Dead Alone by Gay Longworth Page A

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 likean 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 thetime, 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.’
    ‘Does he know about the implants?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Verity Shore?’
    ‘No.’
    Jessie smiled. ‘And the medical records?’
    ‘They’re on their way. DC Burrows organised it.’
    ‘Good. Get their bank details