Dead Alone
A fresh, streetwise, frequently funny, frequently nasty, London-based crime series featuring sexy, no-nonsense female DI Jessie DriverJessie Driver is a fast-track motorbike-riding female cop with a colourful love-life, an attitude and more than a few resentful male colleagues. When one of them sends her to check out a headless skeleton washed up on the banks of the Thames, Jessie is furious. But this case is far from routine: the bones have been bleached, and floating nearby like a pair of jellyfish are the only source of identification – the victim’s silicone implants.Soon Jessie is on the trail of a vicious killer who seems to be targeting B-list celebrities – the owner of the implants is the first, but not the only, wannabe to meet a sticky end. Under a media spotlight, Jessie’s given the chance to prove once and for all that she has what it takes to handle a high-profile investigation. But when she becomes dangerously involved with a key suspect, her detached professionalism seems to fly out the window, and soon her own life could be in danger.
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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.
CONTENTS
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.
