Let the Dead Speak

by Jane Casey

  Gareth had said there were fifty in the congregation. I suspected he had a tendency to exaggerate for effect.

  ‘We have visitors from other communities, of course,’ Oliver went on. ‘We are part of the Modern Apostles movement. There are two hundred thousand of us in Asia, half a million across Africa, the same again in South America.’ He reeled off the numbers fluently. ‘The new world has a lot to teach us in Europe about faith. They’ve kept the flame burning brightly even if we’ve allowed it to dim.’

  ‘Do you preach?’ I asked. He looked disconcerted.

  ‘Me? No.’

  ‘You sound very practised. Very persuasive.’

  ‘I do all the public relations for the church. I write press releases, do the website – that sort of thing.’

  ‘And it’s a full-time job?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s not only this church. I’m based here but I work for other churches in the Modern Apostles movement. There’s one in High Wycombe, one in Haywards Heath, one in Leighton Buzzard that Gareth planted before he was directed to come to Putney and start a new congregation here. We have national conferences every three years and I’m involved in organising them.’

  ‘What did you do before?’

  ‘I worked in the PR department of a major pharmaceuticals company.’

  ‘So you’re used to selling hope.’

  His face flushed. ‘I always wanted to help people, if that’s what you mean. But we’ve healed more people here than the pharmaceuticals company ever did.’

  ‘Literally healed them?’

  ‘The lame walked.’

  ‘The blind saw?’

  He gave me a half-smile. ‘Not quite. Not yet, anyway. But God can do anything.’

  We had reached the back of the hall. It was piled with boxes. I glanced in one and saw groceries.

  ‘We run an unofficial food bank. Everyone contributes what they can and once a month we distribute them to those in need in the area.’

  ‘That sounds useful,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t understand why there’s such hostility to Christianity when we just want to help people.’ The words came out with surprising force, as if he’d been suppressing them for too long.

  ‘What kind of hostility?’

  ‘People mock us for how we pray and for our beliefs.’ He shook his head, still angry. ‘We get called names. You hear things on the radio or on television – slighting comments. And no one says a word! If you said these things about Muslims or Jews, you’d be hounded. But Christians are fair game.’

  ‘You have to turn the other cheek, as I understand it.’

  ‘I get tired of it.’ A glance. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m still finding out more about Kate. She came here.’ I shrugged. ‘It might be relevant, it might not.’

  ‘She only came once.’

  ‘So Mr Selhurst said. He said he argued with her.’

  He nodded unhappily. ‘Kate was … disrespectful. I thought I was doing the right thing in asking her to come. Gareth told me I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I wondered if I should have checked with him first.’

  ‘Was he angry with her?’

  ‘Gareth doesn’t get angry. Not about personal things. He allowed God to speak through him and Kate was scared by what he said.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That hell was waiting for her if she didn’t change her ways. That she had one choice to make because after her death there would be no more choices. That she had let herself fall into evil and God would help her out but she had to want to be saved.’

  ‘And she didn’t like that.’

  ‘She called him a patronising old lizard.’ Norris sighed. ‘I tried to intervene.’

  ‘He said that other people were upset.’

  ‘Everyone was.’ Norris swallowed. ‘People were unsettled. They didn’t feel they had been able to pray. After I took Kate away, some of our flock asked Gareth to lead another service straight away. They wanted to purify our church. Kate was like pollution among us.’

  I whistled. ‘Strong words.’

  ‘Strong feelings.’ Norris frowned, not looking at me. ‘But that was the end of it. She didn’t come back.’

  ‘Was there anyone in particular who asked about her? Anyone who wanted to know her name, or where she lived?’

  ‘You don’t think someone here harmed her. That’s impossible.’

  ‘It happens. And Mr Selhurst said she was full of evil.’

  ‘But that’s not her fault. We prayed for her. We wouldn’t hurt her. That’s not God’s way.’

  He looked genuinely appalled at the idea. I backed off. ‘Mr Selhurst said he spoke to her again a number of times. With you.’

  ‘Gareth wanted to convince her to let Chloe join us. She was obviously interested – she talked to Bethany about it all the time. Kate wouldn’t even let her walk through the door. That was one reason why I asked Kate to come and see what our services were like. I thought it would show her we weren’t happy-clappy types. But it only confirmed all her prejudices. She didn’t want to believe. She didn’t want to know.’ He looked unhappy. ‘She wasn’t ready, maybe. Her mind was closed.’

  I had made up my own mind too. ‘I’m going to need names and addresses for everyone in the congregation.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time looking for Kate’s killer here.’

  ‘I hope so. But I have to do my job.’

  ‘Can I say no?’

  ‘It would be helpful if you didn’t. I want to run background checks on them. I need to make sure you don’t have anyone in the congregation with a history of violent or unstable behaviour. If I don’t find anything, I won’t bother them.’

  He sighed. ‘Come to the office. Stella can print them off for you.’

  Stella – the dark-haired woman – did, shuffling the pages together and sliding them into a folder for me as Gareth Selhurst and Norris watched. I noticed her long-sleeved, shapeless top, her ankle-skimming skirt and the flat shoes she wore that were like Eleanor Norris’s. I was probably breaking all sorts of rules by wearing trousers in the church, I thought, not to mention the two-inch heels. On the other hand, there were long days when I might be prepared to admit that high heels were evil.

  ‘That’s everything for the moment.’

  Gareth smiled, all benevolence. ‘I’ll pray for you, child.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I said.

  ‘There’s every need. We all need prayers. Especially those of us who walk in evil ways.’

  ‘Because of my job?’ I said, wary.

  ‘I think you know what I mean.’

  The easy option was to smile and say nothing. Mentally I tossed a coin and decided to be difficult. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t you find your spiritual life is rather lacking? Like Catholicism itself?’

  ‘Not often.’

  He smiled a little wider. ‘The Church of Rome will fall, my dear.’

  ‘It’s lasted a long time without falling.’

  ‘It’s riddled with corruption. You only have to look at the things they’ve done.’

  ‘The things that some of them did.’

  ‘Too many. Men who were supposed to be of God. Men tainted and rotten with sin.’

  I tucked the folder under my arm and smiled back at him with equal tolerance and just a hint of condescension. ‘If I’ve learned one thing doing this job it’s that evil can be anywhere. Even here.’

  And on that note, I left.

  14

  It was early on Friday morning – so early that the houses on Valerian Road were all dark. The moon was bright in a faded sky, hanging on to the end of the night like a lover. I followed Derwent’s car into the street and pulled up a little way away from Kate Emery’s house. Una Burt had parked and was walking back up the street towards us, on her phone, coordinating her teams. At four thirty we were an hour into the working day already, I’d had something less than three hours’ sleep and I didn’t feel tired in t
he least. I was running on adrenalin.

  I had returned from the church of the Modern Apostles and stepped into a whirlwind. The preliminary forensic reports were back, Una Burt informed us, and in spite of the fact we didn’t have a body, we had a good reason to bring some suspects in for questioning. I’d spent the rest of the day on background checks, finding out as much as I could about them. We needed to walk into the interviews knowing not just what questions we were going to ask, but how they were going to answer.

  My mood dipped fractionally at the sight of Georgia getting out of Derwent’s car. Una Burt had divided us into teams: Derwent with Georgia and Chris Pettifer with me. I walked quickly to where the others were assembling. Pettifer made room for me. Derwent was brooding at his phone and ignored me. Georgia was huddled in her jacket, standing close to him. Her mascara was already on, I noted. I wondered what they’d found to talk about in the car on the way over. She had tried to find out more about him on the way back from Pimlico and I’d found myself reluctant to say too much about him, about times we’d worked together, about our history of stepping all over each other’s lives.

  I didn’t want her to take my place.

  ‘Ready?’ Una Burt turned her phone away from her mouth. ‘The others are in position.’

  We nodded. The best time to call on a suspect was unannounced, early in the morning. No warning. No time to prepare. No time to get word to anyone else. No Fly, all is discovered. Or rather, no Get your story straight because you’ve got some questions to answer. We very definitely hadn’t discovered all. The forensic report had kept me awake during my brief night’s rest as I tried and failed to make the pieces fit a pattern.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to have any problems with bringing them in. They’re not known and they have no warnings – but obviously, take care.’

  My stab vest was digging into me but it wasn’t optional. Houses were full of weapons, and more than one officer had been injured that way. It happened when you least expected it. That was another reason for wanting to have surprise on our side and for knocking on doors at dawn. Sleepy, confused, half-dressed people were generally docile.

  It was such a still morning, the slightest noise carried. A metallic sound made me turn to check behind me. It was a key turning in a stiff lock and the rattle of a chain. It came from the house nearest us: number 6. William Turner’s home. The door opened and Turner stepped out, taking up his regular position against the frame. He already had a cigarette between his lips, the lighter cupped in his hand. A worn denim shirt, jeans, bare feet: it looked like the tail end of his day rather than the start of it. He looked up and froze.

  ‘Fucking hell. To what do I owe the pleasure at this time of night?’

  I leaned over the garden gate and hissed, ‘Keep your voice down. We’re not here for you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He flicked his lighter and bent his head to touch the flame to the end of the cigarette. It flared and caught, the loose tobacco burning unevenly. Then he narrowed his eyes at me. They were bloodshot, the skin around them puffy from lack of sleep. He was young and pretty enough that the slight hint of a dissolute life made him more attractive, not less. ‘Arresting someone?’

  ‘Nothing so exciting.’

  ‘Oh, come on. At this time of day, it has to be something good. I might ring round the newspapers. Tip them off that something is happening. They love to be the first to hear about a new development, don’t they?’

  My jaw had clenched. The papers had been full of Kate’s picture – the windswept one from the beach – and long, speculative articles for the past few days. I had been here before. Slowly, subtly the focus would shift from ‘murder investigation’ to ‘police incompetence’. The last thing we needed was their attention at this stage, when we were still groping in the dark – when we were taking a chance and hoping it paid off.

  ‘If you tip anyone off, your life won’t be worth living. This isn’t a game, Mr Turner. This is a murder investigation.’

  ‘Found a body, then?’

  ‘Still looking. Maybe we should come and see if it’s down the back of your sofa.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Then don’t make me make you prove it.’ I stared at him for a moment longer, until he looked down at his feet and nodded.

  Behind me, a clatter of knocks on a front door made me jump. Turner stood on tiptoe to see better, his mouth falling open, the laidback slouch forgotten.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Not Chloe. You need to leave her alone. You can’t harass Chloe. It’s wrong. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. She doesn’t know anything anyway.’

  ‘No one is harassing anyone,’ I said, irritated. ‘We’re trying to find out what happened to her mother.’

  He shook his head. ‘I know how the Met works. Find a suspect, make a case.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t work on you, did it?’

  ‘Not for want of trying.’ He swallowed. ‘Seriously, you wouldn’t fit her up.’

  ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t.’

  After a second, he nodded, and I turned away to see lights coming on in the houses on either side of the road. Morning had officially broken on Valerian Road.

  At number 32, the door was standing open, the hall beyond it full of people. All of them seemed to be talking at once.

  ‘You can’t just barge in here in the middle of the night, uninvited.’ That was Oliver Norris, bare-chested, his pyjamas slung low on his hips. Eleanor was literally clinging to him, her eyes wide with shock, her hair all over the place.

  ‘They can do what they like,’ Morgan Norris drawled from halfway up the stairs. ‘Isn’t that right? That’s the message here.’

  ‘We’d like to talk to both of you.’ Una Burt looked from Oliver to Morgan, as implacable as ever.

  Up at the top of the stairs, Chloe made a noise like a whimper. Bethany caught her hand and held it, tight enough that I could see her fingers bleaching the blood from Chloe’s skin.

  ‘What do you want to talk to us about?’ Oliver blustered. ‘What could you possibly think we can tell you? I’ve answered your questions already.’ He noticed me and jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘Her. I spoke to her. Twice.’

  ‘These relate to developments in our enquiries,’ Burt said blandly. ‘And we feel they’re best answered in a formal interview. So we’re here to arrest you.’

  ‘Arrest us?’ Morgan Norris was wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt and should, by rights, have been feeling self-conscious. He looked anything but, leaning against the wall, completely at ease.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we need solicitors.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ Eleanor wailed. ‘This has nothing to do with us. Chloe—’

  ‘Leave Chloe out of this.’ Oliver Norris shrugged his wife off. ‘It’s to do with me. And with Morgan, apparently.’ He looked over his shoulder at his brother. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done, Morgan, but when this is over you’re going to have to find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Not the time, Ollie.’ Morgan yawned and pulled his T-shirt up so he could scratch his stomach. ‘Any objection to us getting dressed before we come with you?’

  ‘No, but you’re going to have to do it with one of my officers watching,’ Burt said.

  Morgan grinned at me. ‘Do I get to pick which one?’

  ‘No,’ Derwent said flatly before Una Burt could answer. He was glaring up at Morgan as if he was willing him to drop dead then and there.

  ‘Shame.’ Morgan looked back at Burt. ‘Will you be searching the house?’

  ‘I have a warrant to do so, yes.’

  ‘Then you’d better know I have some pot in my room. Not much. About five quid’s worth.’

  ‘Morgan,’ Oliver snapped. ‘For God’s sake.’

  ‘It’s not a big deal unless they choose to make it one,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure they have more important thi
ngs on their minds.’

  ‘DI Derwent will accompany you to your room. You can show him where it is.’ Every now and then I realised that DCI Burt knew exactly what she was doing. For the first time, Morgan Norris looked mildly uneasy. I’d have felt the same way if I was going to be confined in a small space with Josh Derwent when he was in that sort of mood.

  ‘But I don’t understand.’ Eleanor was looking from her husband to her brother-in-law. ‘What does this have to do with us? With both of you? What have they found?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ With poorly concealed irritation, Oliver moved her out of his way. ‘I’m going to call Gareth and my solicitor and get all this sorted out. With any luck, I’ll be home for lunch.’

  It would take some luck, I thought. We’d hang on to them for as long as we could, and make the most of getting to search the house. There was a twenty-four-hour window before we had to charge them with anything, and I was inclined to use it.

  ‘Get dressed first. You’ll be going to the local police station and you’ll get one phone call once you’re booked into custody,’ Una Burt said, completely calm. ‘It’s up to you who you decide to call. Mrs Norris, is it? Could you gather everyone apart from your husband and brother-in-law in the living room? That would make it easiest for us to search the premises without causing too much disruption.’

  ‘Disruption?’ She laughed hysterically. ‘That’s one word for it. You’re tearing my life apart.’

  ‘It’s part of the investigation.’

  ‘You don’t care, do you? You don’t care that you upset people. You’re like the Stasi. Give you a little power and you take it as far as you can.’

  ‘That’s enough, Eleanor,’ Oliver said wearily. ‘I must apologise.’

  ‘Don’t you dare apologise for me. Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Mrs Norris,’ I said. ‘Eleanor. Come into the living room and have a seat. You too, girls.’

  They started to make their way down the stairs, self-conscious and bewildered. Chloe’s head was hanging down so I couldn’t see her face. Eleanor Norris muttered something and darted towards the kitchen. Chris Pettifer blocked her, massive and bull-necked.

  ‘Whoa. Where are you going?’