by Jane Casey
“What was he saying, for God’s sake?”
“He got it into his head that she was working as a hooker to make some extra cash. Don’t ask me what gave him that idea, because there was no evidence that I saw. A hunch, apparently. Gut instinct.”
“Always reliable.”
“I think it was the address that made him think that.” He went quiet while Magda put a fresh coaster and glass in front of him, with a flourish. She got a smile for her trouble and looked thrilled. Once she was out of earshot he went on, “It’s flats, right, and the one upstairs was being used by a part-time prossie for work. Prearranged meet-ups only. She didn’t solicit on the street and bring unknown punters back and she didn’t live there herself. We found her when we were tracing the tenants to do interviews.”
“How did she advertise her services?”
“Escort websites. She waited to give the address until she was sure she was willing to go ahead with that particular client. Said she’s good at picking out the wrong ones.”
“Until the time she doesn’t,” I said. “Did she ever arrange to meet someone there but get stood up?”
“All the time.” Peake grinned. “Apparently a lot of men lose their nerve the first time. When they’ve been once, they tend to go back. This is what she told me,” he added. “I’m not speaking from personal experience.”
“I’m just wondering if someone got the address by pretending to be a client and then got the flat numbers confused.”
“That was something we looked into, but we didn’t get very far with it. Bradbury decided that Maxine got the idea to be a hooker from her and started working the streets without having the local knowledge or the smarts to stay safe.”
I thought of the crime-scene pictures. “She really doesn’t seem to have been that kind of girl.”
“That’s what her parents said. Anyway, the girl said she’d never even seen Maxine, let alone advised her on a career in prostitution. She only saw regulars in the time Maxine was living there. She’s a student, by the way. This is how she’s paying her tuition fees. She’ll probably end up being a lawyer and earning five times what I do.”
“She could probably earn that now if she wasn’t so picky about her clientele.” I frowned. “If the killer thought Maxine was a prostitute, maybe he was trying to redeem her from her life of sin. Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”
“Cutting off the hair. Dressing them in white. It’s possible.”
“Any link with prostitution in Kirsty’s case?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did Groves and Burns look into it?”
“You’d have to ask them.” Peake looked pained. “Bradbury insisted that all queries go through him. I hadn’t been allowed five minutes to talk to them on my own until we got to Anna Melville’s house.”
“I should always bring Godley along. He’s the highest-ranking officer Bradbury is likely to meet. He made for him like a dog finding the only lamppost for miles.”
“Bradbury would absolutely piss on his leg if he thought Godley would like it.”
“Not having much fun working with him?”
“You know when someone is wrong, and you tell them they’re wrong, and just being told they’re wrong makes them determined to stick to what they said?”
“All too well,” I said, thinking of Derwent.
“He’s a twat.” Peake took a handful of peanuts and started working through them. “I hate coming to work with him. If he’d been more open-minded and less shitty about Maxine, we wouldn’t have to reinterview everyone now. Your chief inspector has got him where she wants him—he’s actually terrified of her. So that’s something.”
“No better woman.”
“She worked out that Bradbury was out of his depth about two seconds after she started dealing with him.” He shook his head. “Godley has a good eye for female talent.”
“She’d made her reputation long before Godley took her on,” I said calmly, ignoring the implicit compliment.
“I bet you’re glad she’s there. It’s proof he doesn’t just go on looks.” He looked down, then up again, pretending to be awkward when he was nothing of the sort. “Sorry. But you know, you’re very attractive. You must have had people saying that you got where you are because of that.”
“Oh, they said it. And then they took it back.”
“I’m sure they did.” He leaned forward. “I’m glad you were able to come out tonight. I’ve been wanting to get to know more about you since I saw you.”
It wasn’t often that I was aware of the significance of choosing one course of action over another. The images clicked through my head like a slideshow. Option A: go home, be glad you have a nice boyfriend, be grateful that you have the sense to know when you’re in danger of trampling all over the things you care about. Option B: keep talking, keep drinking, allow yourself to flirt just a little bit, here and there. End up getting to know the dashing DS Peake better. Do something you regret just to prove to yourself that you’re still free to make mistakes, even if you are in a serious relationship. Dispel the feeling of being trapped. Behave like the old Maeve. Be the person you used to be.
Option A was safe. Option B had its dangerous attractions. The risk-taking part of me yearned for it. The rest of me was terrified at the prospect.
I picked up my bag. “It’ll have to wait for another time, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “You’ve only just arrived.”
“I’ve got to meet someone now.”
“A date?”
“No. Work. Like this.”
His face darkened, then cleared. Peake had too much pride to admit he was annoyed, or disappointed. “Another time, then. Somewhere a bit less formal, maybe.”
“This is nice.” I stood up. “Quiet.”
“And there are rooms upstairs if you don’t feel like heading home.” His eyes held mine, then dropped to my mouth, then skimmed over my body. My cheeks burned.
It was my cue to say, Actually, I have a boyfriend, so … I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hated excusing myself like that—I’m the property of another man, so I can’t stay in spite of how much I want to. It wasn’t the only reason I wasn’t going to stay for another drink, so why mention it?
I smiled, composed again. “That is convenient. If you find out when Magda finishes work, you might get to try one.”
“I don’t think so,” he said softly, and I hoped he didn’t think I was jealous. “You pick a place next time. I’ll leave it up to you. Let me know when you’re free again and I’ll be there.”
It was too awkward to say something about Rob now, or make a weak excuse about working late a lot. I hesitated, left it too long to reply, stammered a good-bye that sounded breathy rather than decisive and walked out, wondering why it was so damn hard to tell men to back off when they couldn’t or wouldn’t notice the not-interested signs. Be too brutal and they called you a bitch. Be too nice and you ended up giving them your phone number or agreeing to see them again.
And then there was the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer, who persuaded you to trust him. The one you let into your home so he could murder you and dress you up for kicks.
Suddenly I missed Rob, a lot. I rang his mobile, knowing that it probably wouldn’t work. It clicked through to voicemail which I wasn’t sure he could pick up in the US. I left a message anyway, thanking him for the flowers, telling him I was busy but looking after myself. Coping fine without him. Missing him a bit.
Half-truths.
He knew me well enough to know better.
I hung up and had no regrets at all about leaving handsome, charming James Peake sitting on his own in the bar. He wouldn’t be alone for long, I thought, and he was free to get up to mischief with whomever he liked.
But not me.
Chapter Eighteen
Derwent opened the door with the positive mental attitude of a boxer heading into the last round of a must-win prize fi
ght. His first shot was a haymaker. “What time do you call this?”
“I had to work. Then I had to meet someone. Then I had to go back to the office to collect these.” I was standing on one leg, my arms full of files, one knee supporting them as they threatened to slide out of my grasp. “Can you take these? Or let me come in?”
He grabbed the top two files and started flicking through them. I was still standing on the doorstep.
“Excuse me.”
“What is it?” He hadn’t even looked up.
“I’m still out here. On the street. And it’s cold.” I shivered as the wind cut at my ankles. “Let me in, for God’s sake.”
“The choice was between taking the files and allowing you into my flat again.” Still reading. “I have made my choice.”
Seething, I dumped the rest of the files at his feet. “Fine. Enjoy. I want them back in the morning.”
I was ten yards down the street when he caught up with me. “I was joking. Come on, Kerrigan. I didn’t mean it.”
“I was going to tell you about everything that’s not in the file,” I said coldly. “But you don’t deserve it.”
“I know. I’m an asshole. But you love me anyway.”
“You’re half right.”
“Come on.” He took my arm. “Don’t make me kidnap you again.”
I pulled away from him. “Don’t touch me. I’m here because I choose to be and I can choose to go home just as easily.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He tilted his head to one side, considering me. “Why are you choosing to be here?”
“Because you’re not getting a fair deal.”
“Lucky for me you love an underdog.”
“Yeah, it is. And it’s also good for my career if you’re right about Angela’s murder being connected to the three killings this year.”
“That’s more like it.” He looked relieved. “Ambitious as ever, Kerrigan.”
“You’d be the same if you were in my position.”
“Very possibly.”
The wind blew my hair around my face and I pushed it back, shivering. “Are we going inside or what?”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “You know I was only taking the piss.”
“I know. But I can’t understand why when you also want me to help you.”
“I’m my own worst enemy.”
“Despite considerable competition.”
He stared at me, deciding how he was going to react, before he threw his head back and laughed. “You know, Kerrigan, I’m starting to see the point of you.”
“Then I can die happy.” But I muttered it as I followed him to the flat, and I was pretty sure he didn’t hear me. I’d gone just about as far as I could go with Derwent and the next smart remark would earn me a snarl.
It was warm in Derwent’s flat and this time I let him hang up my coat downstairs, as a token of something—what, I wasn’t sure. Trust wasn’t quite the word. I wasn’t feeling at home, exactly, but I was getting used to being around him.
We were halfway up the stairs, both carrying files, when Derwent stopped without warning. I almost collided with him. “Who else is on this investigation?”
“Generally? Burt, Maitland, Colin Vale, me … oh, Peter Belcott was out with Burt today. Then there are the teams in Whitechapel and Lewisham.” I propped the files I was carrying on the step nearest me, since Derwent didn’t seem to be moving any time soon.
“And they all know about Angela? And me?”
“No!” I suddenly understood what he was getting at. “Absolutely not. Godley wants to keep it quiet to protect your reputation in the team.”
“So who knows? Burt does.”
“Yes, but she’s senior to you.” It was the simple truth but I saw him flinch; he hated that it was true and I quite liked reminding him. “I’m the only other person who’s seen the file. I don’t think anyone else has even heard Angela’s name.”
“The file?”
Belatedly, I realized the trap I had dug for myself, and also realized that I was peering up from the bottom of it.
“You’ve got Angela’s file?” He was staring at me.
“I’ve seen it.”
“Read it?”
I nodded.
“Can I see it?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Don’t.” He shook his head, warning me. “You know better than that.”
“Okay. All right.” He was leaning over me, looming, and I took a step back, flustered. “I’ll have to ask Godley.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Not necessarily.”
Derwent hit the banister with the side of his hand, thinking. I know he could tell that I was spooked enough to take the files I’d been carrying and go. And he wanted to know about the other victims, too. He had enough control to weigh it up and make the right choice.
“Okay. Run it by him first. That’s how I’ve been training you to behave. No independent thinking. Chain of command.” He punctuated the last three words with a forefinger poking my head.
“I’m not going to show it to you just to prove I’m capable of making up my own mind.”
“Exactly what I’m saying. I’d be disappointed if you did.”
I followed him into the sitting room, still very much on my guard.
Derwent lined up the files he’d been carrying, two inches from the edge of the coffee table, in a straight line. “Drink?”
“Ever the perfect host. Tea, if you’re making it.” I stacked mine on the sofa to watch his face work as he tried to quell his OCD. No chance.
“Gimme those.” He put them beside the others, nudging them into position like a sheepdog coaxing recalcitrant ewes. “And I’m not making tea. No milk, for starters. You can have instant coffee.”
“You spoil me. Coffee’s fine.” Anything hot, I almost said, but stopped myself. That was the sort of open statement he was likely to punish.
He left and I heard him opening and closing cupboard doors down the hall. I followed the sounds to a small, tidy kitchen—white units on two sides, with a fold-out table under the window and two chairs stacked beside it.
“That’s nifty.”
“What? The table? I made it.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He wiped some nonexistent drips off the counter. “Can’t stand eating in the living room.”
“A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“What’s wrong with that? First rule of life is don’t eat where you shit.”
“Please tell me you don’t shit in your living room.”
“Obviously not. But I’ve extended it to cover sleeping and watching TV, too. No crumbs in the bed, no marks on the upholstery.”
“I guess it depends on how messy you are.”
“No, it doesn’t. Food belongs in the kitchen and that’s where you should eat it.”
“But TV snacks are surely exempt.”
He looked me up and down. “Yeah. That’s how you’ll get fat.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve got the height advantage and your metabolism is ticking over now, but you hit your mid-thirties and it’s all going to go. Sitting on your arse watching telly eating crisps is the quick way to becoming obese. Mindless consumption.”
I folded my arms, feeling the familiar slow burn of rage that Derwent usually provoked. “I am a long way from obese.”
“Now, maybe. But give it some time.” He picked up the mugs. “Finished snooping?”
“We were having a conversation,” I pointed out.
“You were nosing around.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. He was right, basically. Busted. Taking a leaf out of his book, I went on the attack. “Takes one to know one.”
“Occupational hazard. Coppers don’t do casual chats.” He grinned, then thrust one mug at me. “Come on. I’m not your slave. Carry it yourself.”
Back in the living room, he sat down. “How do you w
ant to do this? Stay while I read, or pick them up tomorrow?”
“I thought we could go through them together. See what jumps out.” I opened the nearest one, which was Maxine’s. “You know, everyone’s been looking at them to see the similarities. I think we need to look at the differences, too.”
“Floor?”
“Floor.” I helped to move the coffee table out of the way, and then joined Derwent in taking the files apart. The space filled up quickly: victim pictures I hadn’t seen before with the three women full-face and smiling, crime-scene photographs, maps, floor plans, diagrams of the victims’ injuries, post-mortem close-ups, forensic reports. Witness statements. Interviews. Phone records. Bank statements. Paper, and lots of it. Three dead women generated a lot of words.
“These are just the edited highlights,” I said. “I left most of it at work.”
“It’s a start.” Derwent was scanning the post-mortem report on Anna Melville, scrawling notes as he went. “Let’s see how far we can get.”
For the next couple of hours, we read. I hadn’t had time to go through the paperwork for Maxine and Kirsty in detail and I was glad to have the chance to familiarize myself with it. Derwent talked to himself as he worked, which I had never noticed before. I found it strangely endearing.
I was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room, looking at a floor plan of Maxine’s flat, when Derwent stretched. “This is doing my head in.”
“Problem?”
“Just trying to get it all straight in my head.”
I put down the plan, realizing that I’d ended up in a very uncomfortable position. My neck was aching. “Do you want to have a break? Talk it through?”
“Yeah. What did you say? Focus on the differences?” He flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Go for it.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt they were killed by the same man.”
“Differences, Kerrigan.”
“I’m getting to that,” I said, with dignity. “From what I can tell, they each had very different personalities. Their jobs were completely different and none of them worked or lived near any of the others. No connection between their backgrounds—Kirsty grew up in Scotland, Anna in Hampshire, Maxine in Australia. So we really don’t know where our man found them or why he chose them.”
