The Blissfully Dead (12 page)

Chapter 22
Day 6 – Chloe

C
hloe was gutted. Her mum had made her wait because she had to take an important call from a client, and then Brandon had announced that he needed the loo just as they were about to leave, and the traffic had been predictably
horrific
, and they had to stop for petrol and there was a long line at the garage. By the time she got to Waterstones, having run the last hundred yards, her stress levels were off the scale and, as she feared, the queue was already so long that the chances of getting in were less than zero.

She joined the line anyway, behind a group of shrill twelve-year-old girls and tried to figure out if there was some way of
getting
farther ahead without getting her hair pulled out. Security staff walked up and down the line, presumably to stop queue-jumping and fighting among fans, or to drag out any girls who fainted with excitement.

If only Jess were here. She’d know how to get them in. The thought was followed immediately by a rush of sadness. Jess
wasn’t
here. Tears welled up in Chloe’s eyes and she remembered the dream she’d had a few nights ago. She’d been waiting down at the Rotunda to meet up with Jess, but her friend hadn’t turned up and Chloe felt increasingly panicked. Just before she woke up, her pillow damp beneath her face, Chloe realised: Jess wasn’t coming. Not ever.

She inhaled deeply, aware that the twelve-year-olds were
gawping
at her. Maybe she shouldn’t have come . . .
It was too soon after Jess’s death, too painful to think how much Jess would have loved this. MissTargetHeart – Rose – too. Brandon kept going on about it, how it was ‘mad’ that Chloe knew two girls who’d been killed, till she’d been forced to smack him around the head and tell him to shut up, which made him cry and go running to Mum. It wasn’t ‘mad’. It was tragic. Although she hadn’t really known Rose, not properly.

The twelve-year-olds were whispering and giggling now and, irritated and embarrassed, Chloe left the line, stalking down towards the store. She could see Mervyn Hammond up ahead,
talking
to a woman with auburn hair. The woman turned and Chloe realised she was that cop, the one who’d stood next to the
detective
at the vigil when he made his appeal for information. And just beyond the female cop, Chloe saw Jade and Kai, right at the front of the queue.

Her knees wobbled and all of a sudden the wintry sun seemed too bright. She staggered away, almost colliding with a security guy, and sat down on the kerb, sucking in deep breaths. It all came
rushing
back to her, the reason why she didn’t talk to Jade anymore; what had happened to that girl; the things that she hadn’t told the police about . . .

She forced herself to her feet, praying that Jade and Kai hadn’t seen her, and walked briskly away. She needed to be far away. To be anywhere but here.

Chapter 23
Day 7 – Patrick

P
atrick cracked his knuckles and checked his reflection in the mirror, making sure he didn’t have anything caught in his teeth and that his hair wasn’t sticking up. He knew that Mervyn Hammond was the kind of person who placed high importance on image and Patrick needed Hammond to take him seriously, even if the PR man had a faintly ridiculous air about him – an older man with dyed black hair and a smooth Botoxed face, a permatan and bling on his wrist in the form of a diamond-studded Rolex. As Carmella had pointed out, Hammond probably wore control pants to keep his stomach sucked in. But despite all these ludicrous foibles, Hammond had power, friends in the press and other high places, and the means to afford teams of expensive lawyers. Patrick needed to tread carefully with him.

He cracked his knuckles again, gave his reflection a final
once-ov
er, and left the Gents. Careful or not, he was looking
forward
to this.

Mervyn Hammond was waiting in interview room one,
Carmella
sitting opposite him. Hammond had brought his own large coffee from Starbucks, along with a bag of mixed nuts, which sat open on the table. When Patrick had spoken to Hammond on the phone he had explained that the PR man was not under susp
icion of the murder of Rose or Jessica, but that informati
on had come to light that they needed to ask him about. Patrick had expected Hammond to protest, to come in flanked by an entourage of lawyers, but he had been surprisingly willing and had come alone, driving his own limited-edition F-type Jag Coupé,
at which several cops had gone into the car park to gawp.
Maybe, Patrick thought, Hammond found this kind of thing
exciting, interesting.

‘I’m diabetic,’ Hammond explained, catching Patrick eyeing the bag of nuts. ‘I need to snack regularly or my blood sugar goes . . .’ He pointed his thumb downwards like a Roman emperor ordering an execution. ‘That is all right, I assume, Detective Lennon?’ He chuckled. ‘I met your namesake a few times, you know. Up
himself
, he was. Paul was always the talented one . . . though they both shared the same dodgy taste in women.’

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Patrick said, referring to the nuts. He took the seat opposite Hammond, who was wearing a suit that was slightly too tight, his fake tan glowing orange in the badly lit interview room where the body odour of the youth who’d been questioned here last still lingered. ‘I should point out that you are here
voluntarily
, that you are not under caution and that you can leave at any time.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to be locked up. Unless it was a women’s prison.’ He winked at Carmella. ‘Enjoy the book signing, Detective?’

Patrick was eager to get started. ‘Thank you for coming to talk to us, Mr Hammond.’

‘Call me Mervyn.’

‘Mr Hammond, we want to ask you some questions about one of your clients. Like I said on the phone, some information has come to light that is connected to a case we’re working on, and we are hoping to get some information from you to help clear it up.’

‘It’s not Bruce, is it? I warned him about those small boys.’ He guffawed and said, ‘I’m only kidding. It’s obviously about
OnTarget
and the murders of those two teenagers. It’s all over the papers this morning. Both massive OnT fans; the boys sending their
condolences
to the families; planning a minute’s silence at tonight’s gig. That was my idea, by the way. Though the boys really do care, you know. They love their fans.’

Patrick studied Hammond’s face, trying to work out if he was taking the piss. Before he could ask the next question, Hammond scooped up the bag of snacks and leaned across the table towards Carmella.

‘Nut?’

‘No thank you,’ she said coolly.

His eyes flicked up and down her upper body. ‘Yeah, you don’t look like the type of woman who likes nuts.’ He turned his
attention
to Patrick. ‘Ever thought about a TV career, Detective? I reckon you’d do well with those rugged, alternative looks. Plus you’ve got a good backstory – wife trying to kill your nipper. You could
probably
get a book deal. The cop who arrested his own wife.
The Mirror
would serialise that, no question.’

Patrick blinked, then took a deep breath. Of course, it would be easy for Hammond to find that out – it had been in the papers at the time, although the detail about Patrick arresting Gill
himself
had been omitted. He was disconcerted by the fact that
Hammond
had made the effort to research him, though. But he couldn’t let that show.

‘Mr Hammond, the allegations we’ve heard concern Shawn Barrett.’

Hammond’s eyebrows rose, his forehead remaining immaculately smooth. ‘Allegations? A minute ago, you said “information”.’ He popped a brazil nut into his mouth, displaying his brilliant white teeth.

Patrick cursed himself, but it didn’t really matter. The allegations were going to come up anyway.

‘Information has come to light that, while on tour in Ireland, Shawn Barrett assaulted a girl at his hotel. According to our source, he tied this girl up and beat her.’

Hammond stayed immobile and silent for a moment. Patrick could almost hear his brain ticking. According to Wikipedia (
You’re not the only one who can do research, mate
, Patrick thought) Mervyn Hammond had an IQ of 160. Not that Patrick placed much faith in IQ scores. Some of the people he knew with high IQ scores had common sense scores of zero.

‘Who’s this source?’ Hammond asked, his voice flat.

‘We can’t reveal that.’

Hammond barked a laugh. ‘Ever thought about working in PR, Detective? Or journalism? This is the first I’ve ever heard about such an allegation, and I can tell you that Shawn Barrett is a sweet, normal lad who has no interest in S&M or tying little girls up.’

‘Who said she was a little girl?’ Carmella asked.

‘Huh?’

‘We didn’t mention anything about her being underage.’

Hammond snorted. ‘Well, you said girl instead of woman.
You police are trained to be politically correct now, aren’t you? You
probably
have to say
person of a female persuasion
in public, don’t you? I was simply extrapolating from the vocab you used.’

Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘We want the name and contact details of this young woman – and yes, she was underage.’

‘Did he have sex with her?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you talk about her being underage. I assume you mean the age of consent, though I don’t even know what it is in Ireland.’

Patrick had checked – it was seventeen.

‘Listen, Detective, Shawn Barrett and the other members of OnTarget have
persons of a female persuasion
literally jumping on them and begging them to fuck them, if you’ll excuse my Anglo-Saxon. Maybe one or two of these chicks asked Shawn to tie them up after showing him a dodgy birth certificate. I know for a fact that Shawn is not a psychopathic rapist who gets his kicks from attacking his fans. He’s a normal red-blooded bloke who is taking advantage of the goodies being served up to him on a plate.’

He sat back and folded his arms.

‘How do you know “for a fact” he’s not a psychopath?’ Carmella asked.

Hammond looked at her. ‘Because the management company had them all tested.’

‘Tested?’

‘Yes. The whole band underwent extensive psychometric testing and assessment by a psychologist before being allowed through to the final stages of
Face the Music
.’ That was the talent show on which the band had been put together. ‘They are all normal, healthy, young heterosexual men with conventional tastes in the bedroom. They are ambitious but lack aggression. In other words, they failed the psychopath test with flying colours.’

Patrick sat up straight. This interview was threatening to skid out of control. ‘Mr Hammond, regardless of that, we need to take this information seriously. I want to talk to this young woman.’

‘And what makes you think I can help you?’

‘Because our source told us that you helped cover it up.’

Hammond stood, snatching up his half-empty packet of nuts. ‘I’m exercising my right to leave of my own free will.’

‘Please sit down, Mr Hammond.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because I’m sure you don’t want anyone to know that you allegedly covered this up. It won’t help Shawn Barrett’s reputation, and it certainly won’t help yours.’

Hammond dropped into his seat, his lip curling. ‘No-one in the press will print anything negative about me.’

‘Who said anything about the press? There’s this thing now called the Internet. You might have heard of it.’

Hammond’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘So . . . you’re threatening me?’

‘We are merely asking for your cooperation.’

Hammond took several deep breaths, then tipped a handful of nuts into his palm, inserting them into his mouth one by one and chewing thoughtfully. ‘You think Shawn Barrett’s a murderer.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Come on, Detective. If you want me to be straight with you, I need to ask for some
quid pro quo
here. Two days ago you were at Gideon Records’ office, asking about OnTarget in relation to those two dead girls. And now you’re asking me about this. It isn’t a coincidence. You think that because Shawn allegedly engaged in some light bondage on tour it makes him a killer.’ He shook his head. ‘So unimaginative, you plods.’

Patrick clenched his fists.

‘OK, so maybe Shawn did get a little carried away. But he didn’t
know that girl was underage, and he didn’t do anything she
didn
’t w
ant to do. It was all consensual.’

‘He hurt her, Mr Hammond.’

‘That’s what S&M is all about, isn’t it? Pleasure and pain. Except this girl says yes, gives her consent, and then when it actually hurts she’s all
boo hoo hoo, I want my mummy, you hurt me, you brute
.’

Patrick sighed. ‘I don’t want to get into a big debate about this. But I need the contact details of this young woman.’

‘You’re wasting your time. Detective Lennon, you’re going down the wrong avenue, I assure you. If you want to catch whoever murdered those OnTarget fans, you should stop messing about pursuing Shawn Barrett. The person who murdered those girls has to be a psychopath – and, like I said, Shawn Barrett can’t be one of those.’

‘Just give us the details.’

‘Or you’ll leak?’

Patrick didn’t respond. He reached across the desk, took one of Hammond’s nuts from the bag and put it in his mouth, maintaining eye contact throughout.

Hammond stood up. ‘I will need to look up the details at my office and get back to you. I guarantee you won’t find anything worthwhile.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘I’ll send the details over later.’ He gave Patrick a final sneer. ‘If this does leak, if I find my name on a website related to this story, you might just regret it. Your wife is back home now, isn’t she? That would make an interesting story.
Baby-Battering Wife on the Loose . . .
’ He wiggled his fingers into speech marks.

Patrick leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of the front of
Hammond’s
jacket. ‘If one word is published about my wife . . .’

Hammond pulled away, dusting himself off.

‘Then we have an understanding,’ he said. ‘Nothing appears about me, nothing appears about your wife.’ He stood before the door. ‘I’ll send that information over later.’