Fatal Act (13 page)

C
heryl was standing on the door step looking peeved, but although he had kept her waiting for ages she didn’t complain.

‘What do you want?’

He knew what she wanted. What they all wanted. When he was younger he had enjoyed exercising power over young women like her. It was like picking cherries off a tree. But he was getting old. Apart from all his recent trouble, he had begun to feel his age lately. The women he screwed had once been young enough to be his daughters. Now they could be his grandchildren. The thought was no longer comfortable. Staring at Cheryl’s large blue eyes, he wondered what the hell he had seen in her with her nose job, dyed black hair and fake tits. Nothing about these youngsters was natural. He couldn’t understand it. They didn’t need to mess with their looks. They were young and beautiful. He was the one who ought to be worrying about his appearance. But their adulation had nothing to do with him as a person. They pursued him because of what he could do for their careers. Since Anna had been a hit in Down and Out, more women than ever had clamoured to attract his attention in any way they could. Anna had claimed to find it amusing, but he was bored of unwanted attention from strangers.

C
heryl stood on the doorstep shivering, but he didn’t invite her in.

‘What do you want?’ he repeated.

‘You asked me – you invited me round –’

‘Did I?’

He frowned. The last time she had been round he had been unceremoniously dragged away by the police for questioning. She was bad luck. She had phoned him several times since his return home, but he had no recollection of having invited her round again.

‘You said you wanted to see me,’ she reminded him reproachfully.

If he had, he must have been drunk.

H
e felt like slapping her. Did she really expect him to welcome her into his home at a time like this? As if his life wasn’t complicated enough without another pathetic hanger-on driving him nuts.

‘My girlfriend’s just been murdered,’ he said bluntly. ‘Bugger off.’

Her expression softened. ‘You shouldn’t be alone right now.’

‘You think I’m better off fucking a slag like you?’

She recoiled as though he really had slapped her. He tried not to laugh but he couldn’t help himself. She looked so startled.

‘Listen, kid, I’m pissed. I want to be alone. Go away.’ He paused, gazing at her speculatively. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

He really was old enough to be her grandfather. Did she imagine it would make him feel better spending time with a kid like her?

‘Come on then, if you’re coming in,’ he said. ‘Don’t stand on the doorstep all night.’

A
s soon as they were inside the house he regretted his impulse. He didn’t want her there. The sight of her in his hall made his skin crawl. He didn’t want her anywhere near him. But the stupid bitch had trotted in behind him and was offering to look after him.

‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea,’ she fussed.

For answer, he raised the whisky he was still clutching and swung it in the air between them. He took a long swig from the bottle before offering it to her.

‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Go on. Drink.’

She hesitated and he saw fear in her eyes. In his satisfaction, he felt his tension slip away. It served her right. She should be afraid. He hadn’t wanted her to come round. He had told her to leave him alone, but she had refused to listen to him. Now she would have to take what was coming to her. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do to her, but if she didn’t like it that was her look out. She should have listened when he told her to go away.

‘I
’ve never drunk whisky,’ she protested, adding coyly that she was ‘a white wine girl.’

Her derisory attempt to sound sophisticated made him laugh. She smiled nervously, intimidated by his amusement which she didn’t understand.

‘Go on, you might like it,’ he insisted, holding the bottle right up to her face.

‘I don’t think I will.’

‘How will you ever find out what you like if you’re afraid to try anything new? You can’t live your whole life scared of everything.’

S
tung, she took the bottle and drank.

‘Steady on,’ he cried out, grabbing the bottle back. ‘You don’t have to finish the lot. It’s not bloody lemonade.’

Giggling, she staggered sideways. Her inebriation was infectious.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and have a smoke. Forget about our troubles for a few hours.’

She nodded. Clutching onto the banister, bent double because she was giggling uncontrollably, she followed him unsteadily up the stairs.

‘You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’ she asked when they reached the top.

‘That depends on you,’ he replied.

She shook her head, too pissed to ask what he meant.

O
N
W
EDNESDAY
MORNING,
G
ERALDINE
was irritated to see a small gang of reporters gathered outside the gates to the complex where the Murder Investigation Team worked. At first sight they could have been any group of people chatting in the street but she recognised one of them, a pushy woman in a bright green raincoat, and a closer look revealed a couple of cameras. As Geraldine slowed down to turn into the gate, a journalist bent down to yell through her window.

‘Anything to tell us on Anna Porter?’

‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’ another voice shouted.

Geraldine stared resolutely straight ahead. It was an annoying start to the day.

I
t was obvious a high profile actress like Anna would be newsworthy. She appeared on television almost every day in a popular soap. Just about everyone in the country would be aware of her untimely death. It was all over the media. What was worrying was that they were already baying for an arrest, when the official police position remained steadfast: the young woman had died in an accident. It wasn’t clear whether the reporters at the gate had been enquiring about an arrest for dangerous driving, or if the media had already gathered that a murder investigation was under way. She hoped not. It would mean even more pressure on them to come up with a quick result.

‘Y
ou look cheerful,’ Nick greeted her as she stomped into the office and chucked her bag on the floor.

‘Bloody reporters,’ she grumbled.

‘Don’t tell me they’re pestering you already? Someone was quick off the mark.’ He groaned sympathetically. ‘Your victim died bang in the middle of her fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone’s talking about it. How could they not be hyping themselves up, all wanting to be first to break the next episode in this new soap?’

‘Yes, but how did they get on to the fact that we were involved? Why aren’t they pestering the transport police? Who the hell told them we’re looking into it?’

‘G
od knows how these reporters get hold of their information. Some people say they inhale it into their blood stream just by standing near you.’

He grinned, holding up his arms in a cross formation, as though warding off a vampire.

Ignoring his frivolity, Geraldine marched off to look for Sam. She found her young colleague in the canteen. Geraldine sat down and blew on her mug of coffee, making a hole in the froth.

‘What do you say to doing a little job today?’

‘I’ve already got a job, thanks.’

‘I’m serious. Listen.’

Carefully Geraldine outlined her plan for Sam to hang around the bar area in the drama school, picking up information about Dirk, and anyone else who had been associated with the victim. Geraldine couldn’t carry out the investigative task herself as she had already visited the drama school as a detective inspector. In any case, she suspected the students would chat more freely to someone closer to their own age.

‘N
o problem,’ Sam said cheerfully.

‘You’ll have to be circumspect,’ Geraldine warned her. ‘Don’t do anything that might come back on us. We can’t afford to look underhand.’

‘Even if we are.’

‘We’re legitimately looking for information.’

‘By lying our way into the students’ confidence.’

‘No. That’s where you have to be careful.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Sam smiled. ‘Everything will be implied. They can draw their own conclusions, and I’m sure they will. They’re all publicity whores. They’ll be falling over themselves to tell me what they know, just in case they’re making contact with a journalist. I won’t say a word of a lie, they’ll fool themselves into believing I’m a reporter. Mum’s the word.’

She winked at Geraldine who laughed.

N
ot for the first time, she thought how fortunate she was to be working with such an intelligent colleague. Not every officer would have been so quick on the uptake. Geraldine had been lucky with both her sergeants so far. Sam wasn’t as steady as the sergeant Geraldine had worked with in her previous post. No one could replace Ian Peterson. But Sam was a decent officer nevertheless.

‘See you back here at lunch time,’ she said, and returned to her office.

She would have much preferred to be out and about, gathering information, instead of sitting at her desk reviewing paperwork, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t conceal her identity at the drama school and Sam could. All Geraldine could do now was wait for the sergeant to return and hope she would come back with some useful leads.

G
eraldine waited with growing impatience. She had resisted the urge to phone Sam, trusting that the longer the sergeant was out, the more chance there was that she would return with some helpful information. Geraldine spent most of her working life waiting, for scene of crime officer findings, for medical reports, for results of DNA tests, for witnesses to turn up… But years of experience didn’t make her impatience any easier to control. It was late afternoon by the time Sam returned to the station.

‘I hope this is worth the wait,’ Geraldine said.

‘It is.’

S
am took out her notebook. Masquerading as a reporter had given her the opportunity to jot things down. It helped that she didn’t look like a typical police officer. With her cropped white blonde hair, faded jeans and multiple ear piercings she couldn’t have dressed more appropriately for the part she had been playing.

‘Did anyone ask who you were?’

Sam shook her head.

‘Nope. I told the guy behind the bar – perfectly truthfully – I wanted to learn all about the time Anna spent at the academy. I didn’t even mention her death, so no one seemed to connect me with the police investigation.’

‘Clever,’ Geraldine admitted.

A
nna had been in a relationship with Dirk during her final year as a student.

‘I know that.’

‘Goodbody,’ Sam added. ‘Surely that can’t be his real name. But what a dick, if he chose that as his professional name, unless he’s funding his way through college by working as an escort. Did you see him?’

She whistled.

‘Don’t tell me you were attracted to him?’

Sam laughed.

‘If I was straight, I’d have been after his details like a shot.’

‘So, did you find out anything we don’t already know?’

‘Plenty.’

A
ccording to student gossip Dirk and Anna had carried on seeing each other while he was living with Megan, after Anna had moved in with Piers. The new relationships were a matter of expediency for them both. Sam’s information tied in with what Geraldine had heard, and with Piers’ claim that Anna had been trying to persuade him to cast Dirk in a leading role. Meanwhile Dirk’s new girlfriend, Megan, had given him somewhere to live, and had allowed him to remain friends with Anna without arousing Piers’ suspicion.

‘All of which strengthens the case against Piers,’ Sam concluded. ‘A crime of passion committed in a jealous rage when he discovered Anna was still seeing the handsome young Dirk.’

‘What about Megan?’ Geraldine asked. ‘Could she be the one to have snapped and plotted a clever murder that put someone else in the frame?’

Leaving Sam to write up her report, Geraldine set off to speak to Megan.

M
EGAN
AND
D
IRK
LIVED
in a back street in Wood Green. Although it wasn’t close to the college, it was only about half an hour’s journey to Gower Street. Their rooms weren’t far from the tube station so Geraldine took the tube to Wood Green. It was a case of travelling into central London in order to travel out again, but it meant she could read through Sam’s report on Megan on the train.

T
he front door to the property was black, the paintwork faded and flaky. Geraldine crossed the narrow strip of front yard, which could hardly be called a garden. It appeared to have been paved over a long time ago, as the flagstones were cracked and chipped. Other than a few scrubby weeds poking up between the slabs, the yard was empty: no plants in pots, no garbage, no old bicycles or bottles, only two large rubbish bins on the side of the yard furthest from the front door. There were four bells with names attached: Flat 1 Khan, Flat 2 Barron, Flat 3 Rivers, Flat 4 Silver. The bell to number 2 felt greasy. Geraldine tensed slightly as she touched it. There were four flats in a two storey building so there must be two flats to a floor. With no mechanism for buzzing visitors in, the upstairs residents would have to come down from the first floor to answer the front door.

A
fter a couple of minutes the door was opened by the plump girl she had seen summoning Dirk to his rehearsal the day before. He had sent the girl away before Geraldine could speak to her. Geraldine wondered whether he had wanted an opportunity to persuade Megan to give him an alibi before the police questioned her. The girl drew back and began to close the door.

‘He’s not up yet.’

Swiftly, Geraldine slipped one foot across the threshold and pressed her shoulder against the door. She spoke lightly, smiling reassuringly all the while.

‘It’s you I wanted to speak to, Megan.’