Fear No Evil (11 page)

Tish leaned forward, and her bosom flowed onto the table like an extra tray of canapés. Her hair fell around her face, and her eyes had lost any sign of playfulness.

‘What about them? How are they involved?’

‘If I tell you this, you have to promise not to use any of it at all, until I say so. Is that very, very clear?’

‘Crystal. And yes, I know, you’ll kick my arse all the way to St Helens and back if I do, blah blah blah, so stop giving me the evils. What about the Caseys?’

‘Did you know Sean had a daughter?’

‘Er. Yuck. You mean somebody slept with him?’

‘His wife, actually. They had this daughter, and she grew up to be the brains of the family, and was training to be a lawyer.’

‘Interesting career choice,’ said Tish, ‘and I notice you said “was”?’

‘Yeah. She’s dead. Another fall, Hart House again, and she’d been telling her cousin she had problems of the supernatural sort.’

‘Shit!’ said Tish, leaning back again, gazing off into space as she went back to the breadstick. ‘Shit! That is a good story. Bet Eugene went nuts.’

Tish had spent a lot of time chasing stories about the Caseys. One of the clan had been gunned down on his way to the bookies a few years ago, and she was given the enviable task of doing what she called the ‘death knock’ at the family home. Their lawyer Simon Solitaire had headed her off with an official statement, about the tragic death of this promising young ‘businessman’. Which in this case kind of meant drug dealer. She knew there was more to his death – and his life – and like the fearless newshound she was, she’d been itching to get at it ever since.

‘So, what do you want from me?’ she asked. Finally. I knew she’d get there in the end.

‘Help. You can find things out that we can’t – or we can, we just don’t have the time right now. To start off with, we need to know more about Hart House, and the company that owns it, Stag Industries. I’m going to get Adam on to the history—’

‘Dreamboat,’ she said, interrupting my train of thought. She’d always had a thing for Adam. Then again, he was male.

‘But I need you to get the up-to-date stuff for me. Who owns it, a name, a face, a phone number. Anything I can use.’

‘That’s easy,’ she said, smugly. ‘Haven’t you got anything harder for me? I know all about Stag Industries, and if you’re a very good girl, I’ll tell you… not right now though, because I’m distracted. Please tell me that belongs to you.’

I followed her line of sight to the entrance. Dan was staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the view. This place was called Panoramic for a reason – we were in one of the highest spots in Liverpool, perched on a new-build tower, surrounded by the sights of the city below. It was really beautiful, especially at night, with the dark thread of the Mersey twisting into the distance, and the buildings glowing with neon lights. They call it the Pool of Life – and you could believe it from this angle. Adding Dan into the mix didn’t exactly detract from it.

I waved at Dan, and he walked over. He was wearing black jeans, showing off long thighs and trim hips. His black jacket was perfectly fitted over broad shoulders, and there was a hint of golden chest showing at the neck of a crisp, brilliant white shirt. He’d obviously showered not that long ago, and his hair curled slightly on the collar, still damp. Dishevelled James Bond.

‘Father Dan, this is my friend, Tish Landry,’ I said, after a few deep breaths. He held out his hand, and she twined her uber-manicured fingers into his, holding on way too long for decency.

‘Father?’ she asked, gazing up at him with innocent blue eyes. The bitch. She was practically salivating. ‘I thought you said he wasn’t a priest any more, Jayne? So that would make him just Dan, wouldn’t it? A
man
, not a priest.’

‘That’s right Tish,’ said Dan, gently extricating his fingers from her soft grip. ‘Jayne seems to keep forgetting that. See, Jayne? It’s not that hard. Think of me as a
man
, not a priest.’

He leaned back, stretched out his legs, apparently completely relaxed in the company of a predatory female who made the black widow spider look like Mary Poppins. I could practically see her spinning a web.

‘So, Dan, Jayne’s been telling me all about this business with Hart House. I have to say I find it all very worrying. That poor girl, all alone in there. It’s terrifying, really, isn’t it? I feel so scared.’

The big, faking cow. I’ve never known Tish scared in her entire life, not once. Apart from that time she thought she’d lost her Karen Millen store card. Her eyes were now so huge I feared the waitress might try and serve bread onto them.

If she was expecting a consoling hug, she was in for a disappointment. Dan tilted his head back and laughed, loud. She looked a bit shocked at that. It wasn’t a reaction she was used to. I confess it made me smirk.

‘I’m sure you’re not that scared, Tish,’ he said, ‘you look tough as old boots to me.’

Her jaw dropped, and I thought she might punch him. I knew she’d be at the very least considering it. I took that moment to slam my foot down, hard, on her instep. I forgot I had heels on, so it probably hurt a bit more than intended. Or maybe it hurt just as much as I intended.

‘Ow!’ she yelled, and turned back to look at me. I raised my eyebrows, and she sighed and nodded. It was our special ‘sign’. We’d used it since we were teenagers, as a way of letting the other one know if we were interested in a boy. As we fancied about seventeen boys a week at that stage, we spent a lot of time with bruised toes, but it worked. We’d never, ever fallen out over a man.

I wasn’t sure if I was actually interested in Dan, but I was pretty damn sure I didn’t want her interested in him. Tish was always very graphic in her descriptions of her amorous encounters, and the idea of her recounting Dan’s prowess – or even worse, lack thereof – in the bedroom made me feel queasy.

‘Tish was just about to tell us about Stag Industries, the company that owns Hart House,’ I said, getting us all off the pheromone express and back into reality.

Dan straightened up, and Tish shuffled her chair back in my direction. Normal business was resumed.

‘The clue’s kind of in the name,’ she said, tucking her hair behind her ears now she didn’t need to flick it at Dan any more.

‘Hart House. Stag Industries. You might have heard of the Fawn Group? There’s even a Doe Hall out near Roby, from the time it was posher. What’s the connection here? Come on, come on, you can do it. Lateral thinking for beginners.’

She tapped her nail on the table top until it became so annoying, I had to tie her fingers together with a napkin.

‘We get it,’ I said. ‘The connection is, well, it’s deers. Or deer, whatever. Things to do with deers.’

‘And what family in Liverpool, with enough poke for country piles and gothic monstrosities, has a connection to deer?’

She was making a noise like on ‘Countdown’ during the conundrum, which made me feel stressed straight away. Carol Vorderman always has that effect on me. I could feel Tish’s nail tapping away under the napkin again, so I squashed it.

‘Bitch,’ she squeaked, ‘I’ll never play the violin again.’

‘The Deerbornes,’ I said, as the penny finally dropped in the box.

‘Who are the Deerbornes?’ asked Dan.

‘Old money. Liverpool family from way back – not sure how they made their cash, but they’re always described as “one of the city’s merchant dynasties”, that kind of thing. In the old days they’d have been called philanthropists – set up schools for the poor, funded public bath houses, pioneered scholarships for women, that kind of stuff.’

‘And today? What are they today?’

‘The same, as far as I know,’ I said. ‘Their business interests seem to revolve around financial services, banking, making the rich richer. I think they have some manufacturing still – what do they make, Tish?’

‘Mainly money,’ she replied. ‘But also bespoke furniture, and luxury goods. You know, that £1,000 toilet roll holder made of authentic pan-Asian teak that you just have to have for the downstairs loo.’

‘Not really. I’m usually just happy if I’ve got a bog roll.’ I replied. ‘Do you know them, Tish? If I need to speak to them, what’s the best way in?’

‘It might have been via me, before you broke my fucking nail.’ Oops. Tish took damage to her hooks very, very seriously.

‘I did something on William Deerborne a while ago. He was running in the marathon to raise cash for kids with cancer. Still have his secretary’s number. Francesca. She’s a bit scary – like a really posh enforcer. You’ll have to go through her first. Worth it though – he’s hot. Single as well, and not in a dodgy confirmed bachelor way.’

It’d be easy to assume Tish had a one-track mind. And in fact, she did – it ran entirely in the direction of what stories she could scoop, use in the
Gazette
, and sell on to bigger fish. She just pretended to be a nymphomaniac fashion addict. It was her disguise.

Scary secretaries, I thought. No problem. If I was willing to go through Wigwam to get to the Caseys, I’d have no problem going through Francesca to get to William Deerborne. They might be at completely different ends of the social spectrum, but the approach was the same: push, push and push some more.

Chapter 13

The next morning, I was abducted. With a hangover.

We’d had a few too many drinks at the Panoramic, and me and Tish shared a cab home. Dan, for some odd priestly reason, decided to walk back to Everton. It’s not the most pleasant of strolls so I had to assume it was a self-flagellation thing. Probably feeling guilty for spending the night with a pair of wanton hussies. I was worried about him for all of thirty seconds, but then reminded myself he was a big boy. In fact I’d been admiring his bigness all night, in what I hoped was a totally covert way.

I’d woken up way too early with a killer headache, my eyes glued together with mascara, and Tish’s fake nail in my handbag. There was an open bottle of white out on the kitchen counter, so I’d obviously carried on when I got back. The TV was, shamefully, still switched to QVC, so fuck knows what parcels might get delivered over the next few days. Some torture device designed to give you Perfect Abs in 28 Days maybe, or some nice diamonique earrings. That was Christmas sorted, then.

I’d rolled out of bed – literally – and landed with a thud on the carpet. I allowed myself a couple of minutes recovery time, where I stared at the ceiling and willed the world to stop spinning, then crawled upright and started to drink coffee.

After a ten-minute sit down and a couple of paracetamol, I was ready to face the world and run my hangover into the ground. I like exercise. I know, it’s weird. I didn’t when I was at school, and my idea of hell is still a place where tall, sporty girls pick me last for their netball team, but running is different. I can do it on my own. It allows me leeway on the chocolate cake front. And, maybe most of all, it clears my mind of the extraneous crap it always wants to hold on to.

I decided to go as far as Otterspool and back, which is hardly a big ask as it only amounts to about four miles. By the time I got there, I was feeling a lot better, and stopped for a minute to drink some water and admire the view. There’s a waterside walk and a grassed area that looks out over the Mersey, and on a clear day it’s gorgeous. At night it used to be renowned for other things – things that consenting adults got up to in parked cars – but I hadn’t been here after dark for a while. Car sex loses its appeal after you hit thirty, and you realise there are places gear sticks just shouldn’t go.

I was sitting on the grass, watching a particularly entertaining fight between two seagulls over half a sausage roll, when I was grabbed from behind and lifted right off my feet. I hadn’t heard them coming, which might have been something to do with the fact I was listening to Celine Dion’s greatest hits on my iPod. I know I should be ashamed, but I love a good power ballad.

I lashed out straight away, and managed to get a good kick in to one of them, feeling his knee buckle slightly as I made contact. But there were two of them. They were big, and probably ugly, and I didn’t stand much of a chance.

A black Audi Q7 was parked up by the road, one of the doors open. Unsurprisingly, I was thrown straight into the back. And they weren’t gentle. I scraped my shin on the step, and I’d also lost my iPod somewhere in the scuffle, which pissed me off.

I wasn’t anywhere near as terrified as I should have been, though. It was kind of my own fault – if you go marching around demanding to speak to mobbed-up meatheads, you eventually get what you wish for.

Wigwam was on the back seat. I straightened myself up and sat next to him, retaining as much dignity as a person can when they’ve just been caught singing ‘My Heart Will Go On’ to a pair of squabbling seagulls.

He’s not a large man, Wigwam. A heroin-addicted mother doesn’t make for the best maternal habitat, and I’d guess she wasn’t taking her folic acid supplements and going to baby yoga.

As well as being whippet thin, he has one of the worst cases of acne-scarring I’ve ever seen. His face is cratered like the moon. He hadn’t inherited his mother’s white skin, or his father’s black, but settled in between on a sickly yellowish shade. The only plus point for Wigwam on the looks front was the fact he had the most beautiful dark brown eyes in the world. Soulful, almost. Maybe that’s what always made me think there was more to him. And yes, I am that shallow.

‘D.C McCartney, nice of you to drop in,’ he said. He knew I wasn’t police any more. He was just saying it to irritate me. Now I knew how Father Dan felt.

‘My pleasure, Lilt,’ I replied, shuffling around on the leather seats. I had shorts on, and I was sweaty, and my skin was sticking. Nice.

He narrowed those soulful eyes at me and I gave myself a mental kick. He hated being called by his real name – who could blame him? – and there was no sane reason for me to provoke him. I needed his help. Plus, you know, I was scared of him.

‘Geneva Connelly,’ I said, deciding to get straight to business. This wasn’t going to be pleasant, so I might as well try and make it fast.