The Stranger You Know (Maeve Kerrigan Novels)

by Jane Casey

  “Look, mate, what’s the problem?” The driver was staring at us with frank interest. “Everything all right, love? Want me to get this gentleman to leave you be?”

  I was aware that Derwent was silent beside me, waiting for me to answer. “No,” I said. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you getting in or not, then? Only I’ve got a living to make.”

  Derwent let go of me completely and stepped back. “Up to you. Are you in or out?”

  I would have liked the time to read the file first. I wasn’t sure I could trust him. I’d been specifically warned against talking to him. The cautious approach would have been to put him off.

  I’d never been a great one for caution.

  I got into the cab.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The address Derwent gave to the driver was in London Fields, which was actually not all that far from where I lived, though I didn’t feel like starting a conversation about it. He sat on the fold-down seat opposite mine and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes.

  “Do you understand why I had to do it this way?”

  “Not really.”

  “Godley warned me to stay away from you,” Derwent said.

  “And yet here we are.”

  “I want to know what’s going on with the case.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you about it.” I folded my arms over my bag. “You know you’re a suspect, don’t you?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the back of the driver’s head. “Keep your voice down.”

  “You targeted me because you thought you could bully me. You knew Burt and Godley would shut you down as soon as you started asking questions, but I’m not in a position to tell you to get stuffed.”

  “Well, I’m on leave. At this moment I’m not your supervisor. You can say what you like as long as you’re honest with me.”

  “I’m not going to talk to you about it.”

  “Because you agree with them.”

  “I don’t know enough about it yet.” I looked at him. He filled most of the other side of the taxi, bracing himself with the grab handles as the driver took corners at speed. His shoulders were wide and he was all muscle; it took a lot of determination to move that kind of bulk over 26.2 miles, as he did for fun. He was ruthless in fighting the softening that came from too much time in cars eating junk food, his stomach flat and his jawline firm. And as he’d just proved, he was stronger than me. Physically, he was intimidating. His personality was controlling. He was unpredictable and brutal when it suited him. I was more wary of him than I wanted him to know. The possibility that he was a killer made my stomach flip every time I thought of it, as if I’d missed a step and was halfway to falling. I didn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it—but that didn’t mean I was sure of him. The one thing I knew about the killer we were hunting was that he was good at making women trust him. So despite the way he was looking at me, I wasn’t going to let my guard down.

  “Why are we going to your place?”

  “Because I didn’t think you’d let me come to yours.”

  “One hundred percent correct.”

  He grinned, a flash of the old Derwent appearing for a moment. “I like feisty. You can keep that going.”

  “You haven’t even seen feisty, mate.”

  The grin widened. “I almost wish your pal Burt was here to see you. She thinks you’re made of sugar and spice.”

  “Did she stick up for me?”

  “Told me to fuck off. In those words.” Derwent shook his head. “I didn’t think she had it in her. I thought she’d never had it in her.”

  “Is that a sexual reference?” I pulled a face. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going home.”

  “Don’t.” The appeal was instant, unpremeditated.

  “Una Burt was using me to get at you. She doesn’t actually think I’m all that fragile.”

  “What did I ever do to her?”

  “Where should I start? You’ve been undermining her since she arrived on the team. The real question is what you’ve done to piss Godley off. I’d never have expected him to take his cue from her.”

  “He’s not pissed off with me. He’s just trying to avoid trouble. And I’m trouble.” He looked lost, bereft. For someone so used to knowing their place in the wolf pack, being an outcast was torture. And he was still defending Godley, still loyal even if the superintendent wasn’t. “Look, I don’t want to drop you in the shit because you’re talking to me. I do need to know what’s going on. They’ve told you about Angela, haven’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “Right.” He took a deep breath and blew it out, looking away from me for a moment. Struggling for composure or pretending to be? “Well, I’ve always wanted to find whoever did that to her. That’s why I became a copper.”

  “Then you should be working cold cases, not murder.”

  “No one is ever going to reopen Angela’s case.” He sounded definite. “There was nothing to go on.”

  “Forensics?”

  “Not here.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll tell you about it, but not here. All you need to know is that this is the first chance there’s been to find out what happened to her.”

  “Do you really think it’s the same killer?”

  “I don’t know. Because I’ve been shut out, haven’t I?” He thumped the door with a fist and the driver slowed for a moment, looking back to see what had made the noise. “It’s driving me mad, Kerrigan. I’ve waited for this for twenty years. Everything I’ve done in my adult life has been about this. And now I can’t get close enough to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s not the same guy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s been twenty years. Why would the killer start again now?”

  “He could have been in prison. He could have been abroad.”

  “It could be someone else.”

  “How can it be? I’m only going on what I’ve read in the paper and heard on the news, but it sounds like her. The eyes.” His voice broke on the last word and he cleared his throat, annoyed with himself. “Look, if I was working this case, I’d want to compare it to the original murder. It feeds back to that. Crack Angela’s case and you find this guy.”

  “If there’s a connection.”

  “There has to be.” He held my gaze. He had everything staked on me. I could get him in a world of trouble if I told anyone what he’d done. I could get him fired.

  “So you want me to tell you what I know.”

  “Please. Like I said, I don’t know what else to do.” He was hunched in his coat, the picture of misery.

  I made up my mind. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You tell me about what happened to Angela. Everything.”

  A nod.

  “I’ll share with you what I know about the other murders. But there’s no guarantee I’ll know what you want to know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And this stays between us. Godley would have me back on Borough CID before I had time to say I was sorry if he found out about this.”

  “Strictly off the books.” He was looking better already, the tension easing a little. Give Derwent what he wanted and he always cheered up.

  I hoped like hell I was doing the right thing.

  * * *

  One of the compelling reasons for wanting to help Derwent was the chance to see where he lived. From the outside, it was a neat enough place, an end-of-terrace Victorian house in a street where most of the properties were in good condition. It wasn’t the best in the street and it wasn’t the worst. He had his own front door to one side of the building, where there was a small hallway before a steep flight of stairs led up to his flat. Slinging his coat on a hook, he stood back to let me go up the stairs.

  “You know where you’re going,” I said, and stayed where I was. Now that we were alone together, I was seriously doubting I’d made the right decision. He was volatile, and I knew he had a temper, and the army had trained him to
kill people. I couldn’t make myself believe he was the Gentleman Killer but I was staking a lot on that, and I definitely didn’t feel safe. It was too late to back out now, though, so I’d carry on, but I didn’t want him behind me on the stairs. Nor did I want to take off my coat. He didn’t comment, beyond flicking on the lights above us, and I followed him up the narrow stairs with no very clear idea of what to expect.

  “Living room.” He pointed. “Have a seat.”

  It was small and not showy, but incredibly neat. He’d been in the army and it showed: everything was spotless. One sofa, one armchair. A vast television, all the better to watch endless hours of sport. A complicated music system. A coffee table with remote controls lined up like soldiers. No cushions or rugs; blinds at the windows rather than curtains. No ornaments. No pictures. It could have been bleak but it wasn’t, somehow: it was comfortable and everything was chosen to be functional. The central heating was on and I felt my feet thawing for the first time that day. I perched on the edge of the sofa, my bag leaning against my legs, and went as far as loosening my scarf.

  He came back into the room having shed his jacket and tie, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Drink?”

  “This isn’t a social occasion. You don’t have to play the host.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not cooking dinner. But a drink’s easy enough.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Beer.”

  “And?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “And?”

  “Beer,” he repeated, giving me the widest version of his grin. In his own environment, Derwent was a lot calmer. I just hoped he wasn’t going to take off any more clothes.

  “Glass of water,” I said.

  “Boring.”

  “Again, not here to have fun.”

  He came back with a bottle of beer for himself and a pint glass of water for me. The glass was wet and he fussed over finding a coaster.

  “God forbid I should leave a mark on your coffee table.”

  “Just try not to.” There was an edge to his voice. So we had got to the end of Derwent being nice, I diagnosed, and felt obscurely reassured. I even went as far as to take off my coat. I caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath as he moved the table closer to me. A shot of whiskey in the kitchen to give him Dutch courage? Two shots? More?

  “Where do you want to start?” He turned off the main light, leaving only a single lamp on beside me. He sat in the armchair. “I feel like I’m talking to a therapist.”

  “Have you ever spoken to one?”

  He squirmed. “A couple of times. When I was ordered to. Waste of time.”

  I could imagine he was impervious to guidance from others, especially if they weren’t superior officers. “Why do you think they think you’re a suspect?”

  “Fucked if I know.” He drank from his beer.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Because of what happened to Angela.”

  “But you were never charged.”

  “Exactly. I was just a bystander.” He put the bottle on a table beside him, placing it carefully on another coaster. “They’d have stuck me on for it if they could. And I’ve no doubt they’d do the same now, for this, if they had the evidence.”

  “Godley wouldn’t.”

  “Godley absolutely would. In a heartbeat.”

  He was right, I thought. For the sake of solving the case. Or maybe he wanted to get rid of Derwent because he knew him better than anyone and might spot that Godley was on the take. You couldn’t appeal to Derwent for mercy if you’d done wrong. He was a lot tougher than me. For a moment I considered telling him what I knew, tempted to share the burden with someone who would act on what I’d found out, but I stopped myself. Now was not the time to tell Derwent what I knew about Godley, if there ever was a time for that conversation.

  “I can tell you this. It’s fucking weird being a suspect again. Makes me feel like I’m seventeen. And not in a good way.” He tried for a laugh but it didn’t quite work.

  I sat back on the sofa. “Okay. Tell me about the last time.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Tell me about Angela,” I said patiently. “Whatever you can remember.”

  “I remember everything.”

  “Then tell me everything.”

  Rather to my surprise, he did just that.

  * * *

  In the summer of 1992, Angela Poole was fifteen. If anyone had ever deserved the name Angela, it was her, because she was as close as you could get to an angel on earth. She had heavy, honey-blonde hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. She was small, and slim, and giggly. She wasn’t the best academically but she wasn’t stupid either, and she worked hard. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and the only thing she ever lied to her parents about was her boyfriend.

  * * *

  “Me, obviously.” Derwent looked sheepish.

  “Bad influence,” I commented.

  “Always.”

  * * *

  Everyone in Bromley knew who Josh Derwent was. He was a troublemaker, cheeky—a cocky little shit. He was always hanging out around the shops giving backchat to anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He went to school because he liked it and he was bright enough to be top of the class or thereabouts without making too much effort. He liked that he never got grief for being a swot because he was good at football—good enough to have a trial for Arsenal’s youth team.

  * * *

  “Which didn’t go anywhere, as you might have noticed.”

  “Imagine if you’d become a footballer instead of a copper. This would be a mansion.”

  “And I’d be retired by now.”

  “But your knees would be knackered. No marathons for you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’d survive.”

  * * *

  How Josh had persuaded Angela to go out with him was no mystery. He was best mates with her brother Shane, and Angela had worshipped him for years. He was good-looking, funny and good at fighting. She was not the only girl who wanted him to notice her, but she was special. He’d watched her grow up without thinking anything of it—she was just a kid—until suddenly the day came when she wasn’t a kid any more. She walked into a room wearing tight jeans and a clinging top and he just about lost his mind. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. He spent a year trying to convince himself she was too young for him, too sweet, too innocent, but no matter how many other girls he snogged, even when he was allowed to play with their tits, even if he was allowed the confusing and exciting treat of fingering them, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  * * *

  “This is so romantic.”

  “This is how seventeen-year-old boys think. I’m sure you encountered your share of them, Kerrigan.”

  “I wasn’t allowed to know that sort of boy.”

  “Neither was Angela.”

  * * *

  Shane and Josh hung around with Vinny Naylor, and Vinny’s sister Claire. Vinny was the wise one, the one who called a halt when things were going too far. He had a good head on his shoulders and a genius for fixing things that were broken. Claire was a tomboy, one of the lads. Flat as a board, hard as nails. She and Vinny were born eleven months apart and did everything together, always; if Vinny was in the gang, so was Claire. Shane wasn’t all that thrilled about Angela coming along too, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Josh was the one who called the shots. Shane went as far as warning him not to take advantage of his sister, and Josh thumped him for suggesting she might be prepared to have sex with him.

  * * *

  “But you were hoping she would.”

  “I wasn’t trying to persuade her,” Derwent snapped. “Fuck, I had this at the time. I didn’t want to corrupt her. I was in love with her. I wanted to wait. She was the one who—” He broke off. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  “Get on with it.”

  * * *

  All that summer, during the long days when they weren’t at
school, the five of them wandered around getting into trouble, having a laugh. During the nights, Angela and Josh spent every moment they could together, aching for each other. They had no money and nowhere to go. Josh had a part-time job washing dishes in a café in town. The only reason he kept it was because the owner was mates with his mum and he didn’t dare play up too much. The only reason he wanted it was to have enough cash to take Angela out now and then, to the cinema or into London to wander around. They couldn’t go to a pub because even if Josh could pass for over eighteen, Angela didn’t have a hope of fooling anyone. They couldn’t go to Josh’s house because his mum didn’t approve of him having a serious girlfriend at his age and she’d have flayed him alive if she thought they were even thinking about kissing, let alone having sex. Then there was Josh’s little sister, Naomi. Five years younger, she was a pain in the balls. She never left him alone when he was at home, and when he wasn’t there, she was always in his stuff. He got in trouble for shouting at her too. They couldn’t go to Angela’s because Shane would be there, glaring at him. Besides, Angela’s parents weren’t all that keen on him as a mate for Shane, let alone a boyfriend for their beautiful daughter. Claire and Vinny were two of the eight children in the Naylor family.

  * * *

  “They were Catholics, as you might imagine. Irish background. Same as you.”

  “I’m one of two,” I pointed out.

  “So your mum’s frigid or your dad couldn’t get it up more than twice. That wasn’t Mr. Naylor’s problem.”

  “It sounds more like Mrs. Naylor’s problem. Eight pregnancies is hard work.”

  “More that that. She had hundreds of miscarriages too. It was a four-bedroom house so God knows where they got the privacy to have sex.”

  “Or the time.”

  “Anyway, it was a madhouse, so we couldn’t go there.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He had the grace to look shamefaced. “The cemetery.”

  * * *

  It was a good summer that year, no hardship to be outside. And the cemetery was easy to climb into, and had secluded corners where the trees and bushes grew close together, and had benches in it where you could sit for hours, staring at the stars. It was, by definition, quiet. They could be alone together which was more than you could say for any of the local parks. They were full of teenagers drinking and carousing once the sun went down. Josh didn’t really want an audience when he was with Angela. It might damage his reputation if people saw him handling her like she was bone china.