Peter Corris - Lugarno

‘She’s Jade Delaney’s sister.’

I switched off from music round about Dire Straits and couldn’t tell the Spice Girls from Bardot, although I know the names. Jade Delaney was something different again. The media billed her as a cross between Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin, both of whom I’d liked, so I’d taken the trouble to listen when she came on the radio and had even seen a video clip once. She was a tall blonde with white hair and a long jaw that was almost misshapen but wasn’t. Stick-thin in black leather, she was erotic, anorexic, neurotic-looking, an assemblage of jangled nerve images that compelled you to look at her. All that combined with a voice that threatened to cause your head to explode and part you from your senses. I could see the similarity to Junie — the pallor and the face structure, the huge eyes.

‘That’s difficult,’ I said.

‘The media vultures’ll eat this up.’

There was truth in what he said. Everything Jade Delaney did or touched was newsworthy and a sister involved with a drug death was about as bad a story as her handler could dream of. Or maybe not.

‘A nine-day wonder maybe,’ I said. ‘All publicity is good publicity for pop stars isn’t it? Look at Keith Richards.’

‘That was then, this is now. It’s all different. Drugs are out, God is in.’

‘Well fuck that.’

Price was pulling himself together again and he helped the process along with a cigarette. ‘Easy for you to say. Junie idolises her sister. The thought of damaging her in any way would tear her apart. And she’s just on the brink of starting a singing career herself.’

None of this was cutting much ice with me. Presumably Junie volunteered to screw the boss whom she knew was married. No happy ending guaranteed. It seemed to me that Price had more important things to worry about, like who might have had a hand in his wife’s death and what he was going to do about his daughter. I got up and sat on the end of my desk, a move calculated to budge him from the seat he’d settled down into with despair in his body language.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘What you have to do is contact your lawyer. I assume you have one?’

He nodded. Blew smoke.

‘Talk to him and…’

‘Her. Cathy Jacobsen.’

Great, I thought, I hope you’re not screwing her as well. ‘Her then. Tell her everything that’s been going on, or as much as you feel able to. You know, about your wife’s behaviour and what you suspect about Danni.’

‘Suspect bullshit, I know! Jason…’

‘Yeah, well you might not know as much as you think you do. You’ve admitted that you had poor communication with Danni. Leaving each other notes you said. And I think there were sides to Jason that weren’t obvious. He wasn’t the most truthful kid in the world. I think he got you in. I suspect he was a bit of an actor for one thing.’

He leaned forward, interested now. ‘And what else?’

Like he was fucking your wife as well as your daughter, I thought. ‘He had more money than he should have for a start. And as you know I followed Danni this morning.’

‘And found her celebrating her stepmother’s death.’

‘I didn’t say that and I don’t know that she’d think of her as a stepmother,’ I said. ‘But she didn’t look like a freaked-out druggie to me. She’s hell on wheels with those rollerblades and a skateboard.’

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, rubbing his bristled chin. ‘I’m too buggered to think. I’ll do what you say — ring Cathy for some legal advice — and go home and knock myself out.’

‘What about Junie? You should warn her.’

He moved towards the door like a man who’d just experienced bad cramp in both legs. ‘You’ll look for Danni? I’m good for whatever it’s costing.’

I nodded. ‘And what do I say to her when I find her?’

Price shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said and went out the door.

I opened a window and waved at the fug of smoke Price’d left in the air. I had the office repainted a couple of years ago but old stains had seeped back through and as a good many of my clients seem to be smokers the ceiling has taken on that brown-grey look cigarette smoke leaves behind. What with a bit of mould, dead insects and spilled coffee and red wine, the place had quickly re-acquired the worked-in look I quite like.

I went back behind the desk for some more doodling on my diagram. Question marks dominated now. Had the police forensic team found traces of blood and glass in the Price bathroom? Whose fingerprints had they found apart from those of the family members? Jason Jorgensen’s? Dr Cross’s? The mystery emergency number caller? Mine? They certainly had mine on file from the brushes I’d had with them over the years and could run a computer check. Would that information get to Detective Stankowski?

Another question I had was: would Samantha Price shoot up again carelessly after her experience of yesterday? If she needed the fix wouldn’t she at least go cautiously with the stuff? Give it a trial run? Or maybe it was a suicide. She seemed to have had the reasons — a failed pregnancy and depression, a drug habit, an unfaithful husband, a hostile stepchild, a dead lover. But if it wasn’t suicide or an accident, who would want to kill her? I put the notepad on the desk, unplugged the recharged mobile and was up and about to leave the office when the phone rang. I grabbed it.

‘Cliff? It’s Tess.’

‘Tess? Oh, right.’

‘Shit, you sound as if you don’t recall the name.’

‘I’m sorry, love. It’s this thing I’ve got on. It gets curlier by the minute.’

‘I’m sure you’ll cope. What’ve you found out about Ramsay?’

I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. Ramsay was a long way from the top of my mental agenda and I had to struggle to recall where I was with him. I could feel Tess’s impatience.

‘Is there someone with you?’

‘No, of course not. It’s seven o’clock and I’m still in the bloody office.’

‘Don’t snap at me. I’ve had a hard day, too. I had to massage a one hundred and twenty kilogram monster. I’m aching all over.’

‘I hope he enjoyed it.’

‘She. Cliff, I’ve got a glass of wine here. You tap your cask of red and we can start again.’

I did as she said and told her all I’d learned about Ramsay and his comings and goings.

‘Do you believe this Bonham woman?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘And where does his so-called “sugar momma” live?’

‘Concord.’

‘God, what address?’

I dug out the phone book and looked the name up. I read out the address.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Tess said, ‘that’s only one street away from where we used to live. What do you know about her, this woman he’s supposed to be with?’

‘Virtually nothing.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘I’m told she’s fat.’

‘Thank God for that. I was thinking he might be finding substitutes for me. The other one, Bonham, doesn’t look like me, does she?’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Okay. It’s’ still a bit weird that he’s back in Concord but not as weird as it might be. I suppose it figures — Ramsay’s never had a normal relationship with a woman. This sort of stuff might be something he can handle. I don’t like the sound of him stealing from old women though. That’s a shitload of trouble waiting to hit.’

I was almost through the cup of red and thinking about another. ‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘I can read you like a book, Cliff Hardy. I know that tone of voice. You want me to say let him alone to go to hell in his own way.’

‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

‘I’ll have to think about it… How tough is the other thing you’ve got on?’