Fear No Evil (22 page)

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘This,’ I said, pointing at the section I’d now found. ‘She was pregnant. Eight weeks. I never knew that. Nobody seemed to know that, apart from the mother.’

‘I can see why you were interested. But I’m still not sure how it connects to the Joy Middlemas case. Joy wasn’t pregnant, was she? You’re not looking at some kind of serial killer babby-daddy?’

‘No. And as for connections, there might be none…apart from in one of those ways we discussed. The ones that you wouldn’t be able to put into a report.’

‘Oh. You mean the woo-woo stuff?’ he made a ghostly face and waved his fingers round. I nodded, closed the file, and looked back up at him. I really liked Alec Jones. I could tell from the effort he’d put in after Joy’s death that he cared passionately about his job, and about the people he was working for – and by that, I didn’t mean the Chief Constable. Like me, he had a suspicion there was more going on beneath the surface. But also like me, he preferred to joke about it rather than go all mystical and New Agey. That in itself merited a snog at some point or another.

‘There’s something you need to know about Geneva,’ I said. ‘Her surname might have been Connelly, but she was a Casey.’

‘A Casey? As in
the
Caseys?’

‘Yes. Eugene’s granddaughter. They kept it quiet her whole life, and carried on after she died. One of the reasons Ken Mitchell wouldn’t have looked at this one too closely was because of the mother, not pushing, not questioning, not wanting anything followed up too hard.’

‘How’s Eugene reacted to all this?’ Alec asked. I could see him running through the salient facts in his mind, trying to find a way it could help him in the pursuit of truth and justice. Or a really good collar for Ball Street.

‘As you’d expect. But because it’s all a bit woo woo, there’s not been much he can do. I’ve been dealing with Wigwam on it so far.’

‘Cold-hearted bastard,’ he said.

‘He speaks very highly of you as well, Alec.’ I leaned forward and smiled at him, whispered: ‘Especially your arse.’

He looked startled, then laughed.

‘Well, he’s got a point. It is a particularly fine arse, even if I say so myself. So, what next? I saw nothing in that file that points towards anything other than an accident. Like with Joy. Except for the pregnancy bit. Does Wigwam know about that?’

‘I don’t know. But I intend to ask. Because if she was pregnant, there was a man. And if there was a man, I want to know who it was.’

‘And whether he shoved her down a flight of stairs or not?’

I nodded, but I had the awful feeling the hand of man had nothing to do with Geneva’s fall. The hands of Fagin’s gang from hell, maybe.

‘Who knows? I’ll keep you posted. And by the way, if Jack Moran talks to you about any of this – don’t believe a word of what he says. There’s stuff going on here he doesn’t understand.’

‘There’s stuff going on in an episode of “Postman Pat” he doesn’t understand,’ said Alec, finishing his coffee and standing up to leave.

I watched as he walked to the door. I couldn’t help noticing that Wigwam was right about that arse.

Chapter 25

Wigwam had his phone switched off. This meant he was either asleep, practising his stand-up, or breaking someone’s kneecaps. I left a message on his voicemail, along with a joke I’d heard a few days ago about two nuns stuck in a lift shaft with nothing but a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter for company.

I checked in with Dan – he was on the road with Justin, and said he’d phone me back when he’d parked up.

I called Tish. She was out of the office, and the Divine Richard said he hadn’t got a ‘fucking clue’ where she was, then hung up on me.

I contacted the Coroner’s office, but Corky was officiating on a hit-and-run inquest.

I tried Betty. But she was in the library and couldn’t talk.

I dialled the speaking clock. It told me to go screw myself, and buy a watch on the way.

Only joking with that last one, obviously, but I was starting to feel somewhat rejected. I decided to do what I did best – go and annoy someone.

Simon Solitaire had his office in a dingy side street in an even dingier side of town. Untouched by regeneration, it sat above a garage on a run-down industrial estate, flanked by decrepit brick warehouses that stored nothing but broken wooden pallets and randomly scattered old tyres. The garage fixed scratches, while-U-wait. And if you left your car here long enough, you’d definitely need their services. It was probably a Casey front anyway; on hand to switch licence plates and do quick spray jobs.

Either side of it were sunbed salons, Kwikkie Kolour and Tantastical. I glanced through the windows. No customers, just bored-looking attendants reading copies of celebrity magazines. Again, they’d probably belong to the Caseys in all but name – switch the beds on all day, pay staff, pay rent, buy equipment, shell out for an electricity bill the size of a small African republic. Add up the pennies from all those fictional clients – and hey presto, magically clean money comes out the other end.

I parked the Suzuki as close as I could to Tantastical without ram-raiding it. Maybe I’d scare the girl on duty by popping in for a fifteen-minute bronzer later on. I could lie back and think of… well, I was spoiled for choice at the moment.

I pushed the buzzer on the intercom panel, which was underneath a tiny plastic panel announcing the presence of Simon Solitaire and Partners.

‘Hiya!’ came a cheery Scouse voice from the other end. She’d obviously not been to receptionist college, but then again, Solitaire didn’t really need a receptionist. He only had the one client.

‘Hiya!’ I chirruped back. ‘Wigwam sent me!’ I raised my voice slightly on the last couple of syllables, as though I was saying something really exciting. The accepted tone of Liverpool gals the world over.

The buzzer hummed, and I pushed the door open. A narrow flight of stairs led up to a one-room waiting area. The telly was on, and the girl behind the desk was watching ‘Cash in the Attic’, filing her acrylic nails. She had very long, very fake yellow-blonde hair, and a bright orange tan that she may have got downstairs. Her spider-leg eyelashes appeared to be stuck on with blobs of superglue, and a pair of humungous boobies protruded from her chest like mutant grapefruits. I wasn’t sure there was a single part of the woman left as nature intended.

‘My name’s Jayne McCartney,’ I said, approaching the desk. The receptionist looked a bit confused. Which was probably less confused than she normally looked.

‘I thought you said Wigwam sent yer?’

‘Yes. But he allowed me to keep my own name. Is Mr Solitaire available?’

Her overly plump lower lip was trembling a bit. I’d obviously ruined her day, and she tapped out a number on the phone with the prongs of her nails. I don’t know why she bothered – I could see him through the frosted glass in the room behind, a silhouette sitting at a desk.

‘There’s a someone McCartney here to see you, Mr Solitaire. No. I don’t know. She says she’s here for Wigwam. Yeah.’

She flicked a gaze at me, and I knew he was asking if she’d seen me before.

‘No. I never. What do you want me to do?’

I got fed up of this farce, and walked round the counter to his door. She spluttered and stood up and tried to beat me to it, but was hampered by her stiletto heel getting caught on the footrest of her chair. I was in before she’d recovered her balance.

Solitaire looked up at me, frowning and immediately assessing risk. We’d seen each other before. Our eyes had often met across a crowded court room. He’d know my face immediately so there was no point pretending to be anything other than what I was.

He nodded at the receptionist, who’d finally managed to teeter into the room.

‘It’s okay Gemma,’ he said. ‘Go back to work.’

Work. Yeah. Watching daytime television. Why couldn’t I get a job like that? My boobs aren’t big enough, I suppose.

‘Miss McCartney?’ he said, gesturing to a chair. I noticed he’d dropped the D.C, which meant he knew I wasn’t here on official police business, but still agreed to see me. Using my superior powers of deduction, I figured out that he knew about my work, and the fact that Eugene and Wigwam were on board with it.

I sat down, glanced around. There was a law degree in a frame on the wall. I couldn’t read the name of the university – it was in very small type, and entirely possibly fictional. There were three huge metal cabinets lined up against one wall. I wondered if all the alphabetical files in there were marked with the letter ‘C’.

Solitaire is a strangely attractive man. Strange given that he’s about five foot seven, skinny as a snake, and in his fifties, that is. But he has what I suppose you’d have to call charisma. Even in court, defending one retard after another, there’s something enjoyable about watching him work. A certain grace, a certain charm. Or maybe it’s just boredom – sitting in a court room for hours on end is really bloody dull. You have to find something to occupy your mind.

‘It is, yes. Thank you for seeing me, Mr Solitaire.’

‘Well, I don’t think you gave me much of a choice, did you?’ he said, smiling. ‘But now you have me, how can I help?’

‘I presume you’re aware of the work I’m currently engaged in. Work which Mr Casey Senior and Mr McIver are fully aware of, and fully supportive of?’

‘I am. It was terrible when Geneva died, and Eugene’s not been quite his usual self ever since.’

That could only be an improvement, I thought, while I weighed up my next question.

‘I presume you knew her? Geneva?’

‘I did,’ he replied. ‘She was a fine young woman. Knew exactly when to ask questions, and exactly when to stay quiet, which is quite an asset in our line of work. She had plans to enter the legal profession herself, as you know.’

‘And what did you think of that, Mr Solitaire? Wouldn’t it have cut into your business somewhat?’

I thought he might find that insulting, but I’d underestimated the thickness of his skin. He laughed, and leaned back in his chair.

‘Goodness, no. Come on, Miss McCartney – you know your stuff. There is, and always will be, plenty of business to go round. I’m highly unlikely to run out of work with the Casey family, am I? In all honesty, I could have done with a helping hand, and that was the plan. For her to join me here, learn the ropes, ready for when I retire. I’m fifty-two now, the timing would have been perfect.’

‘What were your plans? For retirement?’ I asked. I bet he wouldn’t end up like poor Ken Mitchell. Scumbags like Solitaire lived forever. He’d probably be chasing chambermaids round his chateau in France long into his nineties.

‘In all honesty, I don’t really have any. Perhaps I’ll read more books. Or travel. Or buy a trout farm. I really can’t imagine. Now, not that it isn’t a pleasure to sit and chat with an attractive young woman like yourself, Miss McCartney, but how is this relevant? I have to be at Crown Court in just under an hour to meet with our barrister.’

‘Are you married?’ I asked. ‘Kids?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you’d say I’ve been married to my job for many years now. Which of course means I’m on the market, if you’re interested?’

His grin was quick and sly and devilish. He was the kind of naughty man your mother warned you about. He probably drove a sports car and smoked expensive cigars and kept S&M outfits in his wardrobe next to his dinner suits.

‘No thanks. I’m gay,’ I lied, far too easily. Maybe Dan had a point. ‘Do you think there’s any truth in it? That Geneva was killed by some kind of supernatural force?’

‘No, I don’t. I believe in the power of man and woman to make their own choices. I believe in the things I see happen every day, which are quite strange enough. I also believe that every now and then, somebody very tragically trips down a flight of stairs. That’s cold comfort to Eugene who, as you know, likes to think he controls the whole planet. Or at least the part that lies within the geographical boundaries of Merseyside. But if you can help him lay this thing to rest, I’ll be the first to shake your hand. I for one would like to have the old Eugene back. These young fools get themselves into all sorts of trouble without a steady hand at the helm. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some preparation to do for my case.’

I stood up to leave, lurked by the door to thank him. I’d seen Columbo do this a million times and it always worked for him: ‘One more thing, Mr Solitaire. Have you ever heard of a man called Jason Quillian? Low level drug dealer, operates in and around Thelwall. He was arrested for possession with intent earlier this week, claims you’re representing him.’

The lawyer looked up from his files, eyes squinting together as though trying to place an unfamiliar name.

‘Quillian? No. I don’t think so. He’s not one of ours, is he? Maybe you should check the court records, but I can assure you he’s not on my list of lost souls.’

Chapter 26

‘We’re going back in,’ said Dan.

‘Not with me, you’re not,’ replied Tish. ‘Seeing that creature by accident is one thing. Taking my plate up for seconds? I don’t think so.’

‘We assumed you were fearless, Tish,’ I chipped in, returning to the table from the bar, bearing a tray of drinks.

‘Never assume,’ she replied, smiling sweetly. ‘It makes an ass of U and ME.’

I pulled a face. She got told that by her news editor in her first week as a reporter and never tired of quoting it.

‘Anyway, I am fearless. Just not stupid. I leave that to you, darling.’

I accidentally spilled a generous slosh of wine over her lap, soaking her Calvin Klein jeans and making her shriek. Dan handed her a tissue and she mopped it up, glaring at me. That’s what friends are for.

Adam was there, wearing a T-shirt that had arrows pointing to his biceps and a slogan that said ‘get your tickets to the Gun Show here’.

I’d spoken to him on the phone earlier and invited him out for a drink at the Pig’s Trotter. I’d asked how he’d been getting on with Betty, and the sigh at the other end spoke volumes.

‘She’s immune to my charms, Jayne. I’m coming to the conclusion she must be a lesbian.’