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘There was what?’

‘It’s nothing to do with Anna Maria.’

‘Try me. Another person’s perspective may shed some light.’

Sarah Klein brushed the hair back off her face. ‘It was months ago, I had to sack a cleaner because a few things went missing. She was new.’

‘What did she take?’

‘Nothing much. A few knick-knacks, clothes, little items of jewellery and some foreign currency. Every time she came, something disappeared.’ Out of her handbag she began to apply a fresh face to her ravaged one.

‘Did she admit to it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Of course she didn’t. But who else would it have been?’

Jessie let the question hang in the air. Then she changed tack. ‘Why were you crying before, on the steps?’

Sarah Klein’s face turned sour. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘Because I don’t have children?’

‘I don’t mean that!’ she said, snapping the compact closed. ‘The director was all over me until I said yes to doing the part. Now he’s shagging someone else. Guess who – the fucking understudy. Christ, you couldn’t buy publicity like this and still the vultures are circling, “You’re under too much stress to come in to rehearsal,” he says, let the little tart cover while you get through this. As if I don’t know what’s happening, the bastard!’

‘Sarah, do you know where your daughter is?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘Of course not.’ She stood up. ‘I need to get out of this godawful place. How do I look?’

Like Aunt Sally. ‘Much better,’ said Jessie.

Jessie followed her down the spectators’ benches and over the tiled floor where bare feet once reigned. Together they crossed the foyer. She opened the main door a crack. ‘I’m afraid they’re still here. Let me find the caretaker – there must be another way out of here.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Sarah Klein, removing a headscarf from the pocket of her coat and a large pair of tinted glasses from her bag. It was dusk outside. ‘I’ve got to face them eventually.’

‘One more question: is it true that there were the arguments between yourself and Anna Maria?’

‘She’s always pushing me to the limit,’ Sarah Klein replied defensively. ‘Anything for a bit of attention. I’ve no idea where she gets it from.’

‘Ms Klein, do me a favour, tell DI Ward about the thefts, I think it might be useful.’

‘Anna Maria didn’t steal from me, Detective. She may be lying in a ditch somewhere and you’re worried about a little problem with my domestic staff!’

‘You didn’t report it, did you?’

‘I didn’t want her to get into trouble.’

‘The cleaner?’

‘Of course the cleaner. Now, do you mind? I have to go.’ She put her hand up in front of her face before the first flashbulb popped.




5 (#ulink_a8b3193e-780f-539e-8b41-e66ae26d9ee5)


Jessie put a call through to the council. She was sure that the caretaker was a harmless eccentric, but before she spent any more hours alone with him in an empty building, she wanted to make sure. What they told her was both alarming and reassuring. Though the man suffered from bouts of ‘unspecific’ mental illness, his alibi was watertight. He’d been discharged from the Gordon Hospital psychiatric unit that morning after a three-week stay. Was he better? The lady on the phone couldn’t say.

As the more persistent of the journalists began to trickle away, Jessie made arrangements to have the body removed. For some reason, Moore wanted this one kept under wraps, so the mortuary van had been ordered to wait out of sight until given the all-clear. It would transport the body to Sally Grimes’ friend, who was waiting to receive it at St Mary’s. The same hospital where the concussed officer had been sent. Jessie hoped they wouldn’t be sending any more.

‘It has a life of its own,’ said the caretaker, joining her by the abandoned pool. ‘Especially when it rains. Can’t you hear it?’

Jessie had been listening to the sound of the wind in the ancient pipes and the rain pelting the glass roof. With such a cacophony of ghostly sounds even a rational mind could get jumpy. She couldn’t imagine the effect on an irrational mind.

‘Is that why the lights keep going out – because of leaks?’

The caretaker didn’t reply. She wasn’t going to push it.

‘We can go now. Everything has been, um, taken away.’

‘He’s gone, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure?’

Jessie had seen the body-bag into the car. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want the tour before you go? They’re going to pull it down soon. Tragedy.’

‘Pull it down, when?’

‘Soon as they can find out what’s wrong with the place.’

‘What is wrong with the place?’

The caretaker changed the subject. ‘You got a name?’

‘Call me Jessie.’

‘Jessie – that’s a boy’s name, isn’t it?’

‘There aren’t many people who can say that to my face and survive.’

The caretaker chuckled. ‘Follow me. There’s no one who knows this place better than I do. The name’s Don.’

‘You’ve worked here a long time then, Don?’

‘All my life.’

She pointed halfway up the wall over towards the deep end of the pool where two rusting brackets stuck out of the wall like miniature gallows, the type you draw when playing hangman. ‘So can you tell me what those are for?’

‘It was a platform. Had a wooden seat, see?’

‘What for?’

‘Why all these questions?’ he suddenly snapped.

‘Sorry,’ said Jessie. ‘Just curious. Occupational hazard.’

‘I expect you’d like to see where the slipper baths were. People used to wash there because they didn’t have no bathrooms at home.’

Jessie looked at her watch; it was late.

‘It won’t take long.’

Jessie followed him out through the foyer and into an impressive Art Deco stairwell. ‘They aren’t there any more, of course. It’s all exercise rooms now. I’ve seen everything: keep-fit, Jane Fonda workout, step, karate, judo, Callanetics … The best was the karate. I liked the teacher. He said I had special powers.’

‘Really?’ said Jessie, running her hand along the wooden banister as they mounted the central stairway. From a small landing Don pushed open a carved wooden door to a circular room she now recognised as the one the junkies had broken into. ‘They got in here via the roof,’ he said, pointing to the broken glass in the domed ceiling. It was a beautiful wood-panelled room with benches all the way round.

‘This was the first-class bathers’ waiting room. They’d pay their two and sixpence and that gave them unlimited hot water. When a tub became free, they’d come on in here –’ he led her through to where most of the addicts had congregated. It was longer than Jessie remembered from the video that morning. ‘On either side were baths, each sectioned off by more wood panelling. In they’d go for their weekly soak. Can’t even imagine it now, can you – public bathing? Sometimes,’ he said, ‘when I turn my back, I can still hear them, singing away, soaping up, shaving, the doors slamming, the steam …’ He looked at Jessie for confirmation. All she saw and smelt was human detritus. She wanted to go home.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Upstairs was where the second-class bathers went. No refills for their shilling. Sometimes you can’t concentrate for all their chattering.’

Jessie heard footsteps above her.

‘Just the pipes,’ he said quickly.

Didn’t sound like pipes to her. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘There’s no one there, Jessie. There never is.’

‘I’d still like to see for myself.’

The long narrow room above matched the one before. It had old rubber flooring in a lurid shade of green. As Don had said, it was empty. But even in this deserted exercise room there was something strange. Preserved buildings were like preserved people, their very refusal to decay, their obstinacy, could teach you something. Something of the past. If you were prepared to read the signs.

‘He doesn’t come up here.’

‘Who?’

‘What?’

‘Are you feeling all right, Don?’ He’d only just come out of hospital and this had been no ordinary day.

‘They said it wasn’t my fault.’

‘Of course not. People with drug addictions are desperate, they’ll go wherever they can,’ said Jessie. ‘It wasn’t your fault you got ill.’

‘I’m not ill,’ said the caretaker defensively.

‘Sorry, my mistake.’

‘I get the wobblies sometimes, that’s all.’ He put his finger in his ear and rubbed it as if he were clearing some wax.

‘It’s been a long day,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s time to go home.’

He stared at her. Her phone rang, making her jump. It was a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Best stay up here,’ said Don, quickening his step as he made it back to the stairwell. ‘Only place you’ll get reception on those things. I’ll go and start the locking up. You stay up here where you …’ He’d gone down the stairs so fast, she didn’t hear the rest.

‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

‘DI Driver,’ said Jessie into the phone.

‘Hi, my name is Dominic Rivers. I just wanted to tell you I’ve had a quick look at your body – sorry, that didn’t come out right. The stiff, um, the –’

‘The mummy?’

‘Yeah, the mummy, right. Thanks for sending it my way – it’s fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s perfectly preserved. Didn’t find it in a peat bog, did you?’

‘No. A lead-lined ash pit.’

‘He’s very clean.’

‘It was empty and sealed.’

‘Well, I won’t know why he is this beautifully preserved until I’ve done some tests, so why don’t you come by in the morning? By then I should be able to tell you a little more about this bloke.’

‘How he died?’

‘And if I’m doing my job correctly, how he lived.’

‘Damn!’

‘Sorry, isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘No, it’s not you – there’s been another power cut. Don!’ Jessie heard someone moving about on the floor below.

‘Where was he found?’

‘Marshall Street Baths,’ said Jessie, feeling for the banisters. ‘Sorry, I can’t see anything, I’ll have to call you back.’

‘No worries, just come by in the morning. About nine.’

‘Nine it is.’

‘That’s a date. Have a good one.’

Yeah right, thought Jessie, feeling her way back down the stairs in the darkness. She cursed the fact she’d left her bag in the foyer.

‘Don!’ She called out. ‘The lights have gone again!’ The yellow streetlights oozed through the windows, reflected and repeated a million times by the raindrops that clung to the dirty panes. She looked down the central well.

‘Oh, you’re there,’ said Jessie. The figure looked up. It wasn’t Don.

‘Detective Inspector Driver.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Father Forrester. Anglican. Good and high,’ he said with a smile. He removed a brown felt trilby from his head and performed a small bow. A shock of white hair hovered around his crown in wisps as thin as clouds. ‘At your service,’ he said, his face dissected by laughter lines. Even in the dim light, Jessie could see his eyes sparkle.

‘What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be in here.’

‘I was hoping I might be able to help you.’

‘How did you get in here?’

‘The door was open.’

‘Don!’ shouted Jessie again. It was a ruse, to let the man know they weren’t alone. ‘Well, it wasn’t supposed to be. I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you out. This building is closed to the public. It’s unsafe.’

He looked around the small atrium. ‘Unsafe. Indeed, especially to those who remain here. I expect you can feel it.’

‘Feel what?’ Jessie walked slowly down the last couple of steps, stopping a few feet away from him when she reached ground level.

‘The heavy atmosphere, a terrible feeling of regret.’

‘No,’ she said. Actually, now you come to mention it … ‘No,’ she said again. The strange old man stared over her left shoulder.

‘Have we met before?’ asked Jessie, resisting the temptation to check behind her.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You look familiar to me. Have you been in trouble with the law, Father Forrester?’

He chuckled. It sounded like someone shaking a bag of marbles. ‘Not since leaving Oxford University when there was an embarrassing moment with some underpants and a flagpole. You could say I am a reformed character.’

She moved round him to the door that led to the entrance. Never let the unknown entity stand between you and the exit. Especially in a dark, derelict building. ‘Are you sure? You aren’t wearing a dog collar.’

‘I am now retired, but not redundant. I think I can help you.’

‘And how is it that you can help me, Father Forrester?’

‘Someone in here needs forgiveness. As it happens, I am in the forgiving business.’

‘Don’t you normally knock on the door with leaflets?’

His faint smile didn’t falter. ‘Does the name Ann mean anything to you?’

Oh dear, thought Jessie. One of those. It was extraordinary what human peculiarities crime scenes conjured up. From nowhere gypsies with crystals would arrive; wailing women, pagans, hippies, spiritualists offering to talk to the dead, housewives who’d had vivid dreams. Body-bags brought out the supernatural in everyone, it seemed. Personally, Jessie liked to stick to the facts.

‘Nearly right, Father. Her name is Anna. Anna Maria. And she isn’t here. Now I know a lot has been on the news, and that rumours of a body rushed through the press, but it isn’t her. Anna Maria isn’t here. Now, I insist you leave.’ She opened the door. Don was standing just the other side of it.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,’ said the caretaker.

‘You didn’t,’ she said, removing her hand from where it had jumped to her chest. ‘I need to escort this gentleman off the premises.’

The vicar looked at Don. ‘It is often the guilty who cannot move on,’ he said.

Don shrank from the vicar. ‘Go away,’ he said in a strained voice.

‘It’s all right, Don, he’s going.’ Jessie turned to the white-haired man. ‘Right now.’

But the retired priest was not listening to her. ‘An earthbound spirit can make a place feel unsafe. They make themselves heard in a number of ways.’

‘I can hear them,’ said Don.

‘What?’ said Jessie, turning back to Don. ‘Who?’

‘The voices.’

‘Everyone, just stop,’ said Jessie. ‘This conversation is over.’

‘He drowned. It was an accident,’ said Don.

‘What was an accident?’ Jessie looked at him sharply. ‘Who drowned?’

The caretaker began to quiver slightly; he looked around the room nervously.

‘Do you know anything about the body downstairs?’ Jessie persisted.

‘Questions, questions, questions – I don’t like questions. They give me the wobblies.’ Jessie didn’t want the caretaker getting the wobblies. Whatever the wobblies were, a psychiatric ward meant they were probably more harmful than the name suggested.

‘It’s all right, Don. Let’s sit you down. We don’t have to talk about this.’ She walked him back through to the foyer. ‘Don’t you go anywhere,’ Jessie shot back over her shoulder to the priest.

‘An infested location will often attack the human element within it,’ he called after her. ‘Especially if the human –’

Jessie held up her hand. She helped Don on to an upturned box. The quivering stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and when he looked up at Jessie, he seemed quite unaware of what had happened.

‘Did you know they used two hundred and eighty-six marble tiles for the big swimming pool? Each one three foot by four foot, put there by hand.’

‘No,’ said Jessie. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘I’ve worked here all my life,’ said Don.

‘Yes,’ said Jessie, ‘I know. But now it’s definitely time to go home.’

‘It’s about money,’ said Father Forrester, walking through the double doors towards them. ‘Old money.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’ she asked, then immediately regretted the question. He smiled benignly. If he was expecting enlightenment, he was talking to the wrong girl.

‘That is a complicated question, Detective, and one that I should like to answer in the fullness of time. Until then, perhaps it is better to simply pass over my details. It will become increasingly evident when and why you’ll be needing me.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘I’m staying with some very good friends of mine: Sister Beatrice and Mary at the Rectory, Mill Lane, Wapping. I took the liberty of writing the details down. Call me when you want to talk. I’ll be ready.’

‘Ready for what, exactly?’

‘For whatever is needed of me.’ He bid her goodnight, replaced the trilby on his head and walked out into the rain. There was something about him that made Jessie feel uneasy. She was about to call after him when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned abruptly.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you again.’

‘Again, you didn’t.’ Again, she lied.

They watched as the elderly man was swallowed up by crowds of commuters battling with the steady downpour.

‘If you’re ready …’

Jessie nodded. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘I’m not sick, you know, I just get the wobblies sometimes.’

Jessie was suddenly very tired. ‘Goodnight, Don,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She stepped out into the rain. Behind her the caretaker pulled the thick metal chain through the door handles and began the lengthy ritual of locking up his keep.

Jessie was walking towards her bike when she remembered she’d left her helmet in the foyer. Unable to face going back, she pulled the collar of her leather jacket up and thought about hailing a cab and going home. It had been quite a day and she felt emotionally drained. Her relationship with Mark had never been easy to navigate, but today the velocity of the storm that Marshall Street Baths had thrown in their faces had been overpowering. She’d never felt the antagonism quite so intensely as she had standing on the threshold of that bizarre old boiler room. Since the fry-up at breakfast, her only sustenance had been two whiskys – no wonder she was feeling low. Two whiskys and a fry-up, thought Jessie ironically; whatever Mark might think, she was becoming a card-carrying copper despite herself.

She stood on Regent Street long enough to get bored, wet and cold. Welcome orange taxi-lights were evading her. The queues at the bus stops stretched back to the shop doors, Oxford Circus tube station was closed due to a security alert and the rain was now falling in a relentless stream. Even returning to work seemed more appealing than attempting public transport, so she crossed the busy road and headed down Maddox Street. Rain had brought its usual effect on the commuter traffic and the customary crawl was now stationary. Horns blared to no effect except to increase the blood pressure of all who heard them. The pavements were slick with grease and rainwater, but at least off Regent Street, they were empty. Each step made a small splash. She stopped to wipe water from her eyes and thought she heard someone stop behind her. She listened through the falling rain then started walking again, stepping carefully and precisely, changing momentum. Now she was almost sure she could hear someone walking in the rain behind her. She stopped again and turned. Her ears were playing tricks on her. Ears and eyes, all in one day. Marshall Street Baths was getting to her.

Up ahead, Jessie could see the panda cars and the IRV drivers waiting for instructions and, although it was silly, she felt relieved. Behind her, a phone played a ring-tone she recognised. Jessie turned involuntarily and looked around. The street was still empty. The P. J. Dean song started revolving in her head. That was something she was haunted by.

The Klein incident room was empty. All the boys were probably in the pub. She didn’t blame them. It was a good night for a Guinness or two. Or three. She sat down at the computer terminal and inserted the CD-ROM that the CCTV tapes had been transferred on to. If she could prove that Anna Maria was not in the Marshall Street Baths she could make sure Mark had no excuse to disrupt her investigation again. The two of them couldn’t be in that building without fighting. One location, two crime scenes and two investigating officers was a recipe for disaster as today had already proved. Mark was going to do everything in his power to remain in Marshall Street Baths, even if it meant prising up every floorboard, every tile. What really saddened Jessie was that the girl’s disappearance clearly meant half as much to him as getting Jessie out of CID – which came as a real shock to her because she had genuinely thought things had improved between the two of them. Well, she wasn’t leaving CID, and she wasn’t going to rest until she had handed Anna Maria Klein to him on a plate.

Jessie began as the sixteen-year-old moved out of range from her position on the corner. Green high-heel boots, a fur-trimmed coat under which peeked a long, floating skirt. She looked stockier in the CCTV images than she did in the ‘professional’ photographs her mother had shown them. Had the photos been touched up, like so many were, stretching her to seem longer and leaner? Or was the photo accurate and something else accounted for Anna Maria’s bulky appearance on the CCTV. Not the dress. That was made of very thin material. Too thin to be worn in February, surely? Jessie carried on watching frame by frame for the next fifteen minutes until something finally caught her eye. A girl walking quickly through the CCTV’s range. She had long dark hair and wore a stripy woolly hat. She wore a thick, oversized jumper and jeans, and carried a large duffel bag over her shoulder. A perfectly normal-looking girl. Jessie had watched hundreds come in and out of the frame. Runners. Shop assistants. Secretaries. Models. Schoolkids. Language students. Tourists. They all looked the same, except this one. This one was wearing green six-inch heels. Jessie froze the image and saved it. Next she brought up the clearest still of Anna Maria standing on the corner. She enlarged the picture to get a more detailed image of the boots she was wearing. They were high. The shape of the heels matched. The colour matched. A lawyer could argue that boots like this were sold in their thousands, and they were probably right, but these weren’t the clodhoppers with thick robust heels that most people wore. These had thin soles and spiky heels, and that made them expensive. Expensive and green reduced the likelihood of a sixteen-year-old girl wearing them. The build and height of the two girls were the same. The hair colour and the clothes were different. Jessie tried to remember what was up Marshall Street that would allow a girl to change her wardrobe with no one noticing. There was a cafe, but it was very small, some doorways in which to hide maybe, a telephone booth, a car park. Jessie smiled to herself. A car park would have security surveillance of its own. She picked up the phone and made the request.

‘Hello, Jessie,’ said a voice from the door. Jessie looked up. It was Jones. The person who’d given her the job in CID.

‘Sir!’ Jessie leapt to her feet and bounded towards him, then checked herself. ‘It’s great to see you.’

‘So great that you can’t even make time for my leaving party?’

Jessie put her hand to her mouth. ‘No. I could have sworn Mark told me it was …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I think it was, then it got changed,’ said Jones, ever the diplomat.

‘I thought it was a surprise. You’re not supposed to know,’ said Jessie, seeing right through him.

‘Trudi keeps me in the loop.’ Trudi had been Jones’ assistant for years. Jessie had seen her moping about the corridors since Jones announced his retirement.

‘Has she told you about your replacement?’ she asked hopefully. Jessie believed she and Trudi had always had a certain understanding.

‘Trudi only told me that they hadn’t had time to get acquainted yet.’

Which Jessie interpreted as, Stupid cow hasn’t bothered talking to me yet because I’m a woman and only a secretary.

Jones shook his head. ‘No, Jessie, it wasn’t anything like that at all. Give Carolyn a chance. She appears a little frosty, but she’ll thaw. She’s just nervous.’

‘As nervous as a panther.’

‘Come on, Jessie. Usually you have very good intuition for people in pain. It’s what makes you a good police officer, seeing in people what they are trying to hide from themselves.’

Jessie relented. It was as much the power of the compliment as the word ‘pain’. ‘What happened? Her husband run off with a thirty-three-year-old DI with dark hair who drives a bike?’

‘Drop the bike, and you’re pretty much there.’

‘There’s no hope for me,’ said Jessie, lowering her head.

‘You’ll win her over in the end.’

‘Great,’ said Jessie. ‘By which time I’ll be in an institution. Honestly, guv, why should I be punished? It wasn’t me.’

‘No. You’re just lower down the food chain, that’s all. Now, are you coming to my party or not?’

‘Course I am. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Jones smiled. ‘You nearly did.’

They’d taken over a room above a local pub. There were barrels of beer, bottles of whisky and endless sausage rolls. The three ingredients to make a perfect policeman’s party. There was a huge roar of respect and admiration as Jones entered the room. DCI Moore turned and looked at Jessie and Jones. Jessie smiled and moved straight for the whisky.

‘Is it true?’ asked Niaz.

‘Is what true?’ Jessie accepted a tumbler from the PC behind the table and took a sip.

‘What the SOCOs are saying.’

‘What are the SOCOs saying?’

Niaz lowered his head to one side. Something he did when he was concentrating or confused. Tonight he was confused. ‘Boss, why are you angry? This is a party. DCI Jones has had many years in the service. You should respect that by making sure he has a very good party. And good parties require happy people.’

‘Sorry, Niaz, I fear I’m losing my only ally. I’m suddenly quite afraid,’ she said, speaking honestly before she had the good sense to stop herself.

‘Please, ma’am, don’t speak of such things. I am your ally. I will always be your ally. And before you respond, remember this: it is just as important to have support from below. A general is nothing without the respect of his foot soldiers. Her foot soldiers.’

Jessie patted Niaz on the back. ‘We’re a small army,’ she said.

‘I grant you that.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘But a strong one.’

A young man approached them. He introduced himself to them both, though they knew exactly who he was: Ed from SOCO. ‘We met in Richmond Park when they found the body of that artist.’

‘Eve Wirrel,’ said Niaz. ‘PC Niaz Ahmet, at your service.’

‘Hello, Ed,’ said Jessie.

‘Hello, Detective Inspector Driver. How’s it going?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Really? I heard you’d unearthed a ghost.’

Jessie frowned.

‘Yeah, rumour has it that place in Soho is haunted. The lads tell me the lights kept flickering on and off.’

‘That’s called a problem with the electrics. Nothing more.’

‘Don’t be so sure. There was a house in our village that was haunted. The light in the top bedroom went on and off for no reason. Story was that a woman gave birth to an illegitimate child. The child was suffocated and it’s the woman who keeps coming back to look for her kid.’

‘That’s nonsense, Ed.’

‘My mate here says there was definitely a bad air in the place. And what about the roof falling in just as the body was found?’ Ed nudged his friend, who nodded in collusion. They were joined by others, some of whom Jessie recognised from the Marshall Street Baths search that day. All agreed that the place had a strange feeling about it.

‘It’s a derelict swimming pool in the middle of Soho. Of course it feels weird,’ said Jessie. ‘It is weird. Empty swimming pools always are, even without the slime effect, the echo and, of course, the dead body.’

‘What about those lights?’

‘The caretaker told me the electrics never work properly when it’s raining. And as you are all demonstrating by your damp hair and sodden collars, it is raining at the moment – harder than usual.’

There was sniggering as some of the men picked up a double entendre from nowhere.

‘My aunt lived in this old house in the middle of nowhere, right,’ said a voice from the crowd. ‘One day her daughter – she was seven or eight at the time – said to my aunt at breakfast, “Mum, who is the old lady who comes and sits on my bed every night?” God’s honest truth.’

‘You shivered,’ said Ed, pointing to Jessie.

‘I did not,’ she replied.

‘You’ve got goosebumps.’

‘I’m soaking, what do you expect?’

‘A friend of a friend of mine once …’

Jessie walked away from the group as they began telling each other increasingly far-fetched tales of ghouls and ghosts. Niaz caught up with her halfway across the room.

‘Don’t you believe in spirits?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said.

‘So you don’t believe in God?’

‘Mine or yours?’

‘Either. They are one and same, it’s just the semantics that are different.’

‘If only that were the case – there would be a lot less murdered people in the world.’

‘Religion isn’t to blame,’ said Niaz.

‘It’s killed more people than any disease.’

‘No. Men have killed in the name of religion; that is not the same thing.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘What do you believe, then?’

‘That’s a very personal question, Constable.’

‘I think it is a universal question, Inspector,’ said Niaz.

‘All right. I believe in upholding the law. I believe that killing is wrong, as is beating someone to a pulp, stealing a car and killing a baby through reckless driving, strapping a child to a radiator, injecting someone with the AIDs virus, robbing a house and raping the daughter while forcing the parents to watch … Shall I go on?’

‘You didn’t answer the question,’ said Niaz.

‘I thought I just did. And don’t give me that crap about God giving us freedom of choice, because I just don’t buy it. If he’s around, he isn’t listening.’

‘So you do talk to him.’

‘No, Niaz. Trust me, I don’t.’

‘Who do you go to for guidance?’

My mother. ‘Myself.’

‘I concur on one point,’ said Niaz solemnly. ‘No one knows for sure whether we survive death. This is true. But belief in some kind of life after death provides the basis of religions that stretch far back into antiquity. Surely you are too intelligent to dismiss such overwhelming evidence?’

‘It was merely a way to suppress the poor and uneducated and scare them into submission.’

‘You are wrong. God is hope. Their belief is deeper because they have more to hope for.’

‘Please, God,’ said Jessie sarcastically, ‘I hope you will save me from this conversation with Niaz.’

Niaz looked over Jessie’s shoulder.

‘What?’ asked Jessie, knowing a self-satisfied look when she saw one.

‘God works in mysterious ways, but rarely this quickly,’ said Niaz softly, before moving aside. Jessie turned. It was DCI Moore. She was being punished for her sarcasm.

‘DI Driver, you must be terribly sad that Jones is retiring.’

A cunning question. One that required dexterity of mind. To agree meant insulting Moore and to disagree meant insulting Jones. ‘Surprised, more than anything. I thought he’d be commander of the Met one day. It is a great loss to the entire police force that he is going.’

‘Indeed,’ said DCI Moore. Jessie noticed that she had dressed up even more than usual for the occasion and applied a new coat of lipstick: red. Her hair, dyed and coiffed, had been pinned up in a chignon, and she wore a tight pencil skirt with a silk shirt. Her stockings and high heels were black.

Jessie fiddled with her hair. Now her smart trouser suit felt dowdy. She couldn’t win with this woman.

‘I’m glad to see that the leather trousers you were wearing yesterday have been discarded. Not very officer-like.’

‘Sorry to disappoint, but I wear them more often than not.’

‘Really? That’s fashionable, is it?’ she said as if she were talking to a sixth-form student.

‘No. But it’s safer.’

‘Safer for whom?’

‘Me. I ride a bike to work.’

‘Really. And you wear leather for a bicycle?’

Jessie laughed. ‘It’s not a bicycle.’

‘Oh, I see, a moped –’

‘No, ma’am, it’s a motorbike. A Virago 750cc –41 horsepower, 0–60 in 3.2 seconds,’ she said, unintentionally puffing out her chest.

DCI Moore eyed Jessie up and down. ‘You’re a biker,’ she said incredulously. Then she seemed to relax, looked at Jessie’s hair and nodded to herself. ‘OK, I see,’ she laughed. ‘They always say you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. My mistake. I should have known – the hair sort of gives it away.’

Jessie was momentarily confused. ‘Gives what away?’

DCI Moore didn’t respond.

Then it washed over her, the horrible creeping feeling that she knew what Moore was referring to. But she couldn’t believe it. She repeated the question. ‘Gives what away – that I ride a bike? Is that what you mean, boss?’

‘It’s all right, Driver, settle down. Whatever your persuasion may be is none of my business. However, I think you should move away from the …’ She paused, seemingly unable to find the appropriate words for what was an entirely inappropriate comment. ‘No need to wear it on your sleeve. From now on I expect to see you in skirts. You can leave the leathers for the weekends when you’re out with your …’ she paused again, ‘… friends.’

Jessie couldn’t believe it. As she watched the departing back of her new boss, she caught Jones watching her. Jessie shook her head very, very slightly. He mouthed the words, ‘You’ll be fine.’ He was wrong, thought Jessie, sneaking out of the room. Jones was wrong for the first time since she’d met him. She was now working with two bigots, and one of them was a woman. Worse, she was her boss. Her life at CID was about to become intolerable, she thought as she left the party, and intolerable wasn’t how she planned to live her life. She walked angrily down the deserted street. As she clicked open her phone to call Bill, it rang.

‘DI Driver.’

‘Jessie?’

The line was unclear.

‘Bill, is that you?’

‘Who the hell is Bill?’

It was P.J. Jessie was stunned into silence. Her heart did a decisive round in her chest.

‘Don’t put the phone down, please. Jessie, are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ she said meekly.

‘I’m back in London and I was wondering, I know it’s late, but how do you fancy dim sum and champagne? I know what you’re like about being seen in public with someone as sleazy as me, so I thought I’d pick up the food, pick up the booze, pick you up and we could order the driver to cruise around a bit. Before you turn me down, it’s a limo. Lots of leg room, the glass is tinted and the driver can’t see anything. What do you think?’

No. No. No. No. No. ‘I’m tired, P.J.’ She was struggling to get the words out.

‘Well, I’d offer you a fat line of coke, but somehow I don’t think you’d be interested.’

‘Ha. Ha.’

‘Come on, Jessie. I’ve been surrounded by sycophants for weeks, no one to put me on the spot, insult me, tell me how it is. I’m in withdrawal.’

If only. ‘You mean everyone thinks it’s a good idea you getting rich on the back of your murdered wife.’

‘Richer.’

This was a really bad idea. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Come on, I was only joking.’

‘Well, I’m not. Sorry, P.J., but I am busy.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘I am.’

‘Don’t be so petulant. You’re walking down a dark street, alone, with no one to go home to since that flatmate of yours got famous on the back of her brush with death.’ Jessie turned around instinctively. A set of headlights flashed at her.




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