Dead Alone

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

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

‘Yes.’

‘Then get on.’

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

‘Kebab?’ asked Jessie.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_b2431c9e-7d78-5865-893e-9a436e686ed6)

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

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

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

‘Can I help you?’ Jessie enquired politely.

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

‘What are you seeing him about?’

‘Someone is out to kill me.’

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

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

‘How do you know it’s a man?’

‘It always is.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jami started backing out of the room, reached the door and picked up speed. ‘I need to talk to my manager about this. I’ll come back.’ Her six-inch heels clicked like castanets as she made her getaway.

Jessie turned back to Mark, smiling.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?!’

‘Come on, you didn’t –’

‘Go away, Driver. Why don’t you do us all a favour and fast-track your tight arse back to the classroom, eh? Leave the real jobs to the real policemen. And stop sticking your oar and any other pussy paraphernalia where it’s not wanted, needed or desired.’

Ah, thought Jessie, that was the line he’d been working on. Quite inventive, pussy paraphernalia; quite a poetic ring about it. She flashed him a smile. ‘Tell me, Mark, do you play with yourself as much as you amuse yourself?’

Mark picked up the phone. ‘I need to call the press office, tell them they won’t be getting their photo op.’

‘Their photo op. Right.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, actually, their photo op.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Imagine that, Driver, you don’t know everything, after all.’

Coming out of Mark’s office, Jessie bumped into their boss, DCI Jones. He was an unassuming man with grey eyes that matched his suits. As far as Jessie could tell, his only mistake was thinking that she and Mark Ward could learn from each other. Ward had been in the Force nearly thirty years, starting on the beat and working his way up until he was made a detective twelve years ago. He’d dragged bodies from burning cars, rivers and ditches, picked bomb victims’ remains off buildings, and dismembered bodies off railway lines – a hard-drinking, notebook-carrying copper who was being phased out. She was thirty-three, same rank, and all her experience was two-dimensional. They were vastly different species occupying the same ecosystem; it couldn’t last.

‘Jessie! Perfect. I’d like you to come with me,’ said Jones.

‘I’ve got to go to the press office.’

‘Not that bunch of interfering old bags.’

‘I’ve made a –’

‘This is important. You can read the file on the way.’ Jones suddenly tensed.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘Old age. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

When she went to retrieve her jacket from her chair, Mark appeared in her doorway.