Dead Alone

‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’ said P.J. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. You’ve found her silicone implants, what does that mean?’

‘We found a body, sir. We’re trying to identify who it is. Has anyone in the household spoken to her – the kids, for instance?’

P.J. stood up and knocked on the window. Jessie noticed he was shaking. The bald man came to join them. ‘Danny, when was Verity last home – and don’t cover for her, this is serious.’

Danny looked at the police officers. ‘She went out on Thursday night. We haven’t seen her since. She called during the day on Friday, wanting to talk to the boys, but she was incoherent. I’m afraid I wouldn’t put them on.’ He turned back to P.J. ‘Actually, she fired me, I’ve been meaning to mention it to you.’

P.J. waved a hand, dismissing the idea of his wife firing the man. Jessie wondered whether Verity Shore had a point. Knight seemed a bit shifty to her, a bit in a hurry to go somewhere and yet a little too eager to stay. She gave him a long hard look. ‘So you haven’t seen or heard from her since Friday, when she called you, obviously distressed?’

P.J. came to Danny Knight’s defence. ‘It’s not like that. Her disappearing for a few days isn’t particularly unusual. Verity likes to party, I like to spend the weekend at home with the boys. We had a rule: she couldn’t bring anyone back here. I don’t mean lovers, I mean … well, shit, you probably know already – the liggers, the party people, the coke-heads. I … well, you know, it was hard keeping track of her. I’ve sort of given up trying.’

It didn’t sound very impressive.

‘Danny, could you take the boys upstairs. I think I need to go to the police station.’

‘Actually, Mr Dean –’ P.J. put his hand up. Danny didn’t move. Eventually Danny got the hint and left.

‘Call me old-fashioned,’ said P.J. ‘I trust him as much as is possible, but most people have a price.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Do you need me to make a formal identification?’

‘Please sit down, Mr Dean,’ said Jessie.

‘P.J., please.’

‘This thing is, the body is not in a good condition. To be honest, there isn’t much to identify.’

‘What do you mean? What happened to her?’

‘We don’t even know at this stage that it is her.’

There was a brief knock and the young woman from the entrance hall pushed the door open with her foot and carried in a large tray weighed down with coffee and pastries. P.J. was up in a second to take the tray from her. She pulled a fold-away table from behind the door and P.J. lowered the tray. He sat back down while the young woman began to pour the coffee. She was short with dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. A good figure, Jessie noted, under the sweatshirt and jeans. She looked about twenty-eight. Young for a housekeeper. Young and pretty, if a little unkempt. Her eyes kept watch on P.J. as she poured by instinct.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

In keeping with P.J.’s previous instructions, Jessie and Jones remained mute.

‘I don’t know,’ said P.J. ‘The police were just telling me.’ He looked at Jessie. ‘Go on …’

Jessie nodded towards the woman pouring coffee for Jones. ‘Perhaps we should wait.’

‘Oh God, carry on. You can say anything you want to now; previous comments do not apply.’

‘Are you sure? This is quite delicate.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked the woman. ‘Is Verity all right?’

‘We found the body of a woman on the bank of the Thames yesterday morning,’ said Jones.

The woman dropped the spoon she was using to ladle sugar into P.J.’s coffee. She put her hand over her mouth and stared at P.J.

‘At this point,’ continued Jessie, ‘we don’t know the cause of death. There will be an autopsy at four p.m. today, and you are welcome to be there for the results.’

‘Oh my God, P.J., the boys.’ P.J. took the woman’s hand. She stood up, still clutching his hand. ‘I’ve got to go and see –’

‘Keep this to yourself for the moment. They don’t know that it is Verity.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Do you?’

‘Not absolutely, no. Though I’m sorry to hear that no one has spoken to her since Friday.’

‘Tell them about the letters,’ said the young woman. ‘Tell them about the letters …’

‘What letters?’ asked Jones.

‘It was nothing.’

‘But, P.J.…’ The woman put her hand on his shoulder.

‘I think you should go and see the boys,’ he said sternly.

‘But –’

P.J. turned to Jessie. ‘The police have been here before. The boys aren’t stupid, they’ll know it’s something to do with their mother. It always is.’

‘Yes, sorry. Excuse me, I’ve got to, um …’ The woman was frowning and backing out of the room. ‘Sorry …’ Again, she didn’t finish her sentence, she simply bolted.

‘Who was that?’ asked Jessie.

P.J. watched the woman run through the bowling alley and back up the steps that they had come down.

‘When you say the body is not in a good condition, what exactly do you mean?’ asked P.J., ignoring Jessie’s question.

Jessie repeated the question. ‘Who was that woman, Mr Dean?’

‘Call me P.J. My father is Mr Dean. And I am not him.’

‘About the girl?’

‘Girl?’

‘The woman who brought in the coffee?’

‘Excuse me! You’ve just told me that my wife might be dead, I’d like a few more details, please. I want to know what happened to Verity. I want to know whether I have to tell those boys that their mother is dead!’

She let it go. For the time being. ‘Do you know why your wife would have been in Barnes? Do you have friends on the river?’

‘Define “friends”.’ He sounded angry. ‘It was drugs, wasn’t it? She was fucked and fell in, was that it? Was she hit by a boat? Is that why she’s in such a mess? I can handle it, just tell me.’

‘What sort of drugs did she take?’

‘I don’t know. She was clean for a lot of the time, then suddenly she would binge, go off the rails. I don’t know who she was with or where she went. I have done everything in my power to stop her, but she wouldn’t. Not for me, not even for the kids. She was unstoppable.’ P. J. Dean fiddled with his dressing-gown cord for a while. Jones and Jessie remained quiet. It was always a good idea to let the next of kin talk. People often talked when they were in shock. It was probably the truest insight they would have of P. J. Dean and Verity Shore, before the others got involved. The advisers. Press managers. Image consultants. Lawyers. Producers. Staff.