The Unquiet Dead. Gay Longworth

you can get your hands on a copy of a tabloid or two.’

      Jessie bowed her head and groaned. ‘I can’t think about it, it’s too embarrassing.’

      ‘You don’t see him any more, then?’

      A waiter arrived with warm bread and olive oil, and Bill was temporarily sidetracked. Jessie watched him eat. P. J. Dean had been like a destructive whirlwind; he’d spun her around and sent her flying off course. He believed they had a bond. A detective and a pop star. Not very likely. She’d made her mind up that it was a bad idea for all concerned. And most of the time she was sure she’d done the right thing.

      ‘So do you?’ asked Bill, tearing apart another piece of bread.

      ‘I try not to.’

      ‘What does that mean, Jess?’

      ‘It means I try not to.’

      Brother and sister eyed one another knowingly. Bill backed down first.

      ‘And how’s work?’

      ‘Good. Things are better with the other DI, Mark Ward. We finally seem to have found a common ground.’ That common ground was a crypt in Woolwich cemetery where together they had watched a man bleed to death, but she wasn’t ready to tell her brother that story. ‘My boss is leaving. His replacement is a woman. Though I admire and like Jones enormously, I have to admit it will be a nice break to have another woman around. Better still, one who is higher ranking than me.’

      ‘It’ll take the heat off you, you mean?’

      ‘More than that, I’ll have someone on side, someone who understands what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of pricks.’

      ‘Literally or metaphorically?’

      ‘Both.’

      ‘Jessie, first signs of bitchiness and now what’s this? A whiff of bitterness in the air and you cut all your hair off. Please don’t become some wizened old man-hater, it’s so last century.’

      ‘I told you, I’m growing it out.’ Jessie poured out more wine. They were halfway down the bottle and hadn’t even looked at the menu. ‘I’m not a man-hater, but it’s hard, they are pricks … well, some of them. If they were more like my brothers –’

      ‘A commitment-phobe who likes to play god in a very small pond, be hero-worshipped by people who have no alternative and has the occasional disturbing fantasy about a nun? I hope not.’

      ‘One nun in particular?’

      ‘A flock of nuns.’

      Jessie nodded. ‘I think we should order.’

      Bill refilled their glasses, smiling conspiratorially. ‘You don’t really have to go back to work, do you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But I haven’t seen you for eight months. I’m not here for very long and what’s the point of being the youngest DI in the Force if you can’t play hooky occasionally?’

      Jessie thought about this for a second. It was true, she didn’t really have that much on, she was owed masses of holiday time and many’s the time she’d covered for DI Mark Ward while he was in the pub. ‘I suppose I could call Mark and ask him to cover for me …’

      ‘Excellent. More wine.’

      The following morning Jessie walked to work. She didn’t trust herself on the bike, suspecting that she might still be over the limit. She and Bill had ordered their food finally, but not until they had finished the first bottle and drunk most of the second. They did not stop talking until after midnight. Even then they had only touched the surface. Bill had been working for MSF for six years, in places no one else would brave; he’d witnessed death on such a massive scale from disease, starvation and massacre, that the idea of a nice clean general practice somewhere in England coping with endless complaints of a sore throat and chesty cough was absurd to him. He’d been known to drive sick children through areas occupied and controlled by armed tribes with no scruples, just to see them safely to an international hospital. He’d put his life on the line time and time again, even though he knew he could only ever make a tiny difference, for the problems in Africa were so vast. It made what Jessie did seem very small. She would allocate months of her time and enormous sums of taxpayers’ money to bring one person to trial, and even then it was not certain they would end up behind bars, or that bars were indeed the answer. Meanwhile thousands were dying and the culpable – corrupt leaders, multinationals, the ‘first’ world – would never pay. If there really was good and evil in this world, she knew her brother was all good. Even if he did fantasise about nuns.

      Jessie plugged in the week’s security code on the entrance door to the station and went in. PC Niaz Ahmet was waiting for her. Since Jessie had seconded him to West End Central CID during the P. J. Dean case, she had rarely seen anything but a sanguine expression on his face. Today he looked worried. Very worried.

      ‘What is it, Niaz?’

      ‘A sixteen-year-old girl has disappeared. Her mother has telephoned asking for you in person.’

      ‘Me? I don’t deal with missing people until …’ She stopped herself. ‘How long has she been missing?’

      ‘Eighteen hours.’

      ‘That’s not long enough.’

      ‘She is Anna Maria Klein. The daughter of Sarah Klein.’

      ‘The stage actress?’

      Niaz nodded, adding: ‘And a close personal friend of P. J. Dean.’

      ‘Oh God.’ Jessie dropped her chin on to her chest. ‘Not again. Every deranged celebrity with a security problem has been asking for me by name, I can’t deal with these people any more. They’re all insane.’

      Niaz wobbled his head. ‘I think this is serious. She went out to meet a friend for coffee in Soho and didn’t come back. She hasn’t phoned and she didn’t take anything with her.’

      ‘Had there been a row?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Boyfriend troubles?’

      ‘No boyfriend.’

      ‘Well, not one that the mother knew about, anyway.’ Niaz and Jessie had arrived at their floor. ‘Tell me Ms Klein isn’t here.’

      Niaz lowered his crescent-shaped eyelids.

      ‘Good grief!’ said Jessie. ‘I’m not feeling up to this so early in the morning.’

      ‘Another hangover?’ asked Niaz.

      ‘Don’t say it like that. Right, as punishment you can go and get me a large coffee from the canteen.’

      ‘Didn’t you say you were giving it up for Lent?’

      ‘I was. Then I remembered, I don’t believe in Lent. Thank God. Ask them to make it strong, sweet and milky, and tell them I’ll pay them later.’

      ‘You said that yesterday.’

      Jessie growled.

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      Tucking a rogue piece of hair behind her ear, Jessie put on her mental body armour and pushed open the double doors that led to the Criminal Investigation Department. Someone had put up a new sign on the notice board. It read: YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER WIFE. YOU ONLY GET ONE CHANCE IN CID. Jessie sailed past it. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen. Or the last.

      She took a surreptitious peek through the window of her office door and saw two overly dressed, heavily made-up, middle-aged women sitting in front of her desk. Ageing actresses were a sight for sore eyes, and that morning she had very sore eyes. The two women were talking animatedly; one of them Jessie did not know, but she recognised Sarah Klein immediately. Over the years Jessie had seen her in numerous TV dramas and stage plays. But not so many recently.