of the perks of the job. Ever noticed how patrol cars never get stuck in traffic? Don’t talk, just breathe. You’ve gone a very odd colour.’
‘You win. I’m sorry about the hairdresser comment.’
‘No, I mean it, you really have gone a very strange colour.’
Pain clamped around his stomach and Jones doubled up again. Jessie sped on to the nearest hospital she knew. She didn’t radio ahead. She didn’t think Jones would like anyone to know a senior officer was being admitted; news travelled fast.
When they arrived, she half carried him through to A&E and at the desk quietly informed the nurse who he was. She filled in as much detail as she could. He’d been off-colour for some time, she suspected, but he never rested. Recently it had been getting worse and he had actually spent a day at home. As far as she knew it was stomach cramps, possibly appendicitis. A doctor came straight away. It was clear to everyone that Jones was now feeling worse. The hot, angry colour of purple had drained away, leaving his lips a pale grey and his skin bone-white. She left the doctor to it and took a seat in the waiting room.
Like most people, Jessie had an aversion to hospitals, so when a nurse offered her their tea-break room she gladly accepted. A pile of magazines was offered to her and hot tea with digestive biscuits. The simple things in life. She accepted them all. Research, she told herself as she began to read up on the lives of the rich and famous. Anything to keep her mind off the colour of Jones’ lips and P. J. Dean’s eyes.
Jessie walked along the corridor to her office carrying the twenty video tapes. PC Ahmet was sitting on a chair outside Jones’ door. She was about to ask him what he was doing there when Trudi came out of her office. She looked distraught.
‘He’s not going to die, is he?’ she asked, breathless and upset.
‘Oh, Trudi, no of course not. I’ve just left him. He asked if you would go and see him – only you, he can’t face anyone else.’
Trudi picked up her bag and coat, then put them down again. ‘What shall I do about …?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get a PC in here to answer your phone. You go, I’ll see to it.’
‘Thanks, DI Driver.’
‘Please, call me Jessie.’
Trudi backed out of the room. ‘Oh, DI Driver, there’s a woman to see you. She’s in Jones’ office.’
‘But –’ Jessie looked down at the video tapes. The autopsy was in an hour.
‘I know, but this is important. It’s Clare Mills.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to dispense with those,’ said Niaz, holding out his giant hands to receive the stack of tapes.
Clare was standing at the window, looking out. She was taller and thinner than Jessie remembered. It seemed like months ago that she and Jones had gone to Elmfield House to meet her. Poor Clare. Despite the promises, they’d already let her down. Jessie couldn’t explain why, either; murder was like that. Clare turned. She looked haunted.
‘Sorry to disturb you at work, I just wanted to give you this.’ Clare handed over a black-and-white photocopy of a newspaper article. ‘It’s amazing what these machines can do with old photos and stuff.’
It was a child. The face of a child. Blurred like an ultrasound scan, but distinguishable nonetheless.
‘Frank?’ asked Jessie gently.
‘I found it a while ago. It’s from an old local rag, God knows why they were interested in Dad’s funeral, but I don’t care, at least I have this.’
‘Look, Clare, I –’
Clare straightened up. ‘I know, you’re busy, you’ll let me know. I just wanted to give you that and explain something about Mum …’ Clare hesitated.
‘Go on …’
‘She didn’t mean to kill herself. Not really. Have you ever stayed awake for three weeks, not eating, nothing but hope to keep you going?’
Jessie shook her head.
‘I have. Another great fuck-up in a history of almighty fuck-ups.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you,’ said Jessie.
‘I was told they’d found a boy called Frank in care. Obviously, he was a man by then. He had no recollection of his family, but he was the right age, came from the right area. I thought maybe it was him, maybe he’d remembered his name even when everything else around him changed. I did. This Frank was in a mental hospital, which figured. It took three weeks for the paperwork to come through so I could go and see him. I didn’t eat or sleep; I sat and prayed it was my Frank. Finally I went to the hospital to meet my brother …’ She paused. Jessie swallowed nervously. ‘He was black. The boy they thought could be my brother was black. Oh, social services were sorry, somehow my colour had been overlooked. If I’d had the strength, I would have killed myself that day. I would have killed myself even though all I want to do in this pitiful life of mine is look my brother in the eye and tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let them take him away. I’m sorry I didn’t protect him from those grown-ups who told me they knew best. I’m sorry that he doesn’t know what amazing parents he had, who loved each other, and who loved us. And more than that I’m sorry I didn’t go up and check on Mum sooner.’
Suddenly Verity Shore’s self-obsessed, insecure, drug-taking antics didn’t seem so pressing. Jessie folded the picture of the boy and put it in her wallet then walked Clare to the canteen. Despite Jones’ request, Jessie confessed to seeing Ray St Giles on the telly. They agreed it was a sorry world that took known hooligans and criminals and made them into celebrities. Even if they were reformed, which Clare clearly doubted was the case for Raymond Giles, the hard-man angle was the linchpin of their marketability. There was no point denying their past. That past was the only reason they were on television. Clare told Jessie that Raymond Giles also frequented the news studios. Appearing on London Today any time a ‘gang’-style shooting took place so he could give his ‘expert’ opinion.
She was so quiet, so unassuming most of the time, but when Clare talked about Ray St Giles, the anger blazed from her.
Niaz was still sitting in the corridor when Jessie returned.
‘What are you doing, Niaz? Haven’t we got enough on our hands?’
‘DI Ward told me to leave.’
‘Did he now? Why?’
‘Because I am “a useless piece of pedestrian shite who is good for nothing except beating off”. By which I believe he was referring to the act of masturbation and trying to tie it in with the redundant term of beat officer and thereby be humorous and rude at the same time. He failed on both counts.’
‘Did you tell him I’d transferred you?’
‘Yes.’
