Joshua. The columnist was tall like his mother, but very thin and pasty. He had none of Dame Henrietta’s colouring, none of her pizzazz. He wore a plain black suit and his black hair was pulled tightly off his face. His cheeks looked hollow under the overhead studio lights. Joshua Cadell was a pale imitation of his mother.
‘It must have been very alarming, growing up around blood and guts, Joshua?’ asked the blue-eyed interviewer.
‘I grew up around history, as my mother has already said, learning the repetitive nature of mankind. Blood and guts have nothing to do with it.’
‘Still, you didn’t want to write yourself?’
‘I do write.’
‘Yes, but not books …’
‘Who is this guy?’ interrupted Maggie. ‘I love him, he’s ripping the arsehole apart.’
‘Ray St Giles,’ said Jessie quietly before standing up. Keeping one eye on the screen, she backed out of the room to fetch her heavily laden backpack from the hall.
‘I’ve read your column – quite the executioner’s style,’ continued St Giles.
Maggie swore loudly.
‘If you can’t stand up and be counted,’ said Joshua Cadell, not looking into the camera, ‘don’t stand up at all.’
‘Fair enough. But don’t you think people who criticise others should at least have achieved something themselves?’
Maggie clapped her hands. ‘Bloody hell, this guy’s evil. Mark my words, he’ll have a cult following before you can say “Whoops, there goes Jerry.”’
‘Evil,’ repeated Jessie, removing a manila file from the backpack. The camera zoomed in to the presenter’s face. Jessie looked up from the open file and pressed pause.
‘Hey, I’m enjoying this.’
The television flickered. Raymond Giles. Ray St Giles. The ex-con who had orphaned Clare Mills. The studio lights reflected in his pale blue eyes. He was smiling, his crooked, capped tooth the only evidence of his criminal past.
‘When was this on?’ Jessie asked.
‘Three in the afternoon yesterday. Why?’
Just the time Clare Mills’ video recorder had automatically switched on. Jessie recalled the array of video cassettes that had adorned Clare’s shelves where books should have been. Ray St Giles, Clare’s nemesis, a chat-show host. No wonder the poor woman didn’t sleep much.
Jessie pushed open the door to Jones’ office. She was too excited to notice the black circles under his eyes, the papery look to his skin, the slight yellow tinge to his fingers. Her jellyfish was back from the lab and her suspicions were confirmed. Her mud bath had been rewarded.
‘Great, you’re back. Can I show you something?’
Jones pushed himself up from his desk without a word and followed Jessie down the corridor to an evidence room. He was lagging behind.
‘What’s the hurry, Detective?’
Jessie turned back. ‘It’s about the bones we found on the Thames. I think I can identify them.’
‘What bones?’
‘Didn’t you hear about the …’ Jones was frowning at her. ‘Are you feeling okay, sir?’
‘How?’
‘What?’
‘How can you identify these bones?’
‘Oh,’ Jessie smiled, extremely pleased with herself. ‘I found a jellyfish. Let’s just say it didn’t look indigenous to the sullied waters of London. Turns out I was right.’
Jessie led Jones to one of the tables where her jellyfish lay, oozing over a square glass plate. A borrowed microscope stood close by. Jessie got the equipment in place, then stood back.
‘Have a look.’
Jones came up shaking his head. ‘I hate to tell you this, but that is no jellyfish.’
‘I know.’
‘What is it then?’
Jessie stepped back and crossed her arms. ‘A partially dissolved silicone implant.’
‘Breasts?’ he said incredulously.
‘One breast, to be accurate. And, being pedantic, a fake.’
Jones closed one eye and lowered his head back down to the microscope. ‘What are the letters and numbers on it?’
‘Part of a security barcode. It’s an American brand. A very recent model. Cosmetic surgeons started coding silicone implants several years ago after too many went missing. Can you imagine – a black market in fake boobs? Anyway, to have got to its current skeletal state, the body this belonged to would have had to start decomposing eighteen months before this type of implant was even invented. This is not a typical river DOA.’
Jones frowned.
‘At first the pathologist thought the body had been cleaned, or preserved. Possibly even left as a joke.’
‘Joke?’ asked Jones suspiciously.
‘By med students,’ said Jessie quickly. She was no snitch. ‘Now I am convinced it was acid we could smell. It explains the disfigured implant and the fact that the bones were so clean. This is a serious crime.’ She handed Jones the preliminary photos. He held one up. It was an aerial view taken from the helicopter. The white arch of the ribcage rising up from the mud, the dirtier leg bones splayed wide, covered in silt.
‘But you didn’t know that when the body was called in. What were you doing on the river, Jessie? Hardly a stiff for the murder squad, was it?’
The pause was a fraction longer than a second. Too long. ‘I had nothing else to do,’ said Jessie. ‘Thought I needed to accumulate some field experience.’
‘Nothing to do? What about the Mills case?’
‘I thought that’s what you were doing. I couldn’t reach you all day.’
Jones involuntarily rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling for bristles. Jessie had never seen him with anything resembling a five-o’clock shadow. He was the closest-shaved copper she knew. He was studying her. Closely.
‘So this,’ he said, waving the photo in the air, ‘has nothing to do with the five calls from Mark Ward yesterday?’
She retrieved the photos and put them back in her file. ‘I thought you said you didn’t speak to anyone.’
‘I didn’t.’
