by Jane Casey
“Twisted your arm, did she?” He said it lightly, but I felt guilty anyway. When he came back to the hall he put out a hand to me and I allowed myself to be lifted to my feet, smelling mint.
“I hadn’t been out for ages. Joanne was there too. And Christine. Do you remember her?”
“The analyst? Yeah, she was sweet.”
“She remembers you, let me tell you.”
He grinned. “I deny everything.”
“She said she fancied you rotten.”
“That’s nice.” It wasn’t an unusual event in Rob’s life, and not just because he was tall and lean and broad-shouldered, or because of the black-hair-blue-eyes coloring, or the quiet, understated commitment to doing the right thing that had landed him in harm’s way once or twice. It was because when he listened to people he seemed to hear more than what they actually said. It gave him an unnerving ability to read minds, which I found inconvenient at times. Like now. He reached out and touched my cheek. “Don’t worry. I only had eyes for you.”
“Who said anything about being worried? I think she fancies Derwent too, so it’s not all that flattering.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“She was speculating about what it would be like to sleep with him.”
“And?”
“We speculated.” I blinked up at him. “Don’t make me think about it again. I’ve been trying to forget.”
“I’ve heard you talking about him in your sleep.” He imitated me. “‘Ooh, Josh, again. Like that. Harder. Don’t stop.’ I think that was it.”
“Yuck. That’s a horrible suggestion.”
His eyes were wide with innocence. “Imagine how I felt having to listen to it.”
“I’ve never had a dream about Derwent. My subconscious mind is above that sort of thing.”
“I know what I heard.”
“You’re making it up.” I looked at him doubtfully. “Aren’t you?”
He laughed at me. “How is Derwent, anyway?”
“Rude. Horrible. Oh, and weird.” I hadn’t noticed him come out of Godley’s office; the next time I’d seen the superintendent he’d been alone. Derwent, for once, had gone home early. I told Rob about it and he listened, frowning.
“You know and I know he doesn’t give two shits about my career progression. He was using me to get at Godley for leaving him out of the task force he’s setting up and I don’t know why he would be left out. Or why he’d care, particularly.”
“Maybe because DCI Burt is involved?” Rob suggested.
“Maybe. She does make him crazy.” I sighed. “He was so angry with Godley, though.”
“He’s an angry man.” Rob stretched and yawned. “I can’t believe I’m talking about him rather than sleeping. I’m shattered.”
“Are you going to bed? What time is it?”
“Late. I’ve got to be up in six hours.”
“I missed your last night.” I rubbed my eyes. “I am such a crap girlfriend.”
“You have your good points.” Rob looked thoughtful. “I may need a reminder of what they are.”
I slid my jacket off and leaned back against the wall. “Where would you like to start?”
“With you taking your makeup off. If you go to bed like that, you’ll wake up looking like the saddest clown in the world.” He was standing very close to me, and he started unbuttoning my shirt.
“That is not motivating me to get out the cleanser.”
“What? I’m just helping.” He leaned in for a kiss and I let him do what he wanted with me as his hands roved. The effect he had on me was not wearing off—quite the opposite. He only had to look at me a certain way to make me catch my breath, and when he touched me, I was lost.
“I have been thinking about this all night,” I whispered, the plaster cold against my back as Rob slid the last of my clothes to the floor. His hand slipped between my thighs and I clung to him and shivered, wanting him to keep doing what he was doing. Wanting more.
“It was on my mind too.”
“Oh really?” I pressed against him. “What were you thinking?”
“I would really rather show you than tell you.” He stepped back, moving toward the bedroom. “Hurry up, though.”
I came down to earth with a bump as soon as I saw myself in the bathroom mirror. The gin-euphoria had worn off. I was blotchy, with mascara streaked under each eye and my hair was tragic. Sobering up, I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth until I could no longer taste alcohol. All of the things I was worried about came and stood around me as I wearily, savagely rubbed moisturiser into my face. Why was I so crap? I only had to manage two things: my job and my relationship. Sometimes I felt I was failing at both.
And in the kitchen, as I drank half a liter of water, I saw that he had made dinner for both of us, which made my guilt bite down even harder. It was like him not to mention it. It was like him to say he didn’t mind. Sometimes I would have given all I had to know how he really felt.
I found Rob sitting up in bed with his eyes closed, his arms folded across his bare chest, fast asleep. He looked tired too, with dark smudges like thumbprints under his eyes. As usual he was sleeping in a self-contained, composed way, not sprawling or snoring. He was just too perfect.
Too good for me.
I shied away from thinking about it, knowing that I’d touched on the truth but absolutely not wanting to consider it any further because I knew, logically, where it would end: with a breakup. And I didn’t want to lose him, even if I didn’t deserve him. I turned off his light as quietly as I could and edged around to my side of the bed, intending to get in without waking him.
Some hope. He slept as lightly as a cat. As I slid under the covers, he reached for me.
“Where were we?”
“You don’t have to. You’re tired.”
“I’ll find the energy, believe me.”
I turned over, burrowing into the pillow.
“Don’t you want to?” Rob sounded puzzled.
“I’m really, really sorry I missed dinner,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I missed your last night.”
“Not my last night on the planet, hopefully.” He put on his light. “Maeve, look at me. If I really minded, I’d have phoned you. I could have gone to bed hours ago. I was watching TV until five minutes before you showed up. I don’t mind you going out and having a good time with your mates. I don’t expect you to be here if you’re not working.”
“But you’re going away.”
“And I’ll be back.”
“You don’t hate me for being selfish?”
He looked startled. “Who said you were selfish? You’re terrible at managing your time, but I knew that before we started going out.”
“And you still find me attractive even when my makeup is smudged and I smell of alcohol.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Then more than ever.”
The thing about Rob was that he had an unerring instinct for the right thing to say, and do. I felt all of my worries slip away as he made me absolutely sure he loved me, despite all of my flaws. Maybe because of some of them. I showed him, because it was true, that I loved him, even though I still hadn’t said it, and couldn’t, and it turned out to be the sort of sex that makes you smile to yourself when you think about it afterward, and you think about it a lot.
I was almost asleep when I remembered to ask him if he thought I was intimidating, and had to listen to him laughing on and off for the next five minutes, so much that the bed shook, until I turned over and went to sleep in a proper temper.
Some time in the small hours, around the time I usually got a phone call about a dead body, I woke up and reached for him again, curling against him, my knees tucked behind his, my arm around his waist. He held my hand and said my name, and I was almost sure he was asleep but I didn’t dare say out loud what I was thinking. I love you. It shouldn’t have been difficult.
I forgave him everything all over again when I woke early but not quite early en
ough the next morning to find a glass of water and a couple of Alka-Seltzer on the bedside table, along with a note telling me he loved me and he’d see me in two weeks and of course I could be intimidating if I wanted to be, if that mattered to me.
The flat was tidy, and too quiet, and I wandered around feeling suddenly unmoored. I hadn’t lied to Liv. I really did like the idea of being on my own. The reality just seemed a bit brutal.
What I wanted, I realized, was to be on my own with Rob for two weeks. I missed him already.
I hadn’t even said goodbye.
FRIDAY
Chapter Five
In the interests of making the best of things, I got into work early. I had a filthy headache, which I refused to admit was a hangover. All I wanted was to sit quietly at my desk, sipping the vat of coffee I’d bought on the way in. I had yet to find a route that meant I didn’t pass a Starbucks on my journey to the office and sometimes I succumbed, even though I preferred to think of myself as the sort of person who would support small businesses rather than global coffee-pushers. When it came down to it, I just wanted caffeine, and lots of it, with absolutely no conversation on the side, to the point where I couldn’t even be bothered to correct the baristas when they mangled my name. That was why I was clutching a cup with “Maisy” scrawled down the side. I had been “Midge” and “May” before, but “Maisy” was a new one.
The office was practically empty and I sat down at my desk, glad that I had a chance to get through some work before the phone started ringing and people—Derwent, mainly—started to make claims on my attention. His cutting little remark about not reading briefings had stayed with me. I resented it without being able to deny it, which made it worse.
I didn’t get very far.
“Maeve, could you come in here, please?” Godley was standing in the doorway of his office, his expression stern.
I jumped up and crossed the room on legs that were suddenly not quite steady. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous to discover that Godley wasn’t alone. DCI Burt sat in one chair, and DS Harry Maitland in another. Burt looked exactly as normal: plain, abstracted, intense. Maitland’s usually cheerful face was serious.
“What’s going on?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid.” Godley picked up his coat and began to put it on. “Another dead woman. Tottenham, this time. It looks as if Josh was right and we are looking for a serial killer. The Commissioner has asked me to get a task force up and running and I want you to be on it, Maeve. I’m not taking most of my team because I’ll be in overall command of the two current investigations and I’ll have about a hundred officers altogether. No sense in dragging everyone along.” He picked up a folder. “Ready?”
I was still processing the news that there was another murder. “How do we know this latest victim is connected? I mean, the timescale—”
“Una can give you the details on the way. You can drive her. Harry, you’re coming with me.”
I shot back to my desk and gathered up my things as the others headed for the lift. The four of us crowded in and I fought back a wave of claustrophobia, quickly succeeded by nausea. Maitland was wearing an ancient waxed jacket and it stank of dogs, cigarettes and its own linseed odor. I turned my head away and encountered DCI Burt, who was staring at me with keen interest. Her clever, pale face was scrubbed clean, and she smelled of nothing more glamorous than Pears soap. She was square, mid-forties and sweating slightly in a synthetic blouse she must have had for decades.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I tried to look alert, wishing I could think of something intelligent to say. “Same MO as the other two?”
“So it seems,” Godley said. “Glenn is meeting us there. He did the PMs on the other women, so he should be able to give us a better idea of what happened to her.”
Fantastic, I thought. Glenn Hanshaw was prickly at the best of times. Being under pressure made him less helpful, not more. Godley got on with him well enough, but he was the only one who did. And Hanshaw seemed, for no reason that I could think of, to despise me.
The lift doors slid open on the underground garage. It reeked of exhaust fumes. Godley’s Mercedes, sleek and black, was in pride of place nearest the lift. Maitland didn’t even try to hide how pleased he was about getting to ride in it.
I picked up a set of keys to one of the pool cars and found the bay where it sat. It was a navy Ford Focus that looked unloved, with mud around its back wheels and dust on the windscreen. DCI Burt stood back, writing something in her notebook, while Godley and Maitland got into the Mercedes. It took off up the ramp with a low, throaty rumble. The car was a high-end tank, indestructible and fast, and I’d been Godley’s passenger more than a few times, basking on the leather upholstery in climate-controlled comfort. I had very little prospect of ever sitting in that seat again, though. It was pool cars all the way, with their soft brakes and total lack of poke and breathy heaters that only worked on the highest setting.
So, Maeve, how good does it feel to be right today?
Burt snapped her notebook shut. “Right. Give me those keys. I don’t know why Charles Godley thinks I can’t drive myself. You can do the navigating.” She unlocked the car, flung herself into the driver’s seat and started adjusting mirrors, frowning with concentration.
“I don’t know where we’re going,” I pointed out.
“Tottenham. Green Lanes, really.”
“It’s not an area I’m familiar with, and I really don’t mind driving.”
She bounced up and down, trying to get her seat to slide forward. “Do you want me to be blunt? You were obviously out last night, you clearly don’t feel the best this morning, and I don’t want you driving me in that condition.”
“I’m fine to drive.”
“Legally. But your reaction times will be off. You’ll struggle to concentrate on the road as well as what I need to tell you about the case, since you missed the briefing.”
A briefing I hadn’t known was going to happen. I opened my mouth to say so, then shut it again. I didn’t know Una Burt very well, but I did know she wasn’t the type to be moved by self-pity. I got in, wedging the coffee cup between my legs because the car didn’t have any cup-holders, unlike Godley’s. I just hoped DCI Burt wasn’t heavy on the brakes.
“There’s the address.” She pushed the notebook at me, open at the correct page. “Carrington Road.”
The sat nav was out of order, spilling wiring through cracks in the sides where someone had tried, and failed, to tape it together. I pulled out the A–Z, grateful for once for Derwent’s prejudice against modern technology. He liked to drive and drove too fast. I was capable of plotting routes on blues at the same time as giving a commentary over the radio to the controller and hanging on for dear life. I was fairly sure I could cope with whatever DCI Burt threw at me. Fate and my colleagues often conspired to make me work with Derwent. It was the exact equivalent of altitude training: I felt like vomiting at the time, but he gave me an edge that I’d otherwise have lacked. Just at that moment I needed anything that might impress Una Burt.
I risked a glance sideways. She had flung her jacket into the back seat where it lay in a crumpled heap, tangled up with her coat. Neither was going to look the better for it. Her light brown hair was collar-length and copious. It never seemed longer or shorter, which gave rise to suspicion that it was a wig. No makeup today or ever. No jewelry. She gave not a single shit about what anyone thought of how she looked or what she wore. She had a reputation for being blisteringly clever, mildly eccentric and totally absorbed in her work. The drive would be the longest time I’d ever spent with her, but I was already quite sure I wouldn’t know her any better after it. She wore her concentration like armor.
“Better catch up or Charlie will be wondering where we’ve got to,” she said. Charlie. I wondered if she called him that to his face. It was just possible that she did. I couldn’t imagine her flirting with him, or anyone, but I could believe she revered him fo
r his professional achievements.
The car eased up the ramp and paused for a bare half-second at the top before it slid into a gap in the traffic. I was still reading the map, working back from the address, but I had enough spare capacity to notice that she was an excellent driver, smooth but unshowy. The car was purring.
We actually made good progress until we landed on the Euston Road. It was moving at its usual rush-hour crawl: eight lanes of traffic going precisely nowhere. Burt tucked the car in behind a red bus that had an ad for its cleaner emissions plastered all over its rear end. Bathed in diesel fumes, I couldn’t actually tell that there was much improvement. I hit the button to recirculate the air in the car, and listened resignedly as the fan made a horrible grinding noise.
“You’ll have to bear it, I’m afraid,” Burt said.
“I’ll survive. At least I’m not in the same car as Maitland and his coat of many odors.”
She half-smiled, then her face went blank again as she returned to her own thoughts. When she eventually looked at me, I could see the effort that went into returning to here and now. Like a diver resurfacing, it took her a second to orientate herself.
“What were we talking about? I was supposed to be briefing you, wasn’t I?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Do you know about the other two cases? Maxine and Kirsty?”
The way she said their names made it sound as if she knew them personally. There was nothing like investigating someone’s murder to get to know them. None of them would have any secrets left by the time we were finished—no shadows in the corners of their lives. It was what I was trained to do and it still felt, at times, like a violation of the victims themselves.
“I only know what I’ve read in the papers. Both were single women who lived alone, found strangled. No sign of a break-in in either case. No apparent links between them. Apart from the fact that they were killed by someone they trusted.”
“Exactly. And the killer’s signature.”
“The eyes.”
