The Kill (29 page)

I tried to sound casual, although I felt my nerves begin to jangle. ‘Still? Why’s that?’

‘He doesn’t see why Skinner would want to be involved in something like this.’

‘But Tom Fox identified Larch, and Larch only works for Skinner.’

‘He used to. John Skinner isn’t the man he was, though. Plenty of people trying to take over his territory, and those people have money. Larch would murder his grandmother for money.’

‘Has anyone asked Skinner about it?’

‘No. We don’t want him to know that we know he’s involved, if he
is
involved.’

‘Clear as mud,’ I said, and grinned at the look I got. ‘So what’s the plan?

‘We’ve got some intel sources down in HMP Lithlow where Skinner is banged up. They’re trying to spot how Skinner is communicating with the outside world. It’s clear he is getting messages in and out but no one knows exactly how. Now is a good time to watch him. He’s got to be running this one himself if it is him. He’s not the sort to delegate. And he’s exactly the sort to get a kick out of murdering coppers.’

‘Even ones who had nothing to do with locking him up?’

‘Easier that way, isn’t it? We can take precautions if we know we’re on his list. The whole of the Met can’t run scared, though.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what had given him the idea to start this now. Maybe it was just getting Larch back from wherever he was holed up. Maybe this has been his plan all along and he was waiting for the right moment to set it in motion. Revenge for getting banged up for life. Payback for us for not rescuing his daughter. I don’t know. I’m not a criminal.’

I had some ideas. Glad that Derwent wasn’t a mind-reader, I wandered down past the pages and pages of death threats and lists of those who had made aggressive comments about the police in the past. I wanted to look at Terence Hammond’s picture. It was pinned a little way apart from the others, but on the same board. He looked doleful, in the image – all the way out the other side of serious to plaintive.

‘What are you thinking?’ Derwent was standing behind me.

‘That he’s been forgotten.’

‘I haven’t forgotten him.’

‘Maybe not, but we’re not doing very well, are we? We can’t prove that his death was unconnected with the TSG shooting. We can’t solve it, either. We’re stuck.’

‘Poor old Terence. Shot twice and no one cares. Maybe he should have been nicer when he was alive.’

‘Amy Maynard said he was kind to her.’

‘Kind?’

‘That was the word she used. She was at the memorial service.’

Derwent tapped a finger on his mouth, brooding. ‘Why was that?’

‘To support Vanessa, apparently.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘I didn’t actually see her speak to Vanessa. But then Vanessa was a bit busy.’

‘What was she doing?’

‘Jamie Driffield was there.’

Derwent actually growled, very low.

‘Your favourite person,’ I said. ‘I didn’t give him your love.’

‘I knew I should have gone.’

‘Oh, thank God you didn’t. You might have made a scene.’

‘I would definitely have made a scene. Were they together?’

I nodded.

‘Fuck. Driffield is such a little toe rag.’

‘You seem more concerned than Julie Hammond was.’

‘That wouldn’t be hard. Julie has other problems.’ Derwent rocked back and forth, his hands in his pockets. ‘I looked up what happened to Ben.’

‘Did you?’ I was surprised.

‘Guess who was driving.’

‘Julie.’

‘Terence.’

‘Oh.’ I considered it. ‘So, he felt guilty?’

‘Probably. And I don’t think Julie is the comforting kind. Might explain why he was in denial about the extent of Ben’s— shit, I don’t know what we’re allowed to call it now. Handicaps. Disabilities. Limitations.’ He snapped his fingers at me. ‘You get the idea.’

‘I do indeed. Is that a motive?’

‘For whom? For Julie? The car accident was a while ago. I’d be surprised.’

‘If she knew he was having an affair, though.’

‘If she did. Which brings me back to Amy Maynard.’

‘No.’ I was shaking my head. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Do we think she was in love with him?’

‘Yes. Emotionally involved, definitely. Remember how defensive she was about him? How he couldn’t possibly have been sleeping around?’

‘What if that was because he was shagging her?’

I leaned against the wall, my hands behind me. ‘You think you’re a good judge of women. Do you really believe Amy Maynard would have been sleeping with a married man?’

‘I
know
I am a good judge of women and honestly, I think she’s a virgin.’

‘Typical.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s always one or the other with you. Virgin or whore.’

‘I’m just basing my opinion on experience. I have a fair bit, as you probably know, Kerrigan.’

‘I keep hearing about it.’

Unconsciously, Derwent assumed an alpha male power stance, feet wide apart, arms folded. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say Amy Maynard is asexual. No interest at all in doing the deed.’

‘Is this because she didn’t fancy you?’

‘She didn’t even look, Kerrigan. And not in an I’m-too-shy-to-make-eye-contact-with-a-man way. No reaction at all.’

‘Yep. Definitely asexual,’ I said drily.

‘Then there’s the way she dresses. Jesus, she looks like a nun having a weekend off.’

‘You’re almost certainly underestimating her. Under the ankle-length skirts and the fluffy jumpers she’s probably wearing hold-ups.’

‘Like you, you mean?’

I watched the slow grin spread across his face and thought, resignedly, that I deserved it.

He snapped back to business. ‘I’m going to have another word with Amy, I think. If she did have a crush on him, she’d have been watching him. She might have noticed him being a bit too friendly with a teacher or a parent at the school. We’re pretty sure he wasn’t shagging anyone at work. That leaves the pub and the school, from what Julie said. I’ve said all along, if we can find the woman, we can find Hammond’s killer.
Cherchez la femme
.’

‘You always do,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t you think I should speak to her?’

‘No. You’ve had two tries. My turn.’

‘I think you’ll terrify her.’

‘I’ll be nice,’ Derwent said with a glint in his eye that was nothing short of concerning.

I was about to argue the point when the door of Godley’s office opened and swung back against the wall with a crash. The superintendent stood for a second on the threshold, scanning the room. ‘Josh.’

Derwent was beside him in a second. ‘Sir.’

‘Where’s Una?’

‘Somewhere. What’s wrong?’

Godley swallowed. He was ashen and his eyes looked sunken in his head. ‘Another police murder.’

‘Where? When?’ Derwent closed his eyes for a second, getting a grip on himself. ‘What happened, boss?’

‘A girl. Young. Twenty-two. Emma Wells. Just a PCSO.’ The information was coming in staccato bursts, as if Godley couldn’t form a full sentence or organise it in his own head.

‘A PCSO?’ Derwent said. ‘Shit.’

I felt a chill race over my skin. PCSOs were the lowest form of police life, less useful even than the volunteer Specials who at least had the power to make arrests. Police Community Support Officers dressed in uniforms and high-vis jackets, but their role was strictly pastoral. They existed to replace the bobbies on the beat that the public claimed they wanted – a presence in public, armed with a radio and not much else. Many of them were young, putting in time and getting what experience they could while they waited for recruitment to reopen so they could apply for proper police training.

‘Where was this?’ Derwent asked.

‘Leytonstone.’ It was east London, out in the suburbs.

‘What happened?’ I asked, coming closer. Behind me, I was aware of the team standing up, moving towards Godley. There was a hush in the room that was unusual.

‘I don’t know yet. We need to get there. Local CID are securing the scene for us at the moment.’

‘Was she shot?’ Derwent asked abruptly.

‘What? No. No, she wasn’t. Stabbed, I think. She was lured to an empty house and killed. The neighbours didn’t hear anything.’ Godley winced, as if he was in physical pain, just thinking about it. ‘Her sergeant went looking for her when she didn’t respond over the radio.’

‘How did this happen?’ Derwent asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Godley looked across the room to where Una Burt was stumping in. ‘Una, a word. Josh, get a team together. Six of you for starters. Anyone we can spare off the TSG investigation.’

‘Right you are.’

Godley stood back to allow Una Burt into his office and shut the door behind her. I stood where I was for a moment, staring at the blank, smooth wood. I wasn’t really capable of moving from that spot. Not while I was being buffeted with wave after wave of regret and guilt. If I’d said something to him. If I’d put my career to one side and concentrated on doing my job. If I’d run that particular hare to earth – even if it was only to prove to myself that I’d been wrong and Godley wasn’t implicated in any way – I might have been able to set Godley’s duplicity to one side. Then I might have been able to concentrate on the TSG shooting, or Terence Hammond’s death. Then I might have traced Tony Larch. Then I might have been able to keep this nameless young PCSO from walking to her death.

‘Wake up, Kerrigan.’ Derwent’s voice was rough. ‘Do you want to come along or not? Plenty of paperwork for you to get on with here.’

I wanted to be anywhere but at another crime scene where the victim was a police officer.

‘I’ll come,’ I said.

Chapter 20

I’d always heard you should buy the worst house in the best street you could afford. That, presumably, was what the estate agents who were selling 23 Rossetti Road were hoping, because it had zero kerb appeal. Rossetti Road was a mixture of pre-war terraces and post-war redevelopment. Whoever had built the bungalows had stopped at four. Two had been bought and refurbished extensively. One was dated but in good condition. One, number 23, was a wreck. It was the worst house on the road by a mile, even without the rake of emergency vehicles parked outside it. It was tiny, just one bedroom. It would have been a 1950s homeowner’s modest dream, but it looked as if it had been unoccupied for a few years. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. Even they looked dispirited, as if the soil was too poor for dandelions and thistles to thrive. The window frames were rotten, the paint flaking and peeling. Grey net curtains hung in the windows, their edges tattered.

‘How much do you reckon they want for it?’ Derwent was looking at the estate agent’s board outside, which was leaning at a drunken angle.

‘Too much. But after this, I’d say they’d take an offer.’ I followed him up the path and through the front door. It led straight into a living room that had no furniture except for an abandoned chair with a cane seat that had fallen to pieces. It also contained a large number of police officers, SOCOs and a woman who was talking to Una Burt and Godley.

‘Who’s she?’

‘That’s Dr Early, the pathologist,’ I whispered, suppressing a shiver. The air in the house was cold and slightly damp. There was a sweetish, musty smell that made me think of mice. I hoped it was mice. Mice would be all right. Where you had mice you didn’t have rats, I’d always heard.

Having tried and failed to place Dr Early, Derwent shook his head.

‘She did a case for us last year. A woman in the boot of a car. The doctor was pregnant,’ I prompted him. ‘You were rude to her.’ As if that was enough to remind him.

‘Okay. It’s coming back to me.’

I couldn’t tell if Derwent was humouring me or if he genuinely remembered, but he made his way over to Dr Early and waved a gloved hand. Shaking hands at crime scenes was never a good idea.

‘So, doctor, what have we got?’

‘She’s in the bedroom.’ The last time I’d seen Dr Early she had been round and pink and more or less on the point of giving birth. In her non-pregnant state the doctor was pale and thin, with the fidgety movements of someone who burned a lot of calories without even trying to. She touched the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘I was just saying, I think it probably happened around eleven this morning.’

‘That’s specific.’ Derwent sounded dubious and the pathologist coloured.

‘I’m basing it on what her colleague told me about when she came in here and the last communication he had with her. From my point of view there’s nothing to suggest that she was here for long before she was killed. Everything is consistent with eleven as a time of death. This is an unoccupied building and it’s cold in here. Colder than outside, in fact. Based on her internal temperature I’m fairly confident about the timings.’

‘Have you seen her yet?’ Derwent asked Godley, who shook his head. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Nothing. It’s just a bit crowded in there at the moment.’ DCI Burt moved towards the door and I followed, seeing a corner of a postage-stamp-sized kitchen with a bathroom beyond.

‘Where are the others?’ Godley asked Derwent.

‘I made them stay outside. No point in everyone coming in here.’

I was one of the lucky ones, I gathered, and tried to feel lucky. I wasn’t all that keen on going through to the bedroom. Una Burt was tapping her fingers against her legs, which for her counted as jumping up and down. After a minute she ran out of patience and leaned into the kitchen.

‘Can you make some room in there, please? The superintendent would like to view the body.’

The sound of shuffling feet and rustling paper suits filled the air. Four SOCOs edged into the living room, pulling down masks and pushing back hoods. One of them, his hair sleek with sweat, was Kev Cox, my favourite crime-scene manager. He was imperturbable usually, no matter how awful the state of the body. Today, he was grim-faced as he nodded to us.

‘Cover up before you go in, please. Shoe covers and gloves. Maeve, you need to tie your hair back. Don’t touch anything. Don’t move anything.’

‘It’s not our first crime scene,’ Burt said, flashing a tight smile that meant she was annoyed.