Dead Alone

It suddenly dawned on the pathologist. ‘Verity Shore, that blonde who is always taking her clothes off? The one with the big knockers?’

‘Dyed blonde and breast enlargements. She was alive last Thursday.’

‘Good God,’ he said, looking back at the bleached bones lying on a plain of running water. That was the worst-case scenario. ‘What’s the best you can hope for?’ he asked.

‘That these are old bones and Verity Shore is headline hunting.’

‘Nobody would go this far,’ said Sally Grimes. ‘Would they?’

No one replied. The publicity stunts by headline-hungry celebrities were becoming increasingly desperate. Getting pregnant didn’t do it. Getting pregnant, taking coke and throwing oneself down the stairs did. So it wasn’t impossible. Verity Shore might just be a more ambitious version of Jami Talbot. The door swung open. Burrows stood with the file in his hand. He was reading from it as he walked. ‘Twelve – fell off horse, broke arm.’

The pathologist took the file. Read it, flicked through some more pages, returned to the body. He looked up. ‘Verity Shore will get all the headlines she dreamt of. It’s her.’

Jessie was already out of the door. ‘Burrows, call Jones. Tell him.’ She peeled her green mortuary coat off as she walked, ‘Niaz, get two officers to P. J. Dean’s house now – whoever is nearest.’ Jessie hopped from one foot to the other as she removed her shoe covers.

‘You’d better call the press office,’ said Burrows.

‘Shit.’ She pulled her phone out and dialled a number. ‘This is DI Driver. If you’re listening, P.J., please pick up the phone. I was at your house –’

‘Hello.’

‘P.J.?’

‘The phone has started to ring – journalists. What’s going on?’

‘Get out of the house, take the kids somewhere safe. The press know we came to see you this morning, all hell is about to break loose.’

‘Shit!’

‘We may have been followed.’

‘Bullshit.’ Then he shouted. ‘There’s a fucking SNITCH IN MY HOUSE!’

‘I gave you my mobile number. Call me when you are out of the house.’

‘So it is her?’

‘P.J., call me when you are out of the house.’

‘You think my phone is bugged?’

‘I’m thinking of the boys.’

‘Okay, okay, shit, I’ll call you back.’

Jessie slipped the phone back into her pocket. Burrows was watching her. ‘What?’

‘You know you may be protecting a guilty man,’ said Burrows.

‘Perhaps. But perhaps he’s innocent. And those kids certainly are. You know what the press are like.’

‘What if they do a runner?’

She tossed this possibility in her head. Niaz was already on his radio. She turned back to Burrows. ‘The press are already on to him. In five minutes’ time, that man won’t be able to take a shit without the world knowing about it. He won’t be going anywhere. Call Kay Akosa. We release a short statement: Verity Shore was found dead on the bank of the River Thames at 06.05 on Tuesday morning. Her family have been informed and an investigation is underway to determine cause of death.’

‘That’s it?’

‘What does she want, gory details?’

‘Ahmet and you finding the jellyfish?’

‘No.’

‘It’s good stuff, boss.’

‘Do you want those kids knowing their mother was dipped in acid?’

‘They won’t read the papers.’

‘Come on, Burrows, those boys go to school, their classmates’ parents will talk about it, kids’ll overhear it, headlines glare at them at eye-level … What the fuck do you think they’re going to do, come to a mutual agreement not to discuss the case in their presence? The oldest is seven, he’ll be in the playground with much older boys and girls, who know full well they are Verity’s kids, that they’re rich. You think they’ll keep it to themselves? Get an injunction, whatever it takes – this information stays with us. If anyone goes to the press they lose their job, their pension, their fffu—’ She clenched her fists.

‘You can’t control this,’ said Burrows.

‘I can try.’

‘Boss, Verity Shore was dipped in acid and was ID’d by the fake tits she claimed she never had – you’re already out of control.’

Jessie didn’t want to hear it.

‘Don’t take on the press, boss. You’ll lose.’

She turned round. ‘What do I do, then?’

‘Throw them titbits, that way they’ll stay hungry for the story but not so hungry that they go looking for blood elsewhere.’

She stood her ground, but Jessie knew he was making sense.

‘It is a media-ruled world we live in. The tabloid press is judge and jury, you want them onside. Give them the tits, keep the rest, and tell P. J. Dean to keep his trap shut.’

‘It’s a fucking circus,’ said Jessie angrily.

‘No doubt about it. Just make sure you’re the one with the whip.’

She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, Burrows.’

‘No sweat, boss.’

‘Okay, tell Kay about the implants. But I want to see that press release before it goes out.’