The Stranger You Know (Maeve Kerrigan Novels)

by Jane Casey

  “You might have seen these women even if you didn’t talk to them. Look again.”

  When he reached out and picked up Maxine’s picture, I felt a brief flutter of excitement, but he laid it down without making any comment.

  “No one ringing any bells?”

  He shook his head. “Leave them here if you like. I’ll show them round the regulars and the staff. See if I can find someone who knows any of them.”

  I was surprised. “That’s very helpful of you.”

  “I have a personal interest in making sure killers get caught. Seems to me you need all the help you can get from the general public.”

  I dug out a stack of business cards and handed them to him. “If anyone thinks they remember any of the women, they can get in touch with me.”

  He put them to one side and raised his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “Going back to 1992. Angela’s death. Do you mind talking about it a little? I don’t want to bring back unhappy memories but if there is a connection with the recent killings, we need to find out as much as we can.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Before Angela died—do you remember anything strange happening? Someone you didn’t know hanging around, or a strange car driving by the house more than once?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you recall anyone behaving oddly around the time Angela died? And afterward—did anyone’s behavior change? Did you think anyone was particularly affected by her death?”

  “Everyone was. It knocked a fair few people for six.”

  “But no one stands out?”

  “I told you who killed her,” he said heavily. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with these questions.”

  “Bear with me, please.” I changed tack. “What do you remember about the night she died?”

  He sighed, looking away from me again. “I don’t know. Bits. I was out that night with some mates and I’d been smoking a bit of weed. When I got home I saw police cars outside the house and I got it into my head that they were there to arrest me. I tried to hide between two parked cars, if you can believe that. What a twat.”

  “When did you realize the police weren’t there for you?”

  “There was an ambulance too, which I thought was weird. The paramedics were talking about Mum, giving her a sedative and stuff. I thought something had happened to Dad. And then one of the coppers spotted me so I gave myself up. I was all sweaty and shaky and paranoid, but I think Mum and Dad were too upset to notice. The cops weren’t interested in arresting me for smoking marijuana given what was actually going on, but one of them had a quiet word a week or two later. Recommended that I knock the smoking on the head. Which didn’t quite work out, but he was doing his best.”

  “Did you see Angela?”

  “Then? No. I went with Dad to identify the body later. Mum couldn’t do it. I didn’t want him to go on his own.”

  “Where was that?”

  “The local hospital. In the morgue.” He shuddered. “Horrible place.”

  “Did you ever see pictures from the crime scene?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if there were press photographs of Angela’s body, either in the garden or in the morgue?”

  “Don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just trying to narrow down the number of people who saw her body at any stage. Sometimes photographs like that get passed around—at school, for instance.”

  He flexed the muscles in his chest and shoulders. “No fucking way would I have allowed that. Not for a second.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “The funeral. All the girls in her year crying, holding on to one another. They were supposed to be doing an honor guard but they were a fucking embarrassment to the school and themselves.” He shook his head and I was suddenly reminded of Derwent again: the disapproval, the scorn for weakness of any kind when there was a duty to be performed.

  “It must have been very upsetting for everyone.”

  “Last funeral I went to. Never again.” He looked at me again, briefly. “You’ll be able to find this out easily enough, so I’ll tell you. Josh came to speak to us at the funeral. Tried to shake my dad’s hand, and mine. I threw up. All over the floor of the church. It fucking stank. That’s what I remember from Angela’s funeral. This massive arrangement of lilies on the coffin that reeked, mixed up with the smell of sick.” He almost gagged at the thought and I didn’t blame him. He stood up, looking green. “I need some water. Do you want a drink?”

  “I’m fine.”

  When he sat down he had more color in his face and he gave a wry smile. “I remember the next time I saw Josh too, at school. I punched him in the face. I really regret it.”

  “Oh,” I started to say, “I’m sure he doesn’t remember—”

  “I should have hit him harder,” Shane interrupted. “That’s what I regret.”

  I could see how you might feel that way about Derwent. “And then he stopped coming to school.”

  “That’s right. Joined the army. Disappeared off to drink and fuck and wave guns around in Cyprus or Germany or wherever. Playing soldiers and calling himself a hero.”

  “What happened to everyone else?”

  “Everything went out of control. There was a little group of us—Josh, Ange, me, our mate Vinny and his sister. It affected each of us differently. I started doing a lot of drugs—pills and coke, everything except smack because I didn’t like needles, thank fuck. Claire, Vinny’s sister—she disappeared for a couple of years. Went to live with their aunt in Birmingham. I think she wanted to get away, so she could get over it in her own time.” He shrugged. “Dunno. When she came back she’d been engaged to some Brummie, but he’d broken it off. She had a little kid by him. The kid took up all her time so we never saw her. She was only young but she was determined to be a good mum. I think she got pregnant on purpose. I think she had something to prove. She wanted to get a lot of living in because Ange didn’t get the chance.” His eyes were wet suddenly and he looked at the corner of the ceiling fixedly until he’d got himself under control again. I pretended not to notice.

  “What about Vinny?”

  He half-laughed, then coughed, still fighting for composure. “Vinny and me finished in school, and then he went traveling. I couldn’t go because Mum and Dad needed me around. Good thing too because I’d have OD’d somewhere along the way. Vinny went around Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam—just wandered through Asia, basically, living on rice and sleeping in cheap dosshouses. He did a bit of kickboxing in Thailand, fought a few bouts. He thought about staying there and turning pro but he came back instead. He couldn’t keep a job here—got bored too easily. He had no patience for authority, so it was a big joke when he went into the army too.”

  “To be like Josh?”

  “It was a different regiment.”

  I wanted to say same difference but I knew better. “Okay. But it seems quite similar to how Josh dealt with Angela’s death.”

  “Maybe. I dunno. I never lost touch with Vinny, though. Josh disappeared, much to my relief. Vinny was always there for me, even if he was on the other side of the world.”

  “How can I get in touch with him?” I asked, and saw him flinch.

  “You can’t.” I somehow knew what he was going to say but I let him say it anyway. “He’s dead.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Last November. Almost a year ago. Afghanistan. Stepped on an IED. A car battery wired to some leftover Russian plastic explosives by a fucking goatherd in the worst country on earth.”

  “How awful.” I meant it.

  Shane nodded. “He was my best friend.”

  “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I miss him a lot,” he admitted. “There. That’s Vinny.” He had taken a picture out of his wallet and he showed it to me: a formal portrait, full dress uniform. Vinny had been handsome, in a square-jawed, tough way. His neck was
wider than his head.

  “And that was in November,” I double-checked.

  “As I said.” The photograph went back where it belonged and he tucked his wallet away.

  “Who else should I speak to? Your father…”

  “Don’t waste your time. He doesn’t remember me or Angela, let alone what happened to her.”

  “Who else?”

  “Claire, I suppose. She’s back in Bromley. Not married—she’s still Claire Naylor. Manages a card shop.”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “She’ll tell you the same as me, but you might as well hear it from her, too.” He stood up, making it clear that he’d said all he had to say and our interview was over. “Yeah. Talk to Claire.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I tracked Claire Naylor down by calling the four card shops in Bromley. As luck would have it, she was the manager of the fourth, and was off sick. I insisted on getting an address out of the very hassled deputy manager. The reduced Sunday opening hours were a nice idea in theory, but it just made the shops busier for a shorter space of time. It was, the deputy manager told me bitterly, the run-up to Christmas. Already.

  I decided it was worth a trip to see Claire in person rather than a phone call. I drove a pool car that had an iffy clutch, got stuck in traffic on the way and spent an hour touring Bromley before I spoke with her, by which time I was in the blackest of moods.

  I found Derwent’s old home, now inhabited by an Asian family, and the cemetery where he and Angela had shagged, though I didn’t make a pilgrimage to the exact spot. There was unlikely to be a plaque, I thought. I drove from there to Kimlett Road and the Pooles’ old house. From what Shane Poole had told me, it had changed hands years earlier so there was no need to worry about upsetting family members. Even so, I kept a low profile, standing near the gate and looking into the garden to see where Angela had met her end. The tree was gone, the hedge between the houses had been replaced by a high wooden fence and the house had acquired a large conservatory that took up most of the garden. The house next door, however, looked much the same as it had in the pictures. Stuart Sinclair’s house. It was worth ringing the doorbell, I thought, and did so. A child opened the door, a girl aged nine or ten whose face fell when she saw me. Her mother came hurrying toward me down the dark hallway. She was stocky, with heavy features and very dark straight eyebrows that made her look fierce.

  “Sorry. She thought it was her friend.” To the girl, she said, “Into the sitting room, Milly, quick. I’ve told you before not to answer the door.”

  She waited until the girl had gone out of sight before she said, “I don’t buy at the door.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” I said quickly, showing her my ID as she started to close the door. “I’m a police officer. DC Kerrigan is my name. I just wanted to ask you if Stuart Sinclair still lived here, or if you had an address for him or his family.”

  “He’s the landlord. Dunno where he lives.”

  “How do you contact him then?”

  “I don’t.” She sighed. “Look, I can ask my husband. He’s the one who handles all that.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He’s away. A stag weekend.” She rolled her eyes. “At his age.”

  I gave her a business card. “It’s really important that I get in touch with him. If you could get your husband to call or e-mail me, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see what we can do.” No enthusiasm.

  “Can I just make a note of your name?”

  “Sharon Parsons. My husband’s name is David.” She watched me write the names down, peering as if she was suspicious I’d write something else or spell them wrong.

  I started to turn away, then changed my mind. “Would it be possible for me to have a look upstairs? I just want to see the view from the windows, not anything in your house.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Absolutely not. It’s private.”

  “I understand. I only ask because I’m involved in a murder investigation, and—”

  The word “murder” usually provoked a reaction of some kind. Not here. Her expression didn’t waver. “I can’t help, I’m afraid.”

  There was nothing else I could do; I couldn’t compel her to let me into her house. I left with more questions than ever and very little hope her husband would be in touch.

  It took a further twenty minutes to locate Claire’s house. She lived on an ex-council estate that was constructed around long, winding cul-de-sacs and I got more than enough practice at three-point turns before I found it. I rang the doorbell and while I waited, I turned to look at the immaculate strip of lawn, the clean but elderly Fiat on the driveway. A perfectionist.

  “Can I help you?”

  There was no doubting that Claire deserved to be off sick: her eyes were glassy, her skin pale and the end of her nose was scarlet. Unlike Shane she looked a good twenty years older than the photograph Derwent had kept, if not more, with lines across her forehead and her hair dyed a harsh blue-black. She was huddled in a dressing gown and looked as if the last thing she wanted was a long chat.

  “Claire Naylor? I’m Detective Constable Maeve Kerrigan. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Angela Poole.”

  “Angela?” She wrapped one hand around her waist, the other clutching the neck of her dressing gown. “Why do you want to ask about her?”

  “Angela’s death may be relevant to an ongoing investigation.” The woman didn’t move. I took a leaf out of Derwent’s book and put my foot across the threshold so she couldn’t shut the door on me. “Can I come in? I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  “I don’t … Oh God.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’ve got the flu.”

  “I’ll keep it short.” And I’m not going anywhere so you might as well let me in.

  She must have seen the resolve on my face because she stepped back and I went past her into the hall. It was as spotless as the front garden, so tidy that it was almost bleak. I moved toward the door to the living room, assuming that’s where we would talk.

  “Wait! I want to tidy up first. Give me a second.”

  She pushed past, closing the living room door behind her, and I listened to sounds of drawers opening and closing as she moved quickly around the room. After less than a minute she opened the door again.

  “You can come in.”

  I walked into a room that had never been untidy as long as Claire Naylor had lived there. She seemed obsessively house-proud, because the walls and shelves were practically bare. One drawer of the sideboard in the corner of the room was sticking out a little, as if it had been closed in a hurry, and I would have given a lot to see what was in it. As if she knew what I was thinking, she stood between me and the sideboard, holding on to the back of an armchair.

  “Please, sit down.”

  I did as I was told, getting out a notebook.

  “Would you like anything to drink? Tea? Water?” She coughed, a rattling sound that shook her narrow frame.

  “No, thank you.” I waited until she sat down too, perching on the edge of the armchair, ready to flee at any moment.

  “You said it’s about Angela. I don’t understand. Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “We’re looking into Angela’s death because it seems to be connected to a series of murders that have taken place in the last few months.” I showed her the pictures, naming each of the women in turn, and she nodded.

  “I read about them in the paper. Strangled, like Angela.” She looked up at me. “Just like Angela?”

  “There are similarities.”

  She shuddered. “Don’t tell me any more. Do you think it’s the same murderer?”

  I hesitated. “We don’t have any definite suspects at the moment. That’s one reason why I’ve come to talk to you. I know it must seem unlikely but we need to see if there’s anything you can tell us that might send us in the right direction.”

  “I don’t think I can help,” she said flatly. �
��I don’t really know why you’re here.”

  “It was Shane Poole who suggested I speak with you.”

  “Shane? I haven’t seen him for years.”

  “Your brother was in touch with him, I understand.”

  “Vinny was.” She sniffed and I couldn’t tell if it was because she was upset or because of the flu. “I moved away, after what happened. Shane and Vinny stayed close but I didn’t want to. It just felt as if I was reliving it all the time.”

  “You were friends with Angela.”

  “We were all friends. Vinny and Shane and Angela and me.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Josh Derwent.” She said his name in a toneless voice and I couldn’t tell how she felt about him. She looked at me sharply. “He’s a policeman now. Do you know him?”

  There was no reason to pretend I didn’t. “I work with him. But he’s not involved with this investigation.”

  “Does he know where I live? Have you told him you’re speaking to me?”

  “No, no. I won’t, either, if you’d prefer me not to.”

  “Don’t tell him. Please.” She started to smooth the skirt of her dressing gown over her knees, fidgeting. “I don’t want to see him. I haven’t since that year and there’s no reason to start now.”

  “He was the main suspect in Angela’s death, but he was ruled out during the original inquiry,” I said gently. “He had an alibi.”

  “I know that.”

  “So it’s not that you’re scared of him.”

  “Of Josh?” She laughed. “No. I just don’t want to go back there.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A few months after it happened.” She paused to cough again. “I stuck by him afterward. I didn’t believe what everyone was saying about him. I knew Angela was the one who’d wanted them to sleep together. It wasn’t Josh’s idea. And he worshipped the ground she walked on. He’d never have hurt her. He’d never hurt a woman.”

  “Does that mean he didn’t hesitate when it came to hurting a man?”