Fear No Evil (24 page)

‘Working, of course. I have to do some stuff for the Un-divine Richard on childhood obesity. Apparently there’s an epidemic of it sweeping Liverpool. Again. I’m amazed all the kids in this city haven’t exploded by now, I seem to have been writing about this subject for the last five years… then it’s back to my pet project. Fancy a drink tonight? Just girls? I wouldn’t mind a little catch up.’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll text you later, when I know my brain’s not going to fall out of my ears. Tish… if you were nineteen, and a student, and pregnant, who would you tell?’

‘Is this a hypothetical question or are we talking about Joy Middlemas?’

‘No. Geneva Connelly.’

‘Oh. Well, in that case, entirely possibly nobody. Definitely not Sean or Eugene. Maybe Mum, but that would depend on how close they were. Do you know who the Daddy is?’

‘Not a clue, but I intend to find out. Her mum knew she was up the duff, but kept it quiet – reckoned the family had left her on her own to deal with it all, so they didn’t deserve to know. And as far as she was aware, Geneva didn’t even have a boyfriend.’

‘Could have been a one-night stand. These things do happen, although I’m sure a gangster diva like Geneva would have been wary of shagging around. More likely, I’d say, to be someone she knew. And in answer to your original question, there’s only one person I’d tell – you. Find Geneva’s Jayne McCartney, and you’ve found the answers.’

She was right, I thought, weaving my way through a throng of Japanese tourists on the way to my office. And that meant Theresa Casey, the cousin-slash-best-friend.

I shoved at the door. It didn’t budge, and I paused for a moment, nursing a sore wrist. I tried the handle. Crikey o’riley – it was actually locked for a change. I rooted the key out of my bag and entered with caution, convinced someone had broken in. And then locked the door on their way out. Yes, that made perfect sense.

I looked around me. If they had, they’d tidied up before they left. The bookcases were free of dust. The filing cabinets were all closed. And, I discovered when I wandered through to the bathroom, both the loo and the sink were shining like an Ajax advert.

‘Thank you! You can start sorting the filing tomorrow!’ I said, and sat down at my desk. My polished, shining desk. Of course, I might have been going insane – imagining I had a charlady from the other side. It was entirely possible that my mother was having one of her crazy spells where she shows us love via the power of elbow grease. It drove my sisters-in-law mad, the way she snuck in during the day and mopped their laminate wood flooring. She was like a stealth commando cleaner – she probably wore a balaclava while she scrubbed the front step. I, on the other hand, was always pathetically grateful when I got home to a clean flat. She’d never done my office before, though; I’d have to check later.

First I fired off the reports I was overdue on. One dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on a petty theft ring working out of the fruit market. The police had made an arrest, and I’d been brought in to do the mopping up, make sure nobody else was involved. The other was really a favour for a friend, checking out the references and qualifications of a woman she was considering employing to look after her elderly mother.

There were also a few calls and e-mails to answer from ongoing and prospective clients, and I got them out of the way as quickly as I could before I refocused my mind on the current case.

Next I contacted the Courts, to check if Solitaire was telling the truth about never having heard of Quillian. Looked like he was – his lawyer of record was one Darren Brady, no firm listed. Quillian must have been deluded, and I’d possibly have to revisit him at a later date. I wasn’t happy with the way I’d left things with Dodgy Bobby, and would need to look under a few more stones on that one.

Then, I dialled Wigwam’s number. He answered on the first ring.

‘Mr Magoo’s House of Pain, how can I help you?’ he said, in a mocked-up gay hairdresser voice.

‘You can help me by arranging for me to see Theresa. Today. In fact, now. There’s shit going on here Wigwam, and I need some answers.’

‘Ooh. You sound moody today. Not getting any?’

Why does everybody always say that to me? I may not be getting any, but I’m more than capable of being in a bad mood even when I’m getting it seven times a day. I think. I can’t really remember that far back.

‘I want to see her now, Wigwam, no more arsing around. Do you want to know something to speed things along? To motivate you, you prick? She was pregnant. Geneva was eight weeks pregnant when someone or something pushed her down those stairs.’

I slammed the phone down and took a few deep breaths. That hadn’t been a wise move. Provoking Wigwam was like prodding a rhino with a sharp stick. It might take a while for him to react, but he’d charge at some point. Better get out the elephant gun and safari hat.

Less than two minutes later, the phone rang.

‘Jayne McCartney,’ I snapped. I already knew who it was.

‘Eugene’s gaff. Half an hour.’

Chapter 28

Casey Senior lived in a leafy suburb to the south of the city. Near a golf course, an award-winning park, and a small high street crammed with fashion boutiques and shops that sold designer fudge. Very chi-chi, very cute, very aspirational. The kind of place where Mercedes dealerships thrived and the word ‘comprehensive’ only applied to insurance, never to schools.

In fact, it was only the resident crime lord that dragged the place down. I bet property prices plummeted when he moved in.

That had been a decade ago, and since then, he’d been busy making his home a castle. Literally. The gates were tall and topped with metal spikes that could impale a low-flying pigeon; you couldn’t get in without being recorded by CCTV; and the seven-foot tall brick walls were topped with barbed wire. I’m sure the neighbours were thrilled.

I wound down the window of the car, pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

‘Who is it?’

‘Domino’s Pizza. With extra fucking pepperoni.’ I said. They knew full well who I was, and I was running short of patience. The security guard was probably sitting in his hut right now, shaking his head and telling his mate I needed a good seeing to.

I drove through and parked in front of the house. It was what the Americans call a McMansion, all fake Georgian window sashes and manicured lawns and a circular fountain outside. Shooting pink water into the air. I kid you not. That very special touch must have come from Eugene’s wife, Josie.

Wigwam met me at the door, which was wide enough to drive a tank through and painted a glossy white. He had his arms folded over his chest and his thin lips were squeezed together. His crinkled hair was cut flat to his head, and if looks could kill, rigor mortis would be setting in.

‘I haven’t told him, so don’t mention it, you stupid cow,’ he said. ‘He’s likely to shoot the messenger.’

‘Do you mean that figuratively?’ I asked.

‘I mean he’ll fucking well shoot you. So keep your trap shut, and follow me.’

‘I don’t even want to see Eugene,’ I said, fighting off nausea as we walked along a corridor decorated in so many different pastel shades it looked like a candy-floss machine had exploded. ‘I don’t give a toss about Eugene. It’s Theresa I’m interested in.’

‘Well it’s buy one get one free. Your lucky day,’ he replied, waiting till I’d caught up with him then giving me a sharp shove in the back as he opened a door. I tripped a step, but straightened up in time to make my entrance.

Eugene was sitting on a high-backed armchair, like a king in his counting house. He was a wide-faced man, with florid cheeks and a jagged scar running from the left corner of his mouth all the way to his ear. There were dozens of legends about that scar, from dwarves with cheese-wires to an abusive father wielding an axe. From what I’d seen of her in the past, my money was on Josie with a steak knife.

He was smaller than last time I’d seen him, several years earlier, when he’d swaggered into a courtroom like he owned it. Which it turned out he did, when half the witnesses came down with sudden attacks of amnesia.

‘Sit down, love. Fancy a cuppa?’ he said.

‘No ta. I fancy a chat with Theresa.’

‘Ooh. Wigwam said you were a snippy one.’

‘Yeah. It’s because I don’t get enough sex, apparently.’

‘Well I wish you luck with that, queen. I’d help out myself but Josie’d lop me bollocks off. Now tell me – what have you found out about my granddaughter?’

Wigwam shot me the tiniest of looks from under his lids. Message received and understood.

‘So far, not much. She was a student rep, keeping the owner on his toes. She was dedicated to her studies. She planned to enter the legal profession, under the watchful eye of Mr Solitaire. She says she was haunted. She’s now dead. Is any of that news to you?’

Wigwam was there like lightning, and slapped me once across the face. My hand flew to my cheek. It felt red and hot and sore, but it was frankly no more than I deserved. My mouth had run away with me, and I reminded myself I was talking about a dead nineteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t her fault she was born a Casey, and she was Lorraine Connelly’s daughter as well.

‘Show some fucking respect!’ he said.

I clenched my eyes shut to squeeze tears back in, and nodded once, sharply. Eugene ignored it all. It’d take a lot more than that to rattle his cage.

‘I think she
was
haunted, Mr Casey,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she was the last. She probably wasn’t the first. I know you sent Dodgy Bobby in, but he was hardly the A-Team, was he?’

‘He was all I had. Not exactly my area of expertise, like.’

‘I know. But I
do
have the A-Team, and they’re willing to help.’

I couldn’t help it, I know it would have been inappropriate, but I really, really wanted to start humming the theme tune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them…

‘They want paying? That’s not an issue. Anything that helps.’

Funny, that. So far on this case I’d had two offers of unlimited cash resources. First from Will Deerborne, darling of Liverpool high society, and now Eugene Casey, who was so far at the other end of the spectrum you’d need binoculars to see him waving. And somewhere in the middle were Rosemary and Roger Middlemas – the only clients whose money I’d touched.

I might have to sort that out. Will and Eugene could spare it – they probably couldn’t. At the very least I could take a pile of Casey cash and shove it in the poor box at the convent in town.

‘Not sure yet,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know about that. What I really need from you is Theresa. I’ve been told they were close, that Geneva used to tell Theresa everything.’

‘Oh yeah?’ he said, the slate grey of his eyes angling up towards me. ‘And who told you that?’

‘Wigwam,’ I answered. Oops. Nearly slipped with that one. The last thing I wanted was to drop Lorraine in it with her in-laws. Eugene nodded, but I wasn’t sure he was convinced.

‘And I want to know one more thing,’ I added.

‘Go on. Spit it out.’

‘Did you have anything to do with Bobby’s death?’

‘No, love. Didn’t even know where he was. And even if I had, I wouldn’t waste the time on him. Blokes like Dodgy Bobby usually find a way to get rid of themselves sooner or later, don’t they? In his case, sooner. Is that all or do you want my inside leg while you’re at it?’

I shook my head, and he gestured at Wigwam. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes while he disappeared, both myself and Eugene content to stare at each other and not say a word. It was a bit like watching a crocodile stay deadly still, knowing it might bite your arm off any moment.

When Wigwam came back, he was accompanied by a girl dressed up as Captain Jack Sparrow in ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. Her long curly hair was dyed black, and she had on enough eyeliner to circle the globe twice. Her nails were painted black, her lips were lined with black, and she had a pierced nose. The attempted Goth look was somewhat spoiled by her deep mahogany spray tan. She was obviously caught on the horns of a fashion dilemma.

I knew she was the same age as Geneva, and must be in her early twenties, but she was so petite she could have passed for a fifteen-year-old. A rebellious one with a very stinky attitude.

She was buzzing with hostility, and I tried to figure out whether it was aimed at me, or Eugene, or Wigwam. I decided the only way to find out was to take the other two out of the equation, and stood up to leave.

‘I’m taking Theresa out for some fresh air,’ I said. ‘And I’ll have her back within the hour. If she wants to come back, that is.’

Wigwam was watching Eugene, waiting to take his cue. I’d either get another smack in the chops, or I’d ride off into the sunset with my prize. Which, looking at Theresa eating her own fingernails, might be of the booby variety.

‘All right love, just you make sure you look after her. Apple of my eye, that one,’ said Eugene. Something about his words made Theresa bristle, and I nodded my farewells and scooted her out of the door. Wigwam followed, and held me back while Theresa got in the front seat of the car. I noticed her checking her reflection in the mirror. That black lip-liner must be a bastard to keep on straight.

‘Be gentle with her,’ he said, without a trace of irony.

‘I’m planning on talking to her, not popping her cherry,’ I snapped.

Lordy… something about this whole situation was really bringing out my inner bitch. I think it was being in such close proximity to Casey and not trying to arrest him. It didn’t feel right to be on the same side as him, so I was lashing out to make myself feel tougher. Dancing to their tune had me on edge. Or maybe everyone was right, and I really did just need to get some.

‘Sorry. I will, okay?’

I got into the car, started the engine and drove at a recklessly high speed towards the electric gates. There was no way I was stopping for another interrogation, and I really hoped the dumb-asses in the security booth pressed the button in time, or there was going to be a Suzuki-Swift-shaped dent appearing sometime soon. Very silly to play chicken with an iron gate, but well, I won. So there.