by Jane Casey
“The tech guys have already recovered the computer. They’re talking to the IT department at the office to see if there’s any other record of what people have been browsing on their work computers,” Burt added.
“There’s bound to be in a place like that, I should think.” Godley nodded. “Good. What else? You went to Lewisham, didn’t you? Anything new?”
“Nothing on the book club, but I did find out that Kirsty Campbell was planning to meet a man a few days before she died and she was worried about her home security.” I told them about meeting Jonty, and the conversation I’d had with Montrose.
“Do we think she was being stalked?” Burt’s eyebrows were drawn down in a thick, bristling line. I found I couldn’t quite look at her. No one had mentioned Derwent, but I couldn’t get his shattered demeanor out of my mind.
“It’s possible. But according to Montrose, she was calm on the phone.”
“Check with Groves. See if her friends and colleagues had picked up on anything. I’m sure they’ve asked the question already.”
“Even if they’ve done nothing else.” Burt sniffed. “Maeve’s been following up leads for half a day and she’s already found out more than they have in nine months.”
“You’re doing well,” Godley said to me, and I forced myself to smile. They were both watching me. They were both trying to see if I was on their side, I thought. I could play this game. I could cooperate and get another inch or two up the ladder.
I could lose my self-respect.
“About DI Derwent.”
Twin expressions that were the opposite of encouraging.
“I think it’s time you told me what’s going on.”
Silence.
“Okay then.” I stood up. “See you tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” Una Burt demanded.
I gave the pair of them my best sunshiny smile. “If neither of you is prepared to start talking, I’ll just have to go and ask him myself.”
Chapter Twelve
I’ll say this for Godley and Burt: they were realists. They knew I wasn’t joking and they knew the only thing they could use to stop me was the truth. If they’d been in my place, they’d have done the same. So they came clean.
Not, however, without a warning from Godley.
“There was a reason we were trying to keep this from you, Maeve. This sort of thing—you can’t unknow it. You have been working with DI Derwent; you may have to work with him in the future. You must not reveal to him what you know, if he asks you about it. Can you do that?”
“I have quite a lot of practice at being discreet.” And let Godley take that however he pleased.
“It’s vital that you keep this to yourself, as well. I don’t want this being talked about. The more people discussing it, the more problems we’re going to have.”
“I understand. And I don’t gossip.”
“Everyone gossips,” Godley said flatly. “This is the main reason why I’m keeping the team’s involvement in the serial killer investigation to a minimum. I want to know exactly what’s going on with it but I don’t need everyone else to know about Josh. Do you understand?”
“Sort of.” I had remained standing by the door, but now I came back and sat down. “I can’t really say I understand when I don’t know what the issue is.”
“It’s pretty straightforward. When Josh was a teenager, his girlfriend was murdered. He was the number-one suspect but he was never charged.”
“No evidence,” Una Burt chipped in. “I’ve read the file.”
“He had an alibi.” Godley glared at her. “There was no question of him being responsible for her death. It didn’t stop him from being accepted when he applied to the Met, and they wouldn’t have considered him for a moment if he was a potential murderer.”
“So you say.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“I know you don’t like him, but—” Godley seemed to remember I was there and broke off. “Where was I?”
“Murder. His girlfriend.”
“Right. Well, there are some … similarities between the girlfriend’s murder and the recent deaths.”
“Such as?”
“Angela Poole was strangled. Had her eyes gouged out. But it happened in her back garden, not her bedroom.” Burt’s voice was matter-of-fact, even when she added the last detail, the one that made me wince. “She was fifteen years old.”
“Did they get whoever did it?”
“No one was ever charged,” Godley said. “And Josh has spent the last twenty years trying to find out who killed her.”
“So Derwent is obsessed with his dead girlfriend, and the case is superficially similar to the current killings.” I still wasn’t seeing the problem.
“The killings aren’t similar. They are identical in many respects,” Burt said.
“I didn’t want Josh involved from the start,” Godley said. “There’s a good chance he’d say or do something inappropriate—you saw him just now. He’s not himself.”
Burt snorted. “I think that was the real him, Charlie.”
“I know him better than you do.”
“I’d rather not know him at all.”
They were bickering like an old married couple. I cleared my throat. “So is that it? That’s the reason why he’s not allowed to know what’s going on? Why I’m not even allowed to talk to him?”
Godley looked down, not meeting my eyes. “At the meeting today, there was speculation about the character of our killer. And about his job.”
“He could be a police officer. Or pretending to be one,” I added.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be Derwent.”
“Tell her about the profile,” Burt said.
“What profile?”
Godley started to leaf through his in tray. “I had Dr. Chen profile the killer a couple of weeks ago. Obviously she based it on the information we had, which was from two murders. It’s worrying, Maeve.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re hanging Derwent out to dry because of a forensic psychologist’s profile?” Forget diplomacy; I was outraged. God knows, I didn’t like Derwent, but he was a committed police officer and loyal in his own way to those he chose to care about, which included Godley. Moreover, I didn’t believe he could be responsible for the crime scene I’d seen that day. Killer was possible—cold-blooded was not.
“Just listen before you make up your mind,” Godley said, and started to read aloud. “The subject is aged between thirty and forty-five and has a dominant personality. He is confident with women and probably works in a position of authority. He is single and lives alone. He is obsessive about detail and a perfectionist. He can be manipulative and has sadistic traits but he is controlled in his behavior, able to suppress this aspect of his personality much of the time. He could have a military background or experience of being in a highly controlled environment such as a strict boarding school, young offenders’ institution or prison. He is employed in a job where he has considerable personal freedom and may work for himself rather than a private company. He may have spent time outside the UK. He is well-spoken, middle-class and superficially attractive but he has serious sociopathic traits.”
I snorted. “Derwent is an asshole. That may not be what the psychologists would call him, but it’s true. He’s not a sociopath.”
“It’s more common than you’d think. One percent of the population, they estimate. No ability to empathize. No guilt about committing violent acts. No morality,” Burt said.
“Derwent is one of the most moral people I know.” By his own standards, obviously; he wasn’t winning any prizes for equality campaigning.
“If he is a sociopath, he’s an expert at disguising it,” Burt said. “And you know very well he’s bright enough to look up the traits that distinguish a sociopath so he can create the opposite impression. Weren’t you listening, Maeve? Most of that profile might as well have his picture beside it.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know that a profile is the best way to find a killer. I prefer to rely on the evidence. And there isn’t any.”
“No, there isn’t,” Godley said. “But you see why I can’t take the risk of letting him know too much. I shared my initial concerns with Una when Josh first raised the possible connection with Angela Poole’s death—”
“And it was my idea to consider him a possible suspect,” she finished.
Godley winced. “I don’t like to suggest it’s a possibility but I can’t just defend him because I like him. I’ve got to keep it in mind. He’s on leave for the next two weeks and I’ve warned him not to come near the office, or you, or anyone else who’s working on the investigation.”
“So if he does approach you, tell us.” Burt ran her tongue over her upper lip and I turned away again, sickened at the look of anticipation on her face. She hated Derwent almost as much as he hated her. She must have noticed that I was upset. “Look at what you’ve found out just today, Maeve, that points at Josh Derwent. Anna was looking at the Met website. Miss Johnson thought the man who Kirsty was meeting had a name that could have been Josh.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“She suggested it.”
“I think you’re seeing what you want to see. With respect,” I added, recalling that she was a DCI.
“He is obsessed with this case. He is obsessed with being involved in the investigation. Angela’s murder changed the course of his life—you know his parents kicked him out, don’t you, before he joined the army? It was because they were so ashamed of him. Imagine how they must have felt to cut him off like that. They thought he did it.”
“That’s just speculation,” I protested.
“It’s a theory, but it makes sense.” Burt leaned toward me. “I heard about what happened yesterday. Derwent lost his temper because he wanted to know about the investigation into Kirsty’s and Maxine’s deaths. A few hours later, Anna was dead. Why then? Why so soon after Maxine? He was angry last night and today we have a murder. It’s possible that he was angry in January, and in August, before the other two women died.”
“This is Derwent we’re talking about,” I said. “He’s angry all the time.”
“Has he ever spoken to you about Angela?” Godley was watching me.
“We don’t really have that kind of relationship.” By which I meant I would rather crawl over broken glass than talk to him about my private life and he didn’t volunteer much about his, except stories about his sexual exploits that he knew would make me edgy. Sadistic tendencies? Well, maybe.
Godley pushed the file across the table toward me. “This is a copy of the case file. Take it. Read it. Get familiar with the facts of the case and draw your own conclusions.”
“You cannot believe that he is a killer. You wouldn’t have him anywhere near your team if that was the case.” I held Godley’s gaze, challenging him.
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think. He’s been obsessed with this murder for as long as I’ve known him—talking about it, talking about her.”
“I’ve never noticed anything.” But even as I said it, I was remembering incidents from other cases—his prudishness, unusual among cops, where young girls were concerned. I remembered him throwing up at a crime scene where the victim was a teenager and blaming it on food poisoning. I remembered him being surprisingly tender when it came to persuading a troubled young woman not to set herself on fire. I remembered him saying he wasn’t in touch with his parents, and not wanting to talk about it. I remembered him taking a positive and wistful delight in my so-close-it’s-claustrophobic family. All of the times Derwent had surprised me, it seemed, could be traced back to this. He walked around with it like a shadow.
“You know Josh.” Godley’s voice was quiet, the effect hypnotic. “You know what he’s like. He gets an idea in his head and he has to carry it through, no matter who he hurts or what goes wrong in the process. It could be him, Maeve. And even if it’s not—and I hope and trust it’s not—I can’t have him rampaging through this case causing mayhem. Now read the file. Take it home. I don’t want you to look at it in the office, for obvious reasons.”
I stood up and took it from Godley. The file was thin for a murder investigation, even one that had happened twenty years ago. Too thin to be a reason to sabotage someone’s career.
“Give it back to me tomorrow. Come and see me at ten. You too, Una.”
I couldn’t get out of Godley’s office quickly enough. The file fitted in my shoulder bag but there wasn’t any room for my notes from the current case. I switched off my computer and light, grabbed my coat and headed for the door. DCI Burt was back at her own desk and I was aware of her watching me as I strode across the room.
“You were the one who wanted to know.”
“I don’t mind knowing.” I mind the way you’re enjoying all of this.
“I’m glad you do know now. For your own sake. And safety.”
I laughed. “I’m hardly in danger from Derwent.”
“You don’t know that. Just be on your guard.”
She reminded me of the people who’d mobbed public hangings for entertainment in the nineteenth century. I wasn’t yet on Derwent’s side but I was also very far from being on Burt’s. I would make up my own mind.
I set off down the stairs, hurrying, because I was madly curious to read about what had happened to Angela Poole. It was the best way to find out what had made Derwent the man he was. A normal, happy upbringing didn’t produce anything as complicated as him. The building was hushed, so quiet I could hear the lift shuttling up and down beside the stairwell. My heels echoed on the tiled steps, a quick staccato. I was already planning my route home. I’d get a bus, I thought, at least some of the way. Changing methods of transport was a good way to check I wasn’t being followed. Thank God for free travel, one of my perks as a police officer. I had my ID in my hand as I nodded goodnight to the security guard and pushed through the revolving door onto the street. Force of habit made me take the measure of the people passing, the cars on the street, the safety or otherwise of my surroundings. No vehicles I had seen before. No one giving me a second look. Nothing suspicious. I paused to wrap my scarf around my neck, tucking it in under the collar of the expensive coat that had been a Christmas present from the well-heeled boyfriend before Rob. Behind me, the revolving door made a noise like a quick intake of breath as someone else emerged. I barely registered it.
So it was a shock to be grabbed from behind, one arm held in a way that suggested the person who had taken hold of me wasn’t going to let go for anything—not tears, not swearing, not violence. For one brief moment I still considered trying all three. I had known who it was the moment he touched me, without even looking; it was surprise and outrage that made my heart pound, not fear. He steered me down the street, walking beside me, so close that most people wouldn’t have noticed the way he was grasping my arm. It was expertly done.
He guided me down a one-way street not far from the office, one of the little forgotten lanes of Westminster, too narrow to allow cars to park on it, a cut-through for taxis, a breathing space between buildings more than a street in its own right. And it was deserted. We walked halfway along it before Derwent stopped. He was wearing his dark overcoat buttoned, the collar turned up as usual to ward off the sharp east wind that was ruffling his hair and whipping color into his cheeks.
I found my voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Bit of kidnapping. Nothing fancy.”
“Get off.” I leaned away from him, or tried to. All the feminism in the world couldn’t give me enough heft to move an inch.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” He sounded jittery, the nerves masked by a horribly unsuccessful attempt at being jocular.
“Home.”
“Home,” he repeated. “And what’s this? Taking work with you? Little bit of extra reading?” He twanged the strap of my bag and I couldn’t stop myself from clenching my arm
against it.
“It’s just some stuff I wanted to go through. You know I never have time to read the briefings properly.”
His eyes glittered in the streetlight, the half-smile less convincing by the minute. “Was that why you stayed late, Kerrigan? Printing them off like a good girl? Showing Burt and Godley you’re more dedicated than the average detective?”
“If you like.”
“It’s not about what I like. I don’t matter any more. You’ve got someone else to suck up to now.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been scared by Derwent, but I knew him better now than on the last occasion, and this time I was angry too. “Spare me the self-pity. And I’m not like that. I’ve never tried to suck up to you or Chief Inspector Burt. You wish I would so you could enjoy upsetting me when you put me down.”
He looked surprised. “Why would I want to put you down?”
“I wish I knew.” I took the opportunity to try to pull my arm away again, and failed. “Look, what do you want?”
“To talk to you.”
“You don’t have to behave like a thug.”
“I did try calling you.” His jaw was clenched.
“Is that what this is about? You want to have another go at me for not returning your calls? You really need to work on how you handle rejection.”
“Shut up.” A black cab turned into the street, its orange light on. The throaty diesel engine sounded loud in the narrow street. Derwent leaned into the road and held up his hand. The driver slid to a stop within inches of us and Derwent yanked open the door. He pushed me forward. “In there.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I meant it, too.
“Why not? Don’t you trust me?”
I looked up at him, about to say something cutting, but the words faded out of my mind as I realized he actually meant it. His face was set, the strain showing around his eyes and his mouth.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, very quietly. “What do you think I can do?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—I don’t know what else to do.” No attitude. No belligerence. Derwent was actually asking me for help, in his own awkward way.