The Kill: (Maeve Kerrigan 5)

by Jane Casey

  Enderby looked pinched. ‘I take responsibility for my men. I’ve been doing that all day.’

  ‘And you’re still trying to sell the “poor us” line when you talk about it.’

  Even if Derwent was right that the circumstances had been set up for a disaster, he was showing off and I didn’t like it. I looked away, across the car park, and saw a small figure walking fast towards one of the tower blocks. His hood was up and his shoulders were hunched against the cold morning air. Something about his size and his wiry build reminded me of the fireworks thrower. He disappeared through a doorway before I got more than a glimpse of him. Without saying anything to anyone, I stepped away from the little group around the Land Rover and headed in the same direction.

  I was expecting him to have disappeared before I got to the door of the tower, and so he had. The door was closed but the lock was broken and I was able to slip inside easily. The door shut behind me. Somewhere in the building another door closed, like an echo. I stood for a second, listening to the silence. The light was out in the hallway, a broken casing split and shattered on the floor. I moved forward, orientating myself. It was a twin of the tower I’d been working in, except a mirror-image, with the lift on my right instead of my left. The smell was the same. The doors looked the same. The paint was green instead of blue, but equally scratched and graffitied.

  There was nothing to show me where the figure had gone. The lift stood empty; he had taken the stairs, if he’d gone up. I went to the end of the hallway and pushed through the door at the end to check the stairwell for any signs of life.

  It was a mistake; I understood that straight away. There wasn’t one figure in the stairwell. There were four. I had no sooner pushed the door ajar when one of them grabbed hold of it and slammed it back against the wall. I was still holding on to the handle so I fell against it, off balance. Another moved to block the open doorway and my line of escape. The remaining two came towards me, one sliding down the banisters and jumping off the end, the other low to the ground. They were teenagers, anonymous in hooded sports jackets, with scarves across their mouths and noses. Two black, two white. All male. Two lean and graceful, one bulky with muscle, one short. None was the person I’d seen outside. For the second time in a few hours, he’d done his job as bait and then faded away.

  Because I wasn’t under any illusions about what had happened. I had sprung a trap, and now I was well and truly caught.

  One of them pulled me away from the door so the big one could close it. He leaned against it, massive and forbidding. I wasn’t going that way, if I ran.

  ‘Get her bag.’ The order came from the smallest one, who carried himself like a boxer and scared the life out of me. His eyes were blue and utterly without emotion. He looked me up and down as one of the black teenagers made a grab for my bag. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’

  I ignored him, pressing my bag against my side with my elbow so the teenager couldn’t get a good grip on it. They were young. This didn’t have to be serious. ‘You’d better step back, all of you. The only thing you’re getting out of this is trouble.’

  There wasn’t even a moment of doubt before they laughed.

  ‘You’re the one in trouble.’ The words came out muffled through the scarf, but their menace was undeniable. The short one stepped closer and used a finger to pull the neck of my coat apart. My stab vest was tight and uncomfortable around my torso but I had never been happier to be wearing it. ‘What are you? A plainclothes cop?’

  ‘A detective.’

  ‘What do you detect?’

  ‘Murders,’ I said, refusing to act as if I was intimidated. Someone would notice I was gone. Someone would come and find me.

  ‘So you’ve seen a lot of bodies.’ It was the muscled one who spoke, the one who was blocking the door.

  ‘A fair few.’

  ‘What’s the worst way to die?’ the taller white one said. ‘In your opinion?’

  ‘I know,’ the short one said before I could answer. ‘If you were raped first. A few times. And tortured. If you really suffered.’

  ‘That would be bad.’ Muscles.

  ‘Terrible.’ The other white kid.

  They were passing the idea around like a joint, high on the power they knew they had over me. I was scared, even if I wouldn’t show it. I generally felt invincible on the street, but it was a fallacy. Being a police officer didn’t make me invulnerable. In these circumstances, it made me a legitimate target.

  ‘We could do that, you know. Rape you. Burn you. Cut you up.’ The short one blinked a couple of times as he spoke. He was getting excited and that was properly terrifying. He leaned in so he could get good and close for the next bit. ‘Cut your titties off. Slit your gash, end to end. Throw you off a balcony when we were done with you.’

  He dug his hand between my legs, his fingers probing, and I twisted to get away from him. I was backed up against the wall with nowhere to go. Instinctively I shoved him away. More by luck than skill I caught him off balance and he fell back.

  ‘Fuck, man.’ The leaner of the two black teenagers shook his head. ‘This is sick.’

  ‘She’s shitting herself.’

  ‘No,’ I said, proud that my voice was completely calm. ‘But I think I’m going to have to leave you gentlemen now.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ The taller white boy yanked my bag away from me and started going through it. ‘Radio, Ste—’

  ‘No names.’ The short one took my radio and stared at it. ‘Looks like a shit phone.’

  ‘That’s basically what it is.’ I sounded as if I was doing community outreach. Anything to drag the situation back from the edge of the unthinkable, where we seemed to be teetering. ‘It uses a mobile signal.’

  ‘What does this do?’ His finger hovered over the red button near the top, the one that overrode all other transmissions and acted as an immediate SOS for an officer in distress.

  ‘Press it and see,’ I said.

  He thought about it. He almost did it.

  Almost.

  He threw the radio down on the cement floor of the stairwell and I swallowed my disappointment, the crushing weight of abandoned hope making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Ma— Meeve Care-again.’ The lanky one was reading my driver’s licence, slowly, with difficulty. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘Mine.’ I pulled the card out of his hand and slid it into my pocket, then took hold of the bag and tugged it gently. He let go. So he wasn’t committed, and neither was the lean and agile boy who was swinging one foot as if he’d rather be playing football. That left Muscles and the one I didn’t want to think about, the terrifying one, the one who would, of course, be the leader. I didn’t want to give him time to regroup.

  ‘I don’t suppose any of you saw who threw the firework at the police van, did you?’

  Four heads shook in unison.

  ‘You wouldn’t know who did it.’

  ‘Nah.’ The short one reached out and touched my cheek with a hot, damp finger. He was sweating under his sportswear and scarf, and he was excited. ‘Look at her, still trying to be police. Give it up, you cunt.’

  ‘Back off,’ I commanded. ‘Now.’

  ‘I’m going to enjoy fucking you. And when I’m done, I’m going to call up all my mates and they’re going to fuck you too.’ He laughed. ‘Here, you’ll know. Can you rape someone to death?’

  I looked at him without seeing him for a moment, feeling total panic rush through my body. I couldn’t imagine myself walking away from this. One wrong move would be enough to make him attack. A look, a word – it would only take a tiny mistake on my part and I would be taken away. Hundreds of coppers were outside the door and there was no way a scream would do anything but get me beaten, then dragged into the lift or carried up the stairs. They would move faster than my colleagues. They had worked out their route. They had planned this, or something like it. Even if they hadn’t expected to get a woman, they’
d wanted a police officer of their own to torture.

  They were doing this because they felt deprived, I thought, and felt the analytical part of my brain switch on again.

  ‘Did you feel left out?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You weren’t invited to the party, were you? You weren’t allowed to help. Too young? Not important enough.’ I snapped my fingers. ‘Unreliable, maybe.’

  ‘What the fuck you on about?’ Muscles demanded.

  ‘I’m trying to work out why you’re doing this. I think you’re annoyed because no one told you about the attack on the cops until after it had happened. It wasn’t someone on the estate who planned it, was it? This was just a good place to kill them.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The small one was looking confused.

  ‘You should find out. Find out why you weren’t included. It’s disrespectful, isn’t it? Like they don’t think much of you and your mates.’

  His eyebrows drew together as he considered it.

  ‘This has been a pleasure, but let’s forget we ever had this conversation,’ I said, standing up straight, away from the wall. I put my bag on my shoulder, ready to leave. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

  A hand landed on my chest and shoved me back against the wall so hard the back of my head connected with the bricks. The short one wasn’t giving up easily. ‘Not fucking likely, bitch.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Like fuck you are.’

  Three of them didn’t know what to do. I gambled on that and elbowed the short one in the face, pushing him back into the arms of the slender black youth. I pivoted for the door and collided with Muscles. The impact sent me reeling against the tall thin one, who held on to my shoulders. I pulled away with enough force to rip open the buttons down the front of my coat, which was actually a blessing. Without even pausing to think I reached in to grab my extendable baton out of my inside pocket. There was no room to swing the Asp, or time to make room, so I had to use it as it was, folded up. I held it in my fist, my thumb on the end to stop it opening behind me as I brought it down hard. It connected with Muscles’ chest high up, just over his heart, and I dragged the end of the Asp down his sternum, pressing it into his body as hard as I could. It was appallingly painful, I’d been told in training. Certainly, Muscles put up no fight whatsoever. He crumpled to the ground, wheezing, in agony.

  Which was fine, except that he was blocking the door.

  I turned back to the others and racked the Asp so it shot out to its fullest extent. ‘Get your friend and get going.’

  They didn’t move. I hit the end of the baton on the door, as hard as I could. The sound was deafening and the wood splintered.

  ‘I said, get going.’

  They weren’t going to move. I had gambled and lost. One of them would realise they could take the Asp out of my hand easily enough, and use it on me if they thought of that. My arm muscles were vibrating with tension. The tip of the Asp was wavering as if there was a high wind in the stairwell.

  By my feet, Muscles moaned.

  ‘We can’t carry you, man.’ The lean black kid bent down and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Come on. You have to walk.’

  The tall white one went to help, propping Muscles up against the door. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Which left the short one. He had to salvage something. I got a finger in my face. ‘If you give the people round here any shit we will come after you.’

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him, as if we were equals, as if we understood each other. He nodded, once, and then the four of them disappeared through the door, into the waiting lift. It clanked and creaked up, stopping every couple of floors so I couldn’t tell where they’d got out.

  I took a deep breath, for the first time in many long minutes. It was cold in the stairwell but I could feel sweat trickling down my back I bent to pick up the radio, wincing as my lovely, wonderful stab vest dug into me. Losing the radio would have been a bad mistake, especially when it was unlocked and in use. Small mercies. I closed my Asp, banging it on the floor until it retracted into its neat tube. I was fine. I’d done just fine.

  And then my phone rang. I got a hand to my inside pocket and answered the call in the same movement, paranoid that the sound would bring the teenagers back. Derwent’s voice was tinny but loud enough to be audible in the stairwell even before I lifted the phone to my ear.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  I saw the front of the building in my mind’s eye, the name painted above the door. ‘Barber House. I’m coming out.’

  I disconnected without waiting for a reply and then made myself walk instead of run as I passed through the hall. I looked normal, I hoped – I was trying for normal.

  Even so, the first breath of the morning air felt like being reborn.

  Chapter 16

  He was right outside the door, of course. I almost walked into him.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I’d made a split-second decision to say that, but it felt right to me. No investigation would find the four of them: they had melted away like snow. I couldn’t describe any of them in any meaningful way. I couldn’t identify them. I was sure, from the way the ringleader had reacted to me, that they hadn’t been involved in the shooting of the police officers. That was, after all, the point of our presence on the Maudling Estate. I was very much not keen to provide a side attraction in the shape of one dizzy female detective who walked through the wrong door unaccompanied.

  Derwent had stopped so close to me he had to lean back so he could get a proper look at me. ‘What happened? What were you doing in there?’

  Sound normal. ‘I thought I saw the kid from the shooting. The one who they stopped. Our suspect for throwing the firework. When I got inside, he was long gone.’

  ‘That explains why you booted it across the car park. Doesn’t explain why you were in there for so long.’

  ‘I was talking to some other kids. About the shooting. They didn’t know anything useful,’ I added, anticipating that he would ask.

  ‘I see. And did you get their names? Addresses? Any details?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not like you, Kerrigan.’

  I couldn’t look at him. I stared over his shoulder, concentrating very hard on not crying. I was aware his expression was severe. He moved closer, effectively shielding me from everyone else in the car park. Slowly, one by one, he did up the buttons on my coat, as if I was a child.

  ‘You lost one.’ He held on to the edge of the fabric halfway down, where a triangular tear showed the button had been ripped away.

  ‘I didn’t notice. It must have dropped off. The thread was loose, I think.’ Which was an obvious lie.

  ‘The button was there when you walked across the car park before.’

  ‘Then I must have lost it in there.’ I jerked a thumb in the direction of the building behind me.

  ‘Do you want to go and have a look?’ Derwent’s voice was silk-smooth.

  Nothing was going to get me back into that building. I tried to smile. ‘I won’t bother. There’s a spare.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. I’ll go.’ He started to walk away. ‘Where were you? Just here?’

  ‘Try the stairwell.’

  He was gone for a few seconds, then came back with it on his palm. ‘Easy.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took it from him and dropped it into my pocket. My skin felt seared where the cold metal of the shank touched it. It felt like bad luck. I wanted nothing that reminded me of how scared I had been, how fragile.

  ‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

  ‘I just need a break, that’s all. I’ve been here for hours. I’m freezing.’

  ‘A break,’ Derwent said. ‘Not a bad idea. You should probably also brush the dirt off the back of your coat.’

  I swiped at it ineffectually. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All part of the service.’ He took my arm. It was halfway between affection and c
ustody. ‘So is breakfast.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that. Take me to breakfast, I mean. I can get something on my own.’

  ‘I know. I’m hungry,’ he said simply.

  Derwent had a police officer’s nose for a good cafe. The one he’d found was two streets away from the Maudling Estate. It was charmless, with fixed tables and chairs and a 1980s pastel theme, but the smell of frying bacon was a compelling reason to take a seat. We threaded a path through tables full of scaffolders and builders loading up for a day of hard manual labour, finding a table at the back. Derwent ordered two full English breakfasts without asking me what I wanted.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ the waitress asked. She was retirement age, with egg stains on her apron, and she had a truly world-weary air.

  ‘Tea,’ Derwent said.

  ‘Coffee.’

  ‘Coffee for you, love. Okay.’ She shuffled off towards the kitchen.

  ‘The coffee,’ Derwent said, ‘will be shit.’

  ‘The tea will be stewed.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  I shook my head. ‘Awful.’

  ‘All right. See what you get, Miss Fancypants.’

  What I got was rich and dark, a proper Italian coffee made by an antique Gaggia machine that had been hidden behind the counter. The waitress put the cup down in front of me reverently, with wrapped sugar in the saucer and a little jug of hot milk.

  ‘How did you know?’ Derwent demanded.

  ‘All the pictures on the walls are of Naples.’ They were greenish and blurred, the years not having been kind to the colour reproduction of various tourist spots. ‘I thought the owners were probably Italians, once upon a time. Worth a gamble, anyway.’

  ‘I’d still have had tea.’ Derwent knocked back half of his in one long swallow. It was so strong it left a gauzy scum on the inside of the mug. I could taste a ghost of the tannin on my tongue, and sipped more coffee to take it away.