Silent Kill: A Gripping New 2020 Detective Novella From a Sunday Times Bestselling Author

by Jane Casey

  On the edge of my desk, Derwent seemed to have stopped breathing. I felt a bolt of pure jealousy run through me.

  ‘Maeve is lucky to have such a good friend at work. I would love to have a special bond with someone on the team, like the two of you do, but it’s just not worth the rumours.’

  A muscle tightened in Derwent’s jaw and he turned to glare at me. ‘What rumours?’

  ‘I suppose it’s normal, when attractive people work together.’ I leaned forward, pressing my elbows together so my cleavage deepened. ‘Everywhere I’ve worked, I’ve had to deal with gossip about me and colleagues.’

  ‘Must be awful for you.’

  ‘It is. It really is. Women don’t trust me and men have … complicated feelings about working with me.’ I glanced up at him with a look that I knew worked on 99 per cent of men.

  Of course Derwent would have to be in the 1 per cent. His expression conveyed nothing more than cold disapproval.

  ‘So? Don’t fuck about, Georgia. What are you saying?’

  ‘So it’s good that you and Maeve don’t let the office gossip stop you from spending so much time together.’

  ‘I don’t care what people say,’ Derwent said.

  ‘I think Maeve might feel differently.’

  He swivelled on the desk so he was facing me properly. I had all his attention, at last. ‘Has she said something to you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I leaned back. Now that I had started this conversation, I was slightly regretting it. Derwent was senior to me by a long way, and so was Maeve, and this was none of my business. In ordinary circumstances, he would have shut me down straightaway. I knew, though, that he wanted to know what people were saying. More to the point, he wanted to know what Maeve thought about it. He wanted to know what she thought about him. ‘Look, I don’t want to get involved. I know she’s not happy about what people are saying, that’s all. But if you spend all your time together, you can’t help making everyone think there’s something going on between you. I suppose that’s why she took me with her to do those interviews instead of you. Or maybe she just wanted a break from you.’

  He winced as if I’d hit him.

  ‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘it’s pretty clear you like her. You follow her around like a shadow. You take every opportunity to get close to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice – she doesn’t think of you that way at all. Maybe you should just back off a bit. For her sake, I mean.’

  He took a moment before he answered me. ‘Have you said any of this to Maeve?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Can I suggest you don’t?’ The look in his eyes was making me feel slightly uneasy: yes, I’d spoken out of turn, but he could have laughed it off. He leaned closer. ‘If you say anything to Maeve – and I mean anything – that so much as hints at what you’re implying, I’m going to get you transferred to Traffic.’

  In for a penny … ‘How about we do a deal? I won’t say anything and, in return, you help me.’

  ‘Help you how?’

  ‘Look, I want to be better at the job. I need a mentor. You did it for Maeve. She’s learned a lot from working with you.’

  He laughed but there was an edge to it. ‘Hardly. Learned what not to do, maybe.’

  ‘Maeve told me I was getting better, even though I keep making mistakes. I want to be better. I want to get it right.’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’ He got up and stalked away, brushing past Maeve, who was standing at the printer. She looked after him, puzzled, and I went back to my notes, hoping I wouldn’t attract her attention. I really didn’t want to explain why Derwent had stormed out, and I also wanted to review my ideas about the case. One of the many things that bothered me about our conversation was that Derwent had assumed Maeve would find the answer, as if I was only there to make up the numbers.

  There was something that had been tugging at the back of my mind, about Wilf Potter. I flipped through my notebook until I found his number.

  ‘Yes?’ He sounded harassed. I introduced myself and he sighed. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d answered all your questions already.’

  ‘It’s a bit of an odd one.’ I tapped my pen on my notebook. The entire case stretched out in front of me like a relief map: I could see the whole shape of it in a single glance. All I needed was a single answer. ‘What was your wife’s brother’s name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The one who died.’

  ‘What the hell does that have to do with anything?’ There was his temper, raw-edged and fierce.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He sounded defeated, and I waited, so sure I was right that I could practically hear the name before he answered me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Maeve had stopped by my desk this time. I was sitting with my chin in my hand, scrolling through internet results.

  ‘Yes. Well, no.’ I sighed. ‘I had a whole theory about Wilf Potter and his wife’s brother. The dead one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I thought he was Zach Roth.’

  Maeve’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And he’s not, I take it.’

  ‘Boringly, he’s not.’ I leaned back. ‘It all made sense, you know? It all hung together. Potter is an osteopath so he knows all about anatomy and where to stab someone. He had the scissors. He ran to get on the bus, as if he had seen Minnie on there. If Minnie hadn’t been playing games with Zach Roth he wouldn’t have had to leave his job and he wouldn’t have been in Thailand dying in a moped crash. His brother-in-law’s death has destroyed Potter’s entire life – there’s a motive for you. If his brother-in-law had been Zach Roth, I mean.’

  ‘But it didn’t come together.’ She looked sympathetic. ‘It happens that way sometimes. You get it wrong and get it wrong and then you get it right. No one remembers the mistakes if you get the right answer in the end.’

  ‘I’m basically going in the other direction.’ I nodded at the screen. ‘I did find out one thing. That symbol that Minnie wrote on everything – it’s called a wolf hook. Wolfsangel in German. A heraldic symbol.’

  Maeve frowned. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that’s the weird thing. It was a Nazi Party symbol in the 1930s and some divisions of the German Army used it as their emblem during the Second World War. It’s basically been adopted by neo-Nazi groups now, and white supremacists in the US.’

  ‘Has it?’ She leaned in, reading off my screen intently. ‘And it’s also known as a wolf trap. How very appropriate.’

  ‘Is it?’ I abandoned any attempt at pretending to know what she was talking about and blinked up at her. ‘Why?’

  She was looking grim. ‘Get your coat. We have another interview to do.’

  Chapter 12

  In its own way, Nollingham Hall was as impressive as Lovelace School, although it couldn’t have been more different. The Hall was an old country house a few miles west of Oxford, just about in the middle of nowhere. The building was High Victorian, heavily turreted and bristling with leaded windows. It was constructed of golden Cotswold stone, but years of rain and dirt had left it streaked with black. The house had been built in a hollow between the hills, and they seemed to rise around it protectively, like hunched shoulders. The sky was iron-grey as we approached it, and so were the bare trees and spiky hedgerows around it. Spring was stubbornly refusing to soften the edges of the landscape. The drive curved through grounds flecked with spindly daffodils, leading up to a gravelled area and a heavy porch, and as we got closer to it, Maeve shivered.

  ‘I’m not sure how anyone’s supposed to feel better in a place like this.’

  ‘Maybe it’s prettier in summer.’

  ‘It couldn’t be worse.’ She stopped the car and scanned what we could see of the grounds. ‘Look at them. Poor things.’

  There were a few benches scattered on the grass, each with one or two girls sitting on them. The girls wore layers and layers of clothes to protect them from the cold air, but despite that it was clear they were very t
iny and frail. Their limbs were as shapeless and slender as sticks. Pinched faces turned to look at us with a weary kind of interest. With their hair hidden by hats, they could have been any age from six to ninety.

  ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘Four months, according to her mum.’ Maeve sighed. ‘I wish we didn’t have to do this, but I think it’s the only way.’

  ‘Didn’t her mother want to sit in?’

  ‘She said she’s been discouraged from visiting. Family tension is not a help when it comes to recovery, apparently. They had a few dodgy sessions and the psychologist in charge told her not to come back for a while.’

  ‘That’s a bit controlling.’

  ‘All part of the process, apparently. She said it was a relief.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘I get the impression that she’s trying to be understanding but she just doesn’t get it. She’s frustrated with her daughter and it shows.’

  That hit home. ‘If it’s not one thing it’s your mother, right?’

  Maeve grinned. ‘Ain’t that the truth. Come on.’

  I got out of the car and followed Maeve through the portico and the huge front door to a gloomy hall where the psychologist was waiting for us. What I had expected, in a vague way, was a grey-haired and bearded man with a fussy academic manner. What I got was a wiry thirty-something man with untidy brown hair and small glasses, wearing jeans and a close-fitting navy jumper. He was holding an enormous shaggy dog by the collar as it sat on its haunches and pawed the air, desperate to greet us.

  ‘Doctor Hardy?’ Maeve said.

  ‘Just call me Hardy. Everyone does. Get a grip on yourself, Bonnie.’ The dog lay down, her long pink tongue lolling. Her tail thumped the tiles. ‘That’s better. Sorry, she thinks it’s her job to be the welcoming committee.’

  He shook hands with Maeve first, and then me, and I felt a tingle in the base of my stomach when he gave me a swift assessing look. It wasn’t the feeling I’d had when I saw the photographer’s picture on Facebook; I could have seen a hundred images of this man and never noticed him particularly. Nor was it that he had the dangerous edge that made Derwent so fascinating. It was that when he looked at me, I felt he really saw me.

  Hardy wasn’t at all the kind of man I would go for usually. Too clever, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to get away with anything.

  Anyway, I wasn’t there to find a boyfriend.

  ‘You want to speak to Rosa,’ Hardy said. ‘She’s up in her rooms – I thought that would be a bit more relaxed than meeting in my office. She’s not in trouble, is she?’

  ‘The opposite of that.’

  ‘Good. Well, we’ll keep it informal.’ He grinned. ‘I try to keep things laidback but I’m fighting a bit of a battle with the décor. Victorian gothic has its charms, but this place looks a bit too much like a house of horrors.’

  Music was playing somewhere near the top of the house: something light and poppy and out of tune with the surroundings.

  ‘I like the soundtrack,’ I said.

  ‘K-pop. Not exactly what the previous inhabitants would have picked but I like it. We have street dance classes in the ballroom now and then. Anything to keep the ghosts at bay.’

  I nodded, charmed in spite of myself. He was so steady, so self-possessed. I wondered how he managed it. ‘How many patients have you got?’

  ‘Twenty-two at the moment. All girls, but we do get male patients from time to time. The average stay is six months. Some of them stay longer. Some of them are dealing with a relapse – they might come for three months or even less.’ He shrugged. ‘We deal with them as individuals. They get what they need.’

  ‘They look so ill,’ Maeve said softly.

  ‘The girls outside are the toughest ones to reach. They’re out there because it’s cold. Your body burns more calories when it’s cold.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘Should they be out there, then?’

  ‘It’s a fifteen-minute break between classes. I make them wear warm clothes and leave them to it. It’s good for them to get some fresh air and sunshine, if there is any.’ He grimaced as the dog plunged at me again, dragging him forward. ‘It’s not a quick process. They’ll get better but they have to change the way they think as well as the way they behave. That’s down to them. We’re patient and we give them as much space as we can. I can’t make choices for them, or they’ll leave here and fall straight back into their old habits. So we give them a choice about as much as we can. Bonnie, please …’

  ‘I’ll take her.’ A capable-looking woman with grey hair and wide hips strode across the hall and took hold of the dog. Immediately Bonnie stopped misbehaving and stood to attention. Each of her paws was the size of a saucer, and her head reached the woman’s waist. ‘Soppy idiot.’

  ‘She’s a trained therapy dog.’ Hardy rubbed his shoulder ruefully. ‘Trained to be a liability. The girls love her.’

  ‘I’m going to get them in now.’ The grey-haired woman eyed us curiously but stepped outside, taking the dog with her.

  ‘Thanks, Viv.’ Hardy clapped his hands. ‘Right. Let’s go and see Rosa.’

  Rosa’s rooms were on the third floor, under the eaves. I had been anticipating institutional bleakness but it was a charming space, two linked rooms with dormer windows that overlooked a field full of sheep. The first room was a sitting room with two armchairs and a window seat. A desk was piled with textbooks and closely written sheets of paper. Every wall was decorated with photographs and postcards, hung in rows with mathematical precision. Hardy had explained to us that each room had a bedroom and a tiny bathroom, so the patients had privacy and space of their own.

  ‘It also keeps them from spending unsupervised time together, but we don’t emphasise that aspect of it.’

  ‘They must be a big influence on each other.’

  ‘Behaviour is contagious,’ Hardy said cheerfully, bounding up the stairs ahead of us. ‘Everyone just wants to fit in. You get a group of kids who want to do well in exams and they’ll all get better results. A group who want to cause trouble will cause ten times as much trouble as they would individually. The girls do support each other and make strong friendships but ultimately what I need them to appreciate is that they are all individuals. They can’t shrink themselves to fit in the space they think they’re allowed to occupy. They need to find a space that fits them.’

  I wanted to ask him more about it, but we had arrived on the third floor by then, and I got distracted by Rosa’s sitting room, and the neat lines of photos on the walls. I couldn’t help comparing it to Minnie’s dirty, depressing bedroom and the shoddy way she had stuck up tattered pictures, apparently at random.

  ‘Rosa?’ Hardy tapped on the door of the bedroom. ‘Can you come out and join us? The police are here.’

  She came out instantly, as if she’d been standing on the other side of the door. She was tiny – five foot two, at a guess, and childishly slight. She had dark curly hair and a delicate, clever face. Huge tracksuit bottoms hung off her hips and she wore a long-sleeved top with the cuffs pulled down over her hands. But her eyes were alive with interest and intelligence, and she didn’t have quite the gaunt look of the girls outside. She was, Hardy had told us, doing better these days, although he felt she was still holding a lot back. He was cautiously optimistic about her progress. She was clever and determined. She would get there, in the end.

  If we didn’t send her off track, I added silently, and crossed my fingers.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to us, Rosa,’ Maeve said, and she nodded, edging towards the window seat where she curled up with her knees to her chin. Maeve sat in the armchair nearest her, and after an enquiring look at me, Hardy took the other one. I stood back in the corner of the room, near the door. I was there to listen, not talk.

  ‘Do you know why we’re here?’ Maeve asked.

  ‘You want to know more about Minnie.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I heard she was dead.’ Rosa
covered her mouth with a cuff-covered hand after the last word.

  ‘Yes, she is. Do you know how she died?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was stabbed, on a bus, on her way from school to the sports ground in Wimbledon.’

  ‘Wow.’ Rosa looked at Hardy. ‘Don’t assume that means I’m pleased.’

  ‘You don’t have to justify your reactions to me.’ He was slouched in the armchair, relaxed and at ease and as imperturbable as ever, but I thought his mind was razor-sharp. As if he knew I was thinking about him, he glanced at me, and smiled. I found myself smiling back.

  ‘We haven’t been able to work out who killed her.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me. I’ve been here the whole time. I haven’t been home since Christmas.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. We don’t think you were involved.’ Maeve took out her notebook. ‘Can I show you something?’

  Rosa nodded and Maeve held up the page from her notebook. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Her hand went to cover her mouth again and this time she actually gagged.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Hardy said calmly. ‘It’s just a drawing, Rosa.’

  She had gone very pale and her eyes were tightly closed. ‘Can you … can you put it away?’

  ‘Done.’ Maeve snapped her notebook shut. ‘I take it you do recognise it.’

  ‘Minnie drew it.’ Rosa swallowed. ‘On my locker. Other places. She drew it on my books. My desk.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Hardy asked Maeve.

  ‘It’s a fascist symbol called a wolf hook or wolf trap,’ she said. ‘Very popular with neo-Nazis.’

  Rosa shuddered at the word and Maeve leaned forward.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you, Rosa. I know you’re Jewish and I assume Minnie knew that too. The school told us she was bullying you because you had a scholarship, but that wasn’t the whole story, was it?’