self-centred; whatever she had she wanted more – more attention, moremoney, more fame, more handbags, more drugs, whatever. But I didn’t kill her, and I’ll give you an alibi to prove it.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Jones.
‘Trust me, in this business, you are rarely on your own.’
‘P.J., is there anything you know about Verity that could help identify her? An old injury …?’
‘She has a tattoo, on her –’
‘I’m afraid that won’t help.’
‘Jesus. What did happen to her?’
‘We really don’t know yet.’
‘Um, confidential?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘She had six toes. On her right foot. She’d had the extra one removed, it left a small scar. I’m sure an expert would know.’
Jessie looked at Jones, who shook his head. It was a fraction of a movement. P. J. Dean had enough information for his imagination to play havoc with, he didn’t need to know his wife’s feet were missing too.
CHAPTER 12
The door of the Portakabin burst open. ‘Well? Anything to say to me?’
Tarek paused. ‘That was a great show, Ray,’ he said timidly.
‘Bollocks. It was crap, another fat bird bleating on about why her skinny boyfriend shagged herbest friend. All you have to do is look at the best friend to know why. And as for that hooker whose pimp was her dad – Jesus, can’t you get me some fucking decent guests?’
Tarek chewed his biro. ‘You had Dame Henrietta Cadell.’
‘Whoop fucking whoop. Intellectual snobs, the pair of them. No idea about real life. No wonder her old man sticks his dick in everything; you’d need a ladder to mount her. These are not the sort of people who are going to endear me to the masses. Elitist bollocks, I want celebrities.’
‘Nothing very proletariat about celebrities,’ said Tarek.
‘That’s only because you haven’t met any.’ Ray was staring at himself in the shaving mirror he kept on his desk. He adjusted his gold cross.
‘Listen, Tarek, if we are going to have authors on this show, I want it to be Andy fucking McNab, got it!’
Not very likely, thought Tarek.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing. Your agent called, Trevor MacDonald is doing a Yardie special, needs an expert, was wondering if you’d do it.’
‘Course I’ll fucking do it, it’s got that Carol Vorderman on it. Now, she looks like she needs a good –’
‘And there is someone holding on line one.’ There was only a line one, but Ray liked the sound of that. ‘He wouldn’t give his name.’
‘Carol Vorderman, now that’s more like it. I’ll show her the joys of long multiplication.’ He picked up the phone and listened. ‘Hang on a second. Tarek, go and get me some coffee, will you? Not that instant shit either – the one from the machine. Put it in a proper mug with a bit –’
‘Yeah, I know.’ It was always the same when Ray wanted to speak to one of his – Tarek searched for a word – associates. Associate was a good word. Hood was another. He opened the door and stepped down the aluminium steps into a potholed and heavily weeded car park. Walking towards him was Ray’s research assistant. Associate. Hood. He was a strange bloke. Somewhere in his thirties, Tarek thought, though it was difficult to tell. He was short and thin, but there was nothing weedy about Alistair Gunner. He was built like a featherweight fighter and showed no fear of the man everyone else shied away from. He didn’t talk much, had no friends and seemed to shadow St Giles. Tarek and Alistair eyed each other. He wasn’t sure who was more suspicious of whom. All Tarek did know was that Alistair had an ability to discover things about people which would make the News of the World weep.
‘Morning, Alistair,’ said Tarek.
‘Ray in?’
‘On the phone.’
As always he just pushed the door open and walked in. No knock. No waiting for the summons. Bold as brass, walked on in.
‘Face down in the mud, eh?’ said Ray before Alistair closed the door on him. Tarek
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Jones.
‘Trust me, in this business, you are rarely on your own.’
‘P.J., is there anything you know about Verity that could help identify her? An old injury …?’
‘She has a tattoo, on her –’
‘I’m afraid that won’t help.’
‘Jesus. What did happen to her?’
‘We really don’t know yet.’
‘Um, confidential?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘She had six toes. On her right foot. She’d had the extra one removed, it left a small scar. I’m sure an expert would know.’
Jessie looked at Jones, who shook his head. It was a fraction of a movement. P. J. Dean had enough information for his imagination to play havoc with, he didn’t need to know his wife’s feet were missing too.
CHAPTER 12
The door of the Portakabin burst open. ‘Well? Anything to say to me?’
Tarek paused. ‘That was a great show, Ray,’ he said timidly.
‘Bollocks. It was crap, another fat bird bleating on about why her skinny boyfriend shagged herbest friend. All you have to do is look at the best friend to know why. And as for that hooker whose pimp was her dad – Jesus, can’t you get me some fucking decent guests?’
Tarek chewed his biro. ‘You had Dame Henrietta Cadell.’
‘Whoop fucking whoop. Intellectual snobs, the pair of them. No idea about real life. No wonder her old man sticks his dick in everything; you’d need a ladder to mount her. These are not the sort of people who are going to endear me to the masses. Elitist bollocks, I want celebrities.’
‘Nothing very proletariat about celebrities,’ said Tarek.
‘That’s only because you haven’t met any.’ Ray was staring at himself in the shaving mirror he kept on his desk. He adjusted his gold cross.
‘Listen, Tarek, if we are going to have authors on this show, I want it to be Andy fucking McNab, got it!’
Not very likely, thought Tarek.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing. Your agent called, Trevor MacDonald is doing a Yardie special, needs an expert, was wondering if you’d do it.’
‘Course I’ll fucking do it, it’s got that Carol Vorderman on it. Now, she looks like she needs a good –’
‘And there is someone holding on line one.’ There was only a line one, but Ray liked the sound of that. ‘He wouldn’t give his name.’
‘Carol Vorderman, now that’s more like it. I’ll show her the joys of long multiplication.’ He picked up the phone and listened. ‘Hang on a second. Tarek, go and get me some coffee, will you? Not that instant shit either – the one from the machine. Put it in a proper mug with a bit –’
‘Yeah, I know.’ It was always the same when Ray wanted to speak to one of his – Tarek searched for a word – associates. Associate was a good word. Hood was another. He opened the door and stepped down the aluminium steps into a potholed and heavily weeded car park. Walking towards him was Ray’s research assistant. Associate. Hood. He was a strange bloke. Somewhere in his thirties, Tarek thought, though it was difficult to tell. He was short and thin, but there was nothing weedy about Alistair Gunner. He was built like a featherweight fighter and showed no fear of the man everyone else shied away from. He didn’t talk much, had no friends and seemed to shadow St Giles. Tarek and Alistair eyed each other. He wasn’t sure who was more suspicious of whom. All Tarek did know was that Alistair had an ability to discover things about people which would make the News of the World weep.
‘Morning, Alistair,’ said Tarek.
‘Ray in?’
‘On the phone.’
As always he just pushed the door open and walked in. No knock. No waiting for the summons. Bold as brass, walked on in.
‘Face down in the mud, eh?’ said Ray before Alistair closed the door on him. Tarek
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