The Stranger You Know (Maeve Kerrigan Novels)

by Jane Casey

Except that I knew one person who was nearby, and at home, and would be more than pleased to help. In fact, he would be angry if I didn’t call on him. And he owed me a favor. It was a terrible idea, but it was a better option than anything else I’d thought of.

  I just hoped the surveillance team wouldn’t have started yet.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Go. Away.”

  “Sir, it’s me.” I was crouching by the letterbox, trying not to let the skirt of my coat get wet, the wind tugging at my hair and clothes until it felt as if someone was pulling at me, trying to get my attention. I was half-whispering because I really didn’t want to attract the interest of passers-by, the media or even Derwent’s neighbors. There was only one person I was trying to reach, and he was having none of it.

  “Fuck off. I’m not telling you again.”

  “It’s Maeve. Kerrigan,” I added, then rolled my eyes. He only knew one Maeve, I was fairly sure. I checked over my shoulder—no one—and levered open the letterbox again. I could see his feet, and realized he was sitting at the top of the stairs. Forgetting about speaking softly, I snarled, “I’m only here because I need help. Now if you’re not going to man up and let me in, I’m going, but I want you to know I think you’re a— a—”

  “A what?” He sounded interested.

  “A twat. Sir.”

  “That must be you, Kerrigan. Only you would take so long to come up with the word ‘twat.’ I was expecting something really good.” He got to his feet slowly, with some difficulty, balancing on one leg as he turned to reach his crutches. “I’ll let you in but it’ll be a while before I can get to the door.”

  “Take your time,” I said, shuddering with the cold. I couldn’t feel my hands anymore, or my ears.

  Instead of coming down toward the door, Derwent levered himself up, out of sight.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I was making tea. It’ll be stewed if I don’t get the bag out of the mug sharpish.”

  I fumed on the doorstep for another five minutes while Derwent did whatever he had to do and then came down the stairs with roughly as much fuss and as many dramatic pauses as an elderly diva making her Vegas debut. When he finally opened the door I pushed in past him.

  “Wait until you’re invited, missy.”

  “That’s vampires, not house guests.” I turned. “When are they coming round with your heavyweight belt?”

  “Oh, you saw that?”

  “I think the world’s seen it by now. It was a hell of a shot.”

  “You’re telling me. I bruised my hand, look.” He showed me his fist, which was red and swollen and had a gash on top of one finger.

  “Is that a fight bite?”

  “Yeah. If he didn’t have such big horse teeth I’d have been fine because it was a direct hit on his nose. Knowing my luck, he’ll have rabies.”

  “You got a round of applause from the coppers I was with when they saw it.”

  “Really?” He looked pleased. “The guys at the hospital didn’t even consider arresting me. They talked Pace into letting it drop. Nice of them.”

  “I think a lot of people were hoping something like that might happen to him.”

  “You know me. Being a hero comes natural.”

  “I’m sure.” It was freezing in the hall and I made for the stairs. “I’m going up to get warm.”

  “You’re not going to wait for me?”

  “I’ve done a lot of waiting for you this evening already.”

  I ran up and into the living room, which was warm and softly lit. He had drawn the blinds, shutting the world out, and I started to feel I could relax for the first time in hours. I took off my boots and coat, and held my hands over the radiator, wincing as the warmth started to bring them back to life.

  Derwent made it up to the top of the stairs eventually and abandoned the crutches with a clatter. He limped in to the sitting room.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “I knew you’d want me to be comfortable.”

  He ignored that. “To what do I owe the pleasure? If you’ve had a fight with your boyfriend, I’m not providing a sympathetic ear.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first port of call for that,” I agreed. I was still shivering. At this stage I was starting to think it was because I was ill or in shock. The flat was boiling. Derwent was wearing a T-shirt with his tracksuit bottoms. I tried, very hard, to send a message to my nervous system that it could calm down for the time being. “I couldn’t stay in my flat.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of a bunch of flowers, would you believe.”

  Derwent listened, asking the occasional question, as I faltered through the story. He had dropped the attitude. I was talking to the police officer version of Derwent, focused on the facts and their implications. I wished I had the luxury of a cool-headed assessment of the situation, but I was far too involved for that.

  “First thing: who knew Rob was going to be away?”

  “No one.” I got a look for that and tried again. “Okay. I did, obviously. I mentioned it to Liv, who might have told Joanna, I suppose. People Rob works with. I didn’t tell you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t tell my parents or any of our friends.” I chewed my lip. “That’s it, as far as I know.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about it over the phone? Could your landline be bugged?”

  “I only use the landline to pick up messages, mainly from Mum. I always use my mobile.”

  “What about e-mail?”

  “No.”

  “Facebook?”

  “I’m not on Facebook.” Like I wanted to share details of my personal life with the world. Derwent should have known better.

  “Any other social websites?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Is your place bugged?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what Swain did before.” I was starting to shake again.

  “Get that checked out.” Derwent had sat down on the arm of a chair while we were talking and now he jumped up and started to pace. He got two steps before his leg went from under him and he collapsed inelegantly into the chair. “Oh, fuck-a-doodle-do.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” He righted himself. “What about Boyband? Does he keep his mouth shut?”

  I ignored the jibe. “As a rule.”

  “And you thought the flowers were from him.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think the message sounded like him. It was patronizing.”

  “Could you imagine Chris Swain saying it?”

  “I try not to imagine Chris Swain saying anything at all.” I sighed. “Look, I don’t think we’re going to get to the bottom of this tonight. It was creepy as hell and I generally assume that means Swain was involved. I hope you can understand why I ended up here.”

  “Yeah, I know why you’re here. Let Uncle Josh look after everything.”

  I tried not to look repelled but it was a struggle.

  “Drink?” Derwent said.

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “I was telling you to get me one.”

  “Oh.” I bit back get it yourself. Being on crutches, he couldn’t carry a drink easily, and it was the least I could do. “What do you want?”

  “Beer. In the fridge. You know where the kitchen is.”

  I did. I was on my way back, bottle in hand, when a thought struck me. I doubled back to make sure, then went and stood in the doorway of the sitting room until Derwent looked up.

  “Over here, love. Don’t ever quit and become a waitress, will you? You’re rubbish.”

  “You lied to me.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You said you were making tea, but the kettle’s cold and there are no mugs in the sink or the dishwasher or in here. You have no milk in your fridge and I couldn’t find a single tea bag in your kitchen. You don’t even drink tea. You told me that before. What were you doing? Tidying up? Hiding the evi
dence?”

  He gave me his widest, whitest smile, the one that reminded me of a hunting dog grinning. “Give me the beer.”

  “Not before I get an explanation.”

  “Come on.” He held out his hand. “If you need me to say it, I’m impressed, Kerrigan. You put it all together.”

  “Yay for me. I still want to know what you were doing.”

  “Tidying.”

  “You never tidy because you never make a mess.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters because I don’t like being lied to.”

  He stretched. “Well, I’ve never lied to you about anything important. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “It’s true.” He looked straight at me, his eyes limpid. “You can trust me. But you can also trust me to be a bit of a lad. I thought you were coming round to tick me off for punching Pace on camera. I wanted to make you wait.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Any time.” He looked as ashamed of himself as it was possible for Derwent to look, which was not very. “You should get to bed. Get some rest. You look like death.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “In there.” He indicated the room next to the living room.

  I picked up my bag and went in, flicking the light on. I stopped for a second, then reversed.

  “That’s your room.”

  “So?”

  “So you seem to have misunderstood.” My face was flaming.

  “No, you have. This is a one-bedroom flat. I am letting you have the bedroom. I do not propose to sleep with you and that phrase includes any possible meaning you like, from sharing a room to shagging. And don’t flatter yourself.”

  He was amused, not angry, but I was still mortally embarrassed. It put an edge in my voice when I replied. “And what about you? Where are you going to sleep?”

  “The sofa.”

  “No. You’re injured. I should sleep there.”

  “It’s not on offer.”

  “I am not sleeping in your bed when you were shot a day and a half ago and you should still be in hospital.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s obvious,” I said. “You look dreadful.”

  “Said the woman with bright red eyes and crazy hair. Fuck me, it’s like getting a lecture from Coco the Clown.”

  I put a hand up, encountered frizz and decided not to fight that particular battle. “Never mind how I look. You are recuperating and you shouldn’t be doing it on a sofa.”

  He rubbed both hands over his face. “Give me strength. Listen, Kerrigan, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. This leg? Hurts like buggery. I’m not going to be getting much sleep tonight even if I’m in my own bed.”

  “Didn’t they give you painkillers to take home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t like them. I’m not taking them.”

  “You are so stubborn.”

  He levered himself to his feet. “I know. But it’s my body. I don’t like drugs and I don’t mind pain. I just don’t think there’s any point pretending I’m going to sleep tonight. And you look as if you could sleep for a week.”

  “Two.”

  “There you go.” He limped past me, holding on to the wall for support. “I’ll get a spare duvet out and nick a pillow and I’ll be fine.”

  There was no arguing with him, ever. I was too tired for a fight anyway. The thought of sinking into a real bed at long last was enough to make me give in. I brushed my teeth in a bathroom that was antiseptically clean and male from the toiletries to the towels. When I came out, Derwent was leaning against the wall in the hall.

  “Need anything else?”

  “No. Thanks.” I hesitated. “And thanks for this. Letting me stay.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he said, as if he meant it.

  I said goodnight and shut the door firmly behind me, wishing I could lock it. I trusted Derwent but I wanted the security of being behind an unopenable door. He’d stripped the bed while I was in the bathroom and I spent a few minutes making it again, wrestling with the duvet. It was strange to be doing a domestic task in Derwent’s home, his private space, a place I had never imagined being. I could only imagine what Godley would make of it if he knew.

  “Mind out of the gutter, boss,” I murmured and climbed into Derwent’s bed before switching off the light. I pulled the covers up and huddled, relieved. I was glad that Derwent had trusted me enough to let me stay. I was glad I had stuck by him when Godley and Burt told me to be wary. I was starting to think we might become friends.

  Friends with Derwent? Stranger things had happened. But not many.

  Despite everything, I went to sleep with a smile on my face.

  * * *

  At ten to four, I woke up, with no idea where I was or what had disturbed me. I didn’t know anything, except that I was scared. It took a couple of seconds for me to remember where I was and why, relief sweeping over me as I reminded myself that I was safe and everything was all right.

  A couple of seconds after that, something moved in the room, passing in front of the shaded window so I saw a silhouette for a second. A man.

  “Derwent?” I said, my voice blurry with sleep. I assumed, I thought that he had forgotten something, or that he’d forgotten I was there. I thought it was an honest mistake.

  I thought that until, without warning, he landed on top of me with his full weight, pinned my arms to my sides with his knees, wrapped his hands around my neck and began to squeeze the life out of me. It wasn’t fear I felt, or despair, but anger. I was angry with myself. I’d believed Derwent, and I’d been wrong, and whatever happened was my fault. God, I hated being wrong.

  White and red lights burst in the blackness and I couldn’t fight, or scream, or do anything at all.

  Anything, that is, except die.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I’d love to pretend that I found superhuman strength from somewhere and kicked my way free. I’d love to say that I saved my own life by being quick and clever and instinctively good at fighting. The reality was that I was in serious trouble, as close to dying as I had ever been. I was aware of almost nothing as my brain became starved of oxygen, nothing but a bright light and the dreadful weight on top of me that was crushing my ribs, and the impossibility of taking a breath when my body was crying out for it. And then, suddenly, the weight was gone and I could breathe again, dragging air into my lungs as my knees came up to my chest. My throat was on fire, my eyes full of tears, and the sound of my own heart thumping filled my ears. I rolled onto my side in a tight little ball and wheezed piteously.

  It was probably a minute—not more than that—before I came round enough to start making sense of my surroundings. The bright light was the main bedroom light. A scuffling sound interspersed with dull thuds and grunts of pain was a fight happening somewhere nearby. The thumping sound was someone trying to batter the front door in. The urgency of doing something galvanized me: I sat up and saw Derwent on the floor, on the wrong side of a fight that was the definition of nasty. The man struggling with him, anonymous in dark clothes and a beanie hat, was big and angry, and while I was still trying to get my head around what was going on he hit Derwent with a short, nasty jab in the stomach that made Derwent groan. He retaliated by forcing the man’s head back, pressing against his throat, fingers digging for the pressure point that would—in theory—reduce his assailant to a quivering wreck. The guy retaliated by kneeing him in the crotch, missing his target by a matter of inches as Derwent twisted sideways.

  It was time to stop watching and start helping, I realized, and looked around for something to use. The bedside light was metal and surprisingly heavy when I hefted it. I unplugged it and struggled off the bed, ready to hit—

  I stopped. I had no idea who I should want to win. I couldn’t tell who had attacked me and who had come to the rescue. Derwent caught si
ght of me and glared, for the split second he could spare, and I could translate it easily enough: what are you doing, standing there? Get stuck in, Kerrigan.

  Instead, I moved around so I could see his opponent’s face. Derwent pushed his head back again, the muscles standing out in his arm as he stretched his fingers toward the man’s eyes, and I recognized him at last: the Met’s most wanted, Shane Poole. I lifted the lamp and brought it down on the back of his neck, and he collapsed over Derwent like a tower block disintegrating in a controlled explosion.

  “Thank fuck.” Derwent pushed at Shane’s shoulder, trying to lever him off. “You took your time. Were you waiting for an invitation?”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Yeah. Out cold. Nice job.” Derwent wriggled out and sat up, leaning his arms on his knees as he tried to get his breathing back under control. He looked past me. “This must be my night for unwanted guests.”

  Two men were standing in the doorway when I looked round, one small and one big, both in leather bomber jackets, both so obviously policemen that they might as well not have bothered being in plain clothes.

  “We saw him break in. We were waiting for backup to come, but then we heard the fight so we opened your door.”

  “Do much damage?” Derwent asked.

  “Just a bit.” The larger one lifted up the battering ram he’d used. “You might need to get the hinges fixed.”

  “Fucking marvelous.”

  The smaller policeman lifted his radio. “One in custody. We’ll need an ambulance, please. Two ambulances,” he said, looking at me, and I put a hand to my neck, suddenly aware that it was throbbing.

  His big friend bent over Shane Poole and put him in the recovery position, then cuffed him, hands in front. “Not to take any chances,” he said to me. “Amazing how quickly they recover when they want to.”

  “What was he doing here?” I asked Derwent.

  “What are these two doing here?” he shot back. “Were you watching me?” He looked at me. “Did you know about this?”

  “I knew there was going to be surveillance on you. I didn’t know they were here.”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” He looked utterly incensed.