The Kill: (Maeve Kerrigan 5)

by Jane Casey

  ‘Another one?’ Chris Pettifer came to stand beside me, the good humour absolutely in abeyance as the police officer in him came to the fore.

  ‘So it seems.’ I was back to feeling cold, in a way that had nothing to do with getting soaked while I was out. It was fear, I thought, with a kind of hazy detachment. My brain seemed to be working too slowly. Why had Derwent asked about Rob? Why had he looked so upset when I told him where he was working? I knew the answer and I didn’t want to know it. I was running away from reaching a conclusion, and I would keep running until I had to stop, until reality crashed in and made me accept what had happened.

  Dave hung up and turned around. ‘That’s confirmed. One fatality. They’re not releasing the ID yet. It was a Flying Squad surveillance operation. They were in a car, sitting outside a suspect’s address. A motorbike drew up beside them and bam, took out the passenger, then made off. Whoever shot him made them as cops, which is embarrassing for starters.’

  He was talking about it as if it was just another murder, the way we all talked about murders, with that levity that makes the job bearable. Derwent leaned down, his face very close to Dave’s.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kerrigan’s boyfriend is on the Flying Squad.’

  And everyone looked at me.

  I was standing completely still, like a puppet waiting for someone to make it move. I wondered how this could have happened, how I could have been laughing and giving a lecture on the art of tea-making at the same time as my world began to spin out of control. I swayed, just a little, and Pettifer put his arm around me.

  ‘It’s all right, lovely. He’ll be all right.’

  I looked around, seeing the shock on almost every face. They all knew Rob, except for some of the newer detectives. Most of them had worked with him. Many of them had mildly resented me for bringing about his departure from the team as a result of our relationship. No one wanted to hear bad news about him.

  Derwent moved, then, as if he couldn’t stand doing nothing for a moment longer. He came towards me and picked up the phone from the desk where I’d abandoned my mug. ‘What’s his number?’

  I took the phone out of his hand, pulling myself together. ‘It’s okay. I’ll call him myself.’

  I turned away as I dialled the number, although I knew everyone was still watching me. I couldn’t stand to see the worry harden on their faces as the phone rang once, twice, three times …

  ‘Voicemail.’ I had listened to his message before I said it, to his warm Manchester-inflected voice suggesting I left my number. It was impossible that I wouldn’t hear it again, for real. I hung up and turned back, looking for Godley. ‘Sir, it could be a long time before we get a name—’

  ‘I’ll take you.’ Derwent was jangling his car keys. He had already picked up his coat, and mine. ‘You’ll need to go down there to find out what’s going on. No point in waiting for them to get around to calling us.’

  ‘Yes, Maeve, you must go,’ Godley said. ‘Get a head start on us.’

  I followed Derwent out through the crowded but silent office, not catching anyone’s eye. I didn’t want to see their pity.

  I didn’t want to deserve it.

  Chapter 22

  Derwent was almost completely silent as he drove down to Bexley, which I appreciated. He indulged in very little of his usual showing off but the unmarked car was fitted with lights and a siren and he used them wherever he could, slipping down bus lanes and edging across junctions in the teeth of the heavy evening traffic.

  The rain slowed us down, of course. The windscreen wipers seemed to be sawing across my nerves as they swept over the glass in front of my face. I sat holding my phone in both hands, biting my lip. Everything suddenly seemed clear. I loved Rob more than anything, including my job. Especially my job, which took me away from him all the time. I wanted to be with him forever. I wanted to have children with him. I’d never been sure it was possible, but of course it was. I could move to a different, less demanding area. Something with regular hours. Missing persons, maybe. Murder investigation was a quick way to burn out, and I’d had my fill of it. Work didn’t matter. Work was much less important than life. If I had a choice to make I would choose him, every time. I just needed to be able to tell him that. If he was okay. But he would be okay. There was no need to worry.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the place where the shooting had happened when every blue light for five miles had congregated at that spot. Derwent parked and got out of the car without waiting for me, running to intercept a small blonde woman. I recognised her immediately.

  Inspector Deborah Ormond.

  Rob’s boss.

  I watched them talking, trying to read what they were saying and failing. Inspector Ormond’s response to Derwent’s questions was tight-lipped and she was turned a little away from me. I had to rely on Derwent’s expression to guess what was going on. He was frowning, intent. Unreadable, at least to me.

  It seemed like forever before Derwent looked back to where I was standing beside his car and gave me a thumbs-up. Not Rob.

  The relief swept through me with a rush. I leaned against the side of the car, feeling weak and oddly numb. I would have given the moon and stars to know that he was all right, and now I did know, and I was glad – of course I was glad. But I couldn’t recover instantly from the fear that had gripped me.

  Derwent was doing his best to deal with Debbie, who was not one of his admirers, probably because they had had a fling that ended badly. She looked a lot less glamorous than usual. Her hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail and her make-up had gone, washed off by the rain or tears or both. She looked much older, suddenly, and I felt sorry for her. Losing one of her team had to be painful. She had the ultimate responsibility for them, after all. Derwent finished off the conversation with an actual pat on her back, which didn’t seem to impress her in the least, and jogged back to me.

  ‘Right. Debs says it was a guy called Harry Cromer. He’s been on her team for three years. Good bloke, she said. Forty last year.’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ I said, shocked all over again. I remembered him well. He had had big ears and a goofy smile, but you underestimated him at your peril. More than once, I’d seen him win an argument with a remark pointed enough to draw blood. I’d seen him be kind, too. ‘He was a really nice guy.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it wasn’t your boyfriend but Cromer sounds like the kind of cop we didn’t want to lose.’

  ‘There aren’t all that many I’d spare.’ I leaned around Derwent, trying to see behind him. ‘Did she say where Rob is?’

  ‘Somewhere in that lot.’ Derwent jerked a thumb at the maelstrom of ambulances and police cars that was blocking the street. ‘She said she’d tell him you were here.’

  ‘I bet she will,’ I said. Deborah Ormond disliked me and liked Rob rather too much. The idea of her doing me a favour was unlikely.

  ‘Now, now.’

  ‘You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Better than you do.’ Derwent grinned.

  ‘I always forget you two have history.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But I try to. I don’t want to call it romantic history …’

  ‘Nothing romantic about it.’ The grin widened.

  ‘Quite. How was your little reunion?’

  ‘Awkward.’

  ‘I thought you were going to hug her. So did she.’

  ‘Jesus, no.’ Derwent shuddered. ‘You don’t want to get that close, believe me. Not twice. Not when you’ve escaped more or less intact the first time.’

  My mood was all over the place. I was on the verge of hysterical laughter, and I knew it was inappropriate. I also knew it was shock. It could just as easily have been anger, or tears. And Derwent was fully aware of how I was feeling, talking more or less at random, giving me the space and time to recover. I squared my shoulders.

  ‘I should go and f
ind Rob, and you probably need to get started on this shooting.’

  ‘Yeah. Hey, Kerrigan—’ I had started to move past him but he grabbed my arm to keep me where I was. ‘It sounds as if your bloke is in a bit of a bad way. He was running the operation. He was coming round the corner when the shooting happened. He just missed seeing the bike, according to Debbie.’

  I felt the pit of my stomach drop. ‘Oh no. Poor Rob.’

  ‘He’s going to feel pretty shit about this, even though it’s not his fault. He was the surveillance commander. He put the guys in the car. He picked the location for the stakeout. If they were made, it’s his responsibility, or at least he’ll take it that way.’

  I nodded, looking up at Derwent, who seemed to have something else to say though he was taking his time about it.

  ‘Look, I know what I’m talking about, okay? He’s going to struggle.’

  ‘Did you?’

  The response was instant: shutdown. ‘We’re not talking about me.’

  ‘But you’re speaking from personal experience.’ I remembered what he’d said about wives and girlfriends crying on his shoulders; I hadn’t really thought about why they might need to.

  ‘As I said, we’re not talking about me. Just – just look after him, okay?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Derwent nodded, his eyes not meeting mine. ‘Go and find him and take him home as soon as they let him go. Don’t let him hang around. Get a cab.’

  ‘I will,’ I said again. This time, when I walked away from Derwent, he let me go.

  I found Rob sitting in an ambulance and my first reaction was pure, instinctive panic, even though I knew he was all right. His clothes were dark and sticky with blood. I ran up the steps.

  ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

  He looked down at himself. ‘It’s not my blood. Harry bled all over me.’

  I had a sudden, awful image in my mind of Rob hauling his friend out of the front of the car and trying to save him as he lay dying in the street. I swallowed and went to stand beside him, one hand on his back. ‘I didn’t know who it was. I just knew it was one of your team. I couldn’t get through on your phone—’

  ‘I think I left it in the car. Or the street.’ His voice was flat. He sipped from the cup of water he was holding.

  ‘We should try to get it back before we go home.’

  He made a noise that could have been agreement, or could have been you’ll be lucky, or could even have been I don’t care.

  ‘Everyone at work was worried about you,’ I said, needing him to know. ‘I was, a bit. At least, I was a bit panicky.’

  ‘Sorry.’ That affectless tone again.

  ‘Why are you sitting here? Do you need to get checked out?’

  ‘No. They let me wait in here because of the rain and the people staring at me.’

  ‘Do you need to give a statement or anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve spoken to a couple of people already. I didn’t see anything useful. I heard the shot and I heard the bike accelerate away but I was too late when I came round the corner. I saw nothing.’

  ‘Was Harry on his own in the van?’

  ‘No. Richie Saunders was there too. He gave a statement. Didn’t see a huge amount, understandably. There were two of them. The gunman was the pillion passenger, as you’d expect. They were wearing helmets and by the time they drove off he was too shocked to take much in. If you think I look bad you should see him.’

  I didn’t know if it was better for Rob to talk about it or try not to think about it. I was a long way out of my depth. I clung to Derwent’s advice like a life belt. ‘I’ll see if you can go yet. I want to take you home.’

  His head snapped up and he looked at me for the first time. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘I’m not sure hanging around is such a good idea,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Derwent said—’

  ‘I really don’t care what he said.’

  ‘No, but you should. He’s been in this situation before. I think. I mean, he seems to know all about it. From the army. You could talk to him about it. He might give you more of the details. I just got hints and dark muttering.’

  ‘I’m not talking to him about it.’ There was a real edge to Rob’s voice and I stepped back a little, faltering.

  ‘He might be able to help.’

  ‘He’s the last person I’d ask for help.’

  ‘I know. I would have said that too, but I really think—’

  ‘Maeve. Drop it.’

  I dropped it. There was no point in arguing with him. I sat beside him as various people came to talk to him: Godley, who was charming and sympathetic and ignored me; a couple of officers from the Department of Professional Standards who were less charming, neutral on the sympathy front and ignored me; Debbie Ormond, who was extremely charming and made a point of including me in the conversation and an apologetic Kev Cox who took Rob’s clothes and bagged them up, giving him a spare paper suit to wear.

  ‘Now you really need to go home,’ I said. ‘You can’t wander around in the rain wearing that.’

  ‘It’s treated,’ Kev said. ‘Should stand up to a bit of rain. I wouldn’t wear one to Glastonbury but then I wouldn’t go to Glastonbury in the first place.’

  I smiled politely. Rob was stony-faced.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘We should go soon.’

  ‘No.’

  I waited until Kev had packed up and left.

  ‘We can’t just sit here all night. What are you trying to achieve?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rob folded his arms, crinkling slightly. ‘I just don’t feel I can go home. It doesn’t seem right when Harry isn’t going to go home again.’

  ‘Harry’s not here any more,’ I said gently. ‘The mortuary men took him away hours ago.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Look, this isn’t easy, but you are going to have to go home at some stage. You are going to need to eat, and sleep. You are going to need to go on living.’

  Rob closed his eyes. ‘Not now, Maeve.’

  ‘Now, Rob. Right now. You need to get away from here and sort your head out. There are plenty of people here working to make sure Harry gets justice. You aren’t helping them and you’re not helping yourself. You need to get some rest.’

  He squeezed his eyes tightly, fighting back tears.

  ‘Come home with me,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  I knew he didn’t want to, but in the end he agreed and I thought it was a victory.

  I was wrong about a lot of things, and that was one of them.

  Rob had a shower when he got home, washing away the traces of Harry Cromer’s blood that had soaked through his clothes, all the way to his skin. I understood why he locked the door, and why he stayed under the running water for a lot longer than usual. In a quiet, unobtrusive way he was as proud as Derwent and far tougher. He didn’t want to let me see him suffer, and it didn’t matter that I wanted to help – that it was my turn to support him, for once.

  I couldn’t make him lean on me, so I made dinner instead.

  He came out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, his hair still spiky with water.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A glance at the cooker where water was boiling, ready for the pasta to go in. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I thought I would do it anyway. You might feel like having some later.’

  ‘You sound like your mum.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk,’ I said, nettled because it was true. I was starting to understand how she felt, though. It wasn’t possible to make everything right again with food and comfort, but if that was all you had, that was what you offered.

  He sat on the sofa and put on the television, hunting for a news channel.

  ‘Do you want anything else? Tea? A drink?’

  ‘I’ll get it myself.’ He came back to the kitchen and found a glass and an unopened bottle of whiskey, stepping around me. I stirred the pasta sa
uce I had made, wondering if I could be bothered to finish it.

  In the end I turned off the heat under the two saucepans and went to sit beside Rob. He was leaning forward, staring at the news, and didn’t look at me when I put a hand on his back. The news, of course, was all about what had happened in Bexley, and when they got tired of repeating the very small amount of information and footage they had managed to collect, they went back over the previous deaths, with accompanying graphs and maps. They were better resourced than we were, I thought, and wondered if we could borrow some of their material.

  After a while, I said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He was drinking steadily but slowly, and he wasn’t one to drown his sorrows usually. He rarely got drunk, or anything like it. He would stop before he went too far, I thought.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Well, if you change your mind—’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I stood up, feeling a little dizzy from hunger. In the kitchen, the pasta sauce didn’t look any more appetising. I made a sandwich instead and ate it standing up, watching Rob. He was still focused on the television.

  ‘You know, I understand why you’re watching that, but I don’t know if it’s the best idea. It’s just going over the same ground. It’s not going to tell you anything you don’t know.’

  That made him look at me. ‘Maeve, with the greatest respect, fuck off.’

  I was so shocked, I stepped back and collided with the kitchen cupboards. ‘I’m just—’

  ‘Shut. The fuck. Up.’ He stared at me for a long, hostile moment, then turned back to the television.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t answer me.

  Something close to panic welled up within me. I had thought everything was going to be all right because Rob wasn’t hurt, but life wasn’t that simple. People weren’t that simple. I just didn’t know where to start with making him feel better. This wasn’t how our relationship usually worked. I was the one who generally needed rescuing from whatever disaster I’d plummeted into, and I didn’t seem to be equipped to help him now. He was upset, of course, but I had expected that. I hadn’t expected the anger. And he was the sort of person who didn’t get angry easily, but stayed angry for a long, long time.