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“But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Mr Everett,” says Remi saccharine sweetly. “I’m sure you have a rock solid alibi. It’s just that we have to ask these questions and note things down for our records. It’s to make sure all our bases are covered for when killer is taken to court. You understand?”
Everett nods. “Kris and I have been in Ireland since last Thursday to early this morning, when we flew back. We were together all week. You can check the flight records.” He tells Kris to give them details of the hotel he stayed at, and the name and phone number of his director friend who had invited him to the movie set.
“And you went there to film a role?” says Remi, batting her eyelashes.
“An integral supporting role,” says Everett smugly. “I couldn’t do the lead. I’m too busy with my vampire hunter show, of course.”
“We’ve already called your director friend,” says Storm, diving in for the kill, and noting the sudden tenseness in Everett’s body. “And he said that he’d decided to axe the supporting part. You didn’t film anything.”
“You— You spoke to him?” says Everett, looking flustered.
“He said you stayed some days to watch the shooting, but then you left this Wednesday. Two days before the murder. Plenty of time to fly back here in time for Friday night, and then fly back to Ireland.”
“It wasn’t me!” Everett explodes. “I never flew back early. Tell them Kris!”
Kris Caprio nods. “I booked Jared into a nearby beach cottage for a few days. He needed a break. I stayed on set while he was away.”
“So Jared has no alibi?” says Storm.
“I do,” mutters Jared resentfully. “You people are worse than the reporters.”
“Her name is Astrid Wikander,” says Caprio, with a sigh. “She’s the female lead in the Ireland movie. I’ll give you her number. Can you please keep it quiet? It’s the last thing we want in the press.”
Storm exchanges a look with Remi. Talk about the unexpected. Astrid Wikander is one of Hollywood’s hottest young female leads, and Jared Everett’s icy-hearted ex-girlfriend. One who was furious when Everett dumped her for a succubus ‘whore’, as Wikander had once called Lynesse in a now-famous swiftly deleted tweet.
Instead of one suspect, it now looks like they have two.
Chapter 11
DIANA
On Monday morning I wake up gritty-eyed as ever from the same dream of murder, which was a hundred times worse now I know the victim’s names, and that they are already dead and nothing I can do will change it. All that is left is to put their killer behind bars.
Or beneath the ground, suggests the little voice.
Full of determination, I spring out of bed. Yesterday after Storm had escorted me out of the morgue I had stayed in the car park fuming. I had wanted to march back in and have another go at him for even implying I might be under suspicion for murder. His words are still echoing in my head. “You were right about James Fenway too, and look what happened to him.”
As if I hadn’t felt enough guilt over James Fenway’s death. He should have been behind bars for what he did to his niece, not have had his head blown off.
He deserved it, whispers the little voice in my head.
“It’s not vengeance I want,” I tell her. “It’s justice.”
Same thing, she says. I can almost feel her shrugging.
Maybe it is. Maybe Raif Silverstone’s shattered spirit would have felt better knowing his killer would suffer. His remnant, his ghost if you will, had asked for my help. I’d promised him that. I’d vowed justice for Lynesse. I’m not going to back off simply because Storm will be disappointed in me. My promises have to mean something, because they’re to people who are dead and can’t do anything to help themselves.
So all this anger I have been feeling lately, all of this rage and helplessness, I’m going to have to bottle it and use it, even if that makes Storm mad.
Maybe he deserves to be a little mad. Like I was when I had stood outside that morgue spoiling for a fight and fuming about the fact that he must be inside talking to the cool, elegant Beatrice Grictor with her shiny red hair and big weepy eyes.
I had finally persuaded myself that I should leave when Beatrice Grictor had come out, heading to her car after identifying her business partner’s body. On some mad instinct I had flagged down a cab and asked the driver to follow her. Like in the movies. I’d wasted a whole bunch of my money doing it, but I’d thought she’d be going back to her office, back to where Raif Silverstone used to work.
Even when Beatrice parked in front of a London townhouse and I had paid my cab driver and I realized there might have been cheaper ways of finding their office, I had been glad. Because I had been doing something. I had taken action. And it had felt good.
Beatrice had disappearing into what was clearly her home, not her office, and I had walked right up to her front door and seen the silver plaque beside it. Turns out I had found their office after all. Beatrice Grictor and Raif Silverstone had worked from her home.
Which had made me wonder if they’d ever had a relationship, and whether she had mentioned that to Storm.
