“She didn’t stay long. There’s not much to see or do until the CSIs have finished. DC Penn’s staying on to brief our DS, leaving me free to resume our discussions back at your sanctuary.”

  While I drive back to Jevington, my thoughts return to the DVD, to the choices Gemma made when she was a teenager. Was she groomed by Halliday and Marshall? Did they get her hooked on drugs, forcing her to do their bidding in return for the next fix? Did she become an escort to pay for the drugs she craved?

  While I want to believe she was a helpless victim, am I trying to understand her choices, or avoid my own discomfort and prejudices?

  I won’t know the truth until I find her. The mysteries of her past, along with the deaths of Halliday and Marshall, make it difficult to know where to look. Hopefully, Nigel will uncover something useful at Brighton. Frances may also know more than she realises.

  I wish I knew what Gemma did with the red gloves.

  While I wait for Foster to arrive, I check Gemma’s drawers and wardrobes again. I empty her two handbags, but don’t find any gloves. Columbo joins in, certain it’s a game, running off with one of the handbags. Every time I go to retrieve it, he picks it up and runs off again. He stops, drops the bag and waits for me to approach, before repeating the game.

  In the end, I return to the kitchen. He thinks it’s time for food, so I sit on a bar stool and phone Frances, who agreed to check the bin store for the gloves. Her voice echoes in the enclosed space.

  “I’ve found the gift box with the cardboard for recycling, but no sign of the note. I’m going to check the clothes bank next. She may have put the gloves in there.”

  The enclosed skip that’s filled with old clothes, bed linen and fabrics for recycling smells worse than a laundry basket. The prospect of rummaging through someone’s cast off clothes doesn’t appeal.

  “Why don’t we let a police search team do the job professionally?”

  “Gladly,” she says. “The smell in here’s nauseating.”

  “You saw Gemma’s reaction when she opened the box. Did she look like she wanted to get rid of them?”

  “I don’t know, Kent. I was looking at the gloves, wondering if you’d sent them.”

  I hear a door close as she comes out of the bin store.

  “Did she tell you anything about her time as an escort?”

  “She said she went to some great parties and posh events. She met lots of important and influential people, mostly a lot older than her.”

  “Did it sound like she enjoyed herself?”

  The silence answers my question better than any words.

  “Can you spare me a minute, Frances?”

  Columbo bounces around when she arrives. As usual, she seems hesitant, as if she’s intruding. She’s perspiring and a little dishevelled, her Doc Marten boots lacking their usual shine. She heads to the sink to wash her hands before fussing Columbo, who sniffs her boots with vigour.

  She declines a drink and a seat, standing close to the stairs.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but two people Gemma knew and worked with were murdered. She could be next, so I need to know what she told you about her time in London, no matter how trivial it might sound.”

  “Gemma didn’t say much. When she talked about modelling, I thought she meant fashion.” Frances bites her lip, a pained expression on her face. “She loved those times, living with her hippy dad, having the freedom to do what she wanted. She said some of the men she met automatically assumed she would sleep with them because she was a model.”

  She looks at me, like she wants permission to go.

  “The police think the wedding might have sparked a few memories for someone.” I say, not sure how much I can reveal. Hearing a car door slam, I walk over to the window. “Foster’s arrived.”

  Frances beats a brisk retreat, trailed by Columbo. He returns with Foster, who comes bearing gifts, namely a takeaway pizza and a dog treat. “Is it okay to give it to him?”

  When I nod, she holds out the chew. Columbo snatches it from her fingers and scampers to his favourite spot to devour the treat. She places the pizza on the worktop. “Ashley says you’re partial to hot and spicy. You might want to pop it in the oven first.”

  She removes her cagoule and places it over a bar stool. Her hair looks much better, tamed by a couple of plastic clips. “It’s not procedure, I know, but Ashley suggested I work with you. You have a certain talent when it comes to murder and a knack of beating us to the punch. Unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t care who solves this as long as we rescue Gemma and put the bastard away. But,” she says, raising a finger, “if you go off on your own again, I’ll have you arrested for perverting the course of justice. Is that clear?”

  “I hear you. What happens now?”

  “Once the pathologist gives us an idea of when Marshall died, we’ll appeal for witnesses, anyone who visited his house, the usual.”

  “Did you find any more DVDs featuring my wife?”

  “Marshall’s computers are on their way to the Tech Team. Hopefully, they’ll find a list of subscribers, but I’m not sure. Marshall made the videos. Halliday distributed them and we found diddly squat on his laptop.”

  “There must be a list somewhere. Could there be a third person in the team?”

  Foster parks her bottom on a bar stool. “Ashley said you were sharp, but I didn’t expect us to be on the same wavelength so soon. Yes, we believe there’s a third man, or woman, who’s greedy, ruthless, and determined to get even with you, Kent.”

  She gives me a wry smile. “I think you’re next on the killer’s list.”

  Forty-Eight

  While Foster may consider me a target, I’m no longer sure. Marrying Gemma has put me in the firing line, but our wedding’s the trigger, not the motive. If it was the motive, why wasn’t Marshall killed after he married Gemma? Why did the killer wait until now?

  “When did Gemma marry Eddie Marshall?” I ask.

  “She didn’t marry him, as far as we can tell. There’s no marriage certificate or anything we could find to show they lived together.”

  There goes another theory. I’m back in the firing line and no wiser.

  “Escorts often adopt false names for obvious reasons,” she says. “I imagine Marshall rather liked the idea of people thinking Gemma was his wife. Along with the films he made of her, it probably cost him his life.”

  While we eat, Foster outlines the main details from Marshall’s shooting. “No powder residue on his hands, no prints on the gun. No prints from your wife. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  Columbo nudges my leg. He’s finished his treat and taken up residence beside my stool, more interested in leftovers.

  She helps herself to another slice of pizza. “The killer made no attempt to make it look like Gemma killed Marshall. I don’t think he made an attempt to mislead us with Halliday either.”

  “You think he planted her rings to let me know it was personal?”

  She wipes tomato sauce from her chin. “That’s why I’m concerned about Gemma. He left the DVD for you, hoping to unsettle you, to make you angry. Either you’re next on the list or he’s taunting you before he takes her life. We need to move fast to identify him and discover where he’s keeping her.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Let’s see what the CSIs turn up. It’s almost impossible to avoid leaving a trace at a crime scene.” She reaches for more pizza. “I could also use your help, Kent. For all the technology and forensics at our disposal, you know Gemma better than anyone. You also make connections in a different way. You’re not hampered by procedures.”

  She wipes her mouth and leans back, interlocking her fingers, almost in prayer. “The person we’re after is one, maybe two steps ahead of us. He knows Gemma’s past. He knows her, probably from her time as an escort. I’m no psychologist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he fell in love with her, only to be rejected.”

  “So, when she marries me, it’s the ultimate betrayal.”

  “He may not blame her for what’s happened. He blames you.”

  Her reasoning sounds plausible, but I’m not convinced. “If he loves her, why would he kill her?”

  “So you can’t have her.”

  “Then he’s better off killing me so he can have Gemma to himself.”

  “You’d think so, but if he thinks you’ve tainted her?” Her shrug tells me she’s no closer to a solution than I am. “Like I said, Kent, I’m no psychologist. I follow evidence. We know roughly when Gemma left London, but we need to tighten the time line, get the exact date when she left for Brighton.”

  Something flashes across my mind, but I’m too slow to grab it.

  “Could she have continued to be an escort in Brighton?”

  “Unlikely,” she says. “We know Gemma found regular employment, so I think she wanted to make a fresh start, leave the past in London.”

  “Would she give it up so easily? She was probably making good money as an escort.”

  “What if she met someone special?”

  I take a sip of cola, considering the implications. “She didn’t think this person would approve of her lifestyle?”

  “How did you feel when you found out?”

  “Surprised,” I say. It doesn’t go anywhere near to explaining the jumble of emotions I felt. “Frances told me some guys hassled Gemma. Can you find out who they are?”

  “We can talk to the working girls who knew Gemma, if we can find them. They all know the dodgy punters. That’s why it’s vital to nail down the timeline. Sarah was a bit vague. She said you spent a week with Gemma about eight years ago.”

  I’m surprised Foster hasn’t broached it before. “She was working as a waitress at La Floret in Tollingdon. They’ll have accurate records of when she started and left.”

  Foster’s smile tells me she’s already checked. “She came to Tollingdon a month before you met her. She went back to London on Monday, following your week together. After that, it gets sketchy.” She takes the last slice of pizza. “During your time together, did she tell you anything about London?”

  “We didn’t spend much time talking.” I pause, pushing the memories back. “Was she working as an escort when I met her?”

  “She was modelling when she was sixteen, maybe before that. We’re not sure when she became an escort, but it was before you met her. She needed a break from her father, who was in a pretty bad way. She met you, had some fun, and went back to look after him. He died a few months later.”

  “Then she moved to Brighton?”

  “Her father died in September. We think she came to Brighton around the end of October. She had a couple of minor roles in West End shows, but had an accident and broke her leg, according to her uncle, Frank Dean. Do you know anything about it?”

  As Frank hasn’t mentioned anything about Gemma giving her father an overdose, neither will I. “No, I don’t.”

  Foster reaches into her bag for her notebook. “I’ll ask our colleagues in the Met to check hospital admissions to pin down a specific date. The Coroner’s Officer had questions about Martin Dean’s death. The post mortem revealed a high dose of morphine in his system. Gemma was interviewed at length, which is why we have a lot of information about her lifestyle.”

  I do my best to look surprised. “You think she administered an overdose?”

  “It was a possibility the Coroner wanted to consider, which explains why he requested an inquest. He recorded an open verdict. Though Martin Dean had AIDS, pneumonia and lung failure caused his death.”

  I escape to make Foster a coffee, wondering how Gemma coped with her father’s deterioration. The emotional strain must have been intense. She would go out as an escort and maybe return in the morning, not knowing if he would be alive or dead. What if he’d had a relapse during the night?

  Slowly, I begin to understand the strain and pressures Gemma must have felt, looking after her terminally ill father. Whatever his lifestyle, she loved him dearly, doing whatever she could to make his final days and weeks as comfortable as possible. As well as turning tricks to bring in extra money, she had to give up her dreams of a career on the stage.

  Who am I to judge her when I’ve no idea of what she was going through?

  Angry and annoyed with myself, I settle on the sofa opposite Foster, wondering how much she knows. She thanks me for the coffee and smiles when Columbo leaps up to join me, lying down against my leg.

  “I’d love a dog, but with the hours I work and the unpredictability of every day, it wouldn’t be fair. I could get a job with regular hours, but I’d miss the Major Crime Team.”

  “Why did you join the police?”

  “To make things better and safer, I suppose. I thought it would be exciting too, driving round at high speed, slapping handcuffs on villains. You soon realise it’s a pipe dream, but it’s what gets you out of bed in the morning. Murder victims have no one else to fight for them, do they?”

  “No, I guess not. Is there anything else you want from me?”

  “Have you found the red gloves yet?”

  “We were looking for them before you arrived. Frances found the gift box with the cardboard for recycling. We think Gemma may have put the gloves in the clothes bank. Rather than contaminate them, we thought your guys might want to take a look.”

  “I’ll arrange something tomorrow.” Foster settles back and stretches her legs, as if she’s planning to stay for the evening. “Could you draw up a list of people who might hate you enough to do this?”

  My phone vibrates with the arrival of a text from Tony Jackson.

  I’ve located Kelly Morgan. I’ll check it out before I tell Ash, so keep it under your hat, buddy.

  “Do you mind if we call it a day? I’ve neglected the sanctuary over the last few days and need to catch up.”

  She retrieves a card from her handbag. “Don’t forget to email me the list.”

  Once Foster’s gone, I text Tony.

  Need any help?

  While I wait for a response, I settle in the study to review what I know and what I’ve learned to make sure I haven’t missed anything. If I’m going to have a shot at being a private investigator, it’s time I learned how to find a missing person.

  I’m about to make notes when Nigel rings. He sounds excited.

  “I’ve spoken to Clara Martin, an actress here in Brighton. She and Gemma worked together in Matilda in London. They only had minor roles, but they became friends. Then Gemma quit suddenly.”

  I wonder what Gemma told her friend. “Did she fall off the stage and break her leg?”

  “No, Gemma left because she was pregnant.”

  Forty-Nine

  I didn’t think Gemma’s past had any unpleasant surprises left.

  “Pregnant?” I hear myself ask. “Is Clara sure?”

  “That’s what she said. Gemma never confirmed it, but she kept dashing off to the toilet with morning sickness. My wife was the same with our first kid.”

  “Gemma’s father was dying. She would have been suffering with stress, sleepless nights.”

  “That’s how Gemma explained it, but Clara wasn’t convinced. She’s happy to talk to you, but she’s on stage now. She can talk after eleven. I’ll text you her number. Next week, she joins the cast for the pantomime, so she’ll be busy rehearsing.” There’s an awkward pause before he speaks again. “What do you think, Kent?”

  I’m relieved Gemma and I took precautions.

  “How did you find Clara?” I ask “Does she work for the Council?”

  “Her sister works in one of the tourist information offices. She’s always talking about Clara, posting things on Facebook.”

  “You rang her on the off chance? Good detective work, Nigel. Tell Charley the information she gave me about Edward Marshall came up trumps. I found his body in his home studio this afternoon.”

  “Bloody hell, Kent. Everywhere you go you find bodies. Any sign of Gemma?”

  “Not yet, so I appreciate what you’ve done. You must come to dinner when she’s back.”

  I end the call and sit there for a while, considering the implications of a pregnancy. Does it open up the field of suspects or increase the motives for abducting her?

  I’d always used a condom, having been at university when AIDS was rife. A couple of students at Aston University died from HIV, focusing minds. The public campaign, while not directly linked to environmental health, overlapped with the work we did on infectious diseases, including Hepatitis B, which spreads in a similar way.

  Was the pregnancy the reason why Gemma went off with Halliday instead of talking to me?

  Did she have the baby?

  Was this what she wanted to tell me?

  Why did I brush aside her concerns?

  Why wasn’t she more assertive?

  No, I can’t blame her for my behaviour. The fault lies with me.

  The burden of guilt settles on my shoulders.

  Columbo looks up, sensing my mood shift. He raises himself and stretches before letting out a long yawn. When he whines, I go over and sit beside him on the sofa bed, tickling his ears and ruffling his fur.

  “I’m doing my best, little mate, but I can’t fill the gap Gemma’s left.”

  He barks and leaps to the floor, hearing the footsteps long before me. When I emerge from the study, Niamh’s depositing a cake on the breakfast bar. She takes one look at me and rushes over, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me close.

  “It’s okay,” she says, over and over. “I saw the detective leave. Was it about Gemma? Is it bad news?”

  She eases away, biting her lip as she waits for me to speak. Tears have smudged her mascara, drained the colour from her weary face.

  “There’s been another murder. Edward Marshall. I found his body.”

  “And Gemma?”

  “The police are still looking for her. That’s what I should be doing.” I look for my phone, remembering it’s in the study. There’s no text from Tony.

 

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