The Unquiet Dead

‘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.’