Gay Longworth - Dead Alone

To my motherA hard act to follow

Everyone sees himself as a star today. This is both a cliché and a profound truth. Thousands of young men and women have the looks, the clothes, the hairstyling, the drugs, the personal magnetism, the self-confidence, and the history of conquest that proclaims a star. The one thing they lack – talent – is precisely what is most lacking in those other, nearly identical, young people whom the world has acclaimed as stars. Never in the history of show biz has the gap between amateur and professional been so small. And never in the history of the world has there been such a rage for exhibitionism. The question is, therefore, what are we going to do with all these beautiful show-offs?

Albert Goldman. Disco .

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Jessie Driver had her thighs clamped round the leg of a man she hadn’t been introduced to. Hanging upside down, she could feel the sweat running through her short spiky hair. From the corner of her eye she watched two men shake hands. The small envelope of folded lottery paper passed from one palm to another. Jessie was pulled back up and spun around. It was time to leave this club. Local boys from the nearby estate were eclipsing the dance aficionados and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly hostile. Jessie couldn’t relax any more. She ran her hand down the perfectly smooth biceps of the man she’d been dancing with, squeezed his hand reluctantly and left. Her flatmate, Maggie Hall, was signing a flurry of autographs by the bar. All men, Jessie mused as she approached.

‘Jesus, you’re soaking,’ said Maggie, looking at Jessie in disgust.

‘Properly purged.’ Jessie leant closer. ‘Can we go?’

Maggie nodded, flashed an ‘if only’ smile to the admirer she would instantly forget and walked with Jessie to the coat check. Maggie was a presenter; with ruthless ambition she had come up through the highly competitive ranks to become a household name. It was strange watching an old friend gain in fame. Of course, at thirty, it hadn’t come soon enough for Maggie. People asked Jessie whether Maggie had changed. The answer was no. She’d always been ambitious.

They had reached the motorbike bay when Jessie heard the sound of a van backfiring. Twice. In quick succession. She turned abruptly towards the noise. Like a solitary clap in a crowded room, the sound silenced the world around them. For a second. And then people started to scream. A man ran across the road and climbed into a waiting car. From the narrow doorway and two fire-exits people spilled out into the street. Jessie threw her helmet at Maggie.

‘No, Jessie!’ shouted Maggie. But Jessie didn’t hear her. She ran straight into the sea of oncoming frightened faces. Ducking, side-stepping, shouldering against the outpour. She battled against the tide down the narrow staircase. At the bottom, a young man lay on the ground. He’d been shot. Twice. Two girls stood next to him screaming and jumping up and down intermittently. She threw her phone at one of them.

‘Call the police and ambulance service,’ barked Jessie. Her commanding voice silenced them as swiftly as the gunshot had set them off. ‘And someone turn that music off!’

Only the man made a noise now. He wasn’t dead. But he was bleeding profusely.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Jessie.

‘Carl,’ he whimpered.

‘Carl,’ she said, ‘the ambulance is on the way. Meantime, I’ve got to try and stop this bleeding. You stay focused, concentrate on me.’

Jessie ripped his trousers and T-shirt and examined the singed, bloody holes.

‘Perhaps you should think about a change of career,’ said Jessie. ‘Small-time dealing on someone else’s patch is a sure-fire way to get yourself killed.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I think that would be a waste. Good-looking boy like you.’ One bullet had embedded itself in his right thigh. The other had passed through his left flank. Jessie guessed he must have spun round from the impact of the first bullet and been hit by the second in the leg. Better aim and the boy would have died instantly.

‘Well, Carl, seems it was your lucky day,’ said Jessie.

The boy continued to blink at her, mesmerised. The girls stepped forward to get a better look. Jessie pulled a couple of super-sized tampons from her bag, ripped the plastic off with her teeth, and inserted one gently into the bullet wound in the boy’s leg. It was soon plump with blood. Carl clenched his jaw and shuddered. Jessie inserted the second into the boy’s fleshy side.

‘Carl,’ said Jessie, ‘you still with me?’

‘Man,’ said one of the girls, ‘she just stuck a Lil-let in your leg.’

Carl groaned and passed out.

The sight of two uniformed officers careering down the stairs made the girls jump.

‘Step away from the body,’ shouted one of the officers.

‘Show your hands, slowly,’ shouted the other.

Jessie turned around. ‘Everyone calm down. Where is the ambulance?’

‘Move aside,’ ordered the police officer.

Jessie did.

They stared down at the gunshot wounds. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘Don’t worry, they’re sterile. Thought it best, given the length of time ambulances take to get to shootings in this part of town.’

The coppers didn’t appreciate the snide comment. ‘And who are you – Florence Nightingale?’

Jessie reached into the back pocket of her tight blue jeans and held up a leather wallet. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Driver from West End Central CID, and if you want to know who shot this man, he is five foot eight, medium build, mixed race, wearing a red Polo running top. He left in a dark blue Audi 80, number plate T33 X9R.’ Jessie looked over to the girls. ‘Sound familiar?’ she asked.