Kill A Stranger: the twisting new thriller from the number one bestseller

by Kernick, Simon

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ she said brusquely. ‘What’s so important that it can’t be done on the phone?’

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked, wanting this to be as civilised as possible.

  She gave me a look. ‘I haven’t drunk coffee in fifteen years. Do you have green tea?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Well you don’t look in any state to go hunting round to find out, so let’s leave it,’ she said, removing her gloves and coat and handing them to me to hang up.

  That was Diana in a nutshell. A woman devoid of human sympathy and who kept her bitterness safely stored away and regularly topped up. The only feelings she had for me now were unpleasant ones, even after three decades of keeping out of each other’s way.

  I led her back through to the main study and sat down in my chair while she took the seat opposite. She still looked good in that stern way of hers. I’d heard she’d recently taken a lover almost twenty-five years her junior, and I had no doubt she was giving him a run for his money. I immediately felt jealous. Not so much of him, but of her. She looked the picture of health, and I remember thinking then that she’d still be fucking her younger lovers and drinking champagne long after I was in the ground.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your cancer,’ she said.

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘At least you’re still moving around.’

  I sighed, not wanting to show my weakness to her. ‘I’m not sure for how much longer.’

  She nodded slowly, putting on a vague expression of sympathy. It was clear she had nothing else to add to the conversation.

  I tried to gauge from her overall demeanour whether she had anything to do with Kate’s disappearance. She wasn’t giving any signs, but then she’d always been a cunning operator.

  ‘Did you want to talk to me about the company?’ she asked.

  I’d been forced to give her a ten per cent stake in Peregrine Homes as part of the divorce settlement, but, having sold off chunks over the years, she now held less than two per cent. I couldn’t see why she thought I’d want to talk about that. Unless, of course, she was trying to throw me off the scent.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Kate.’

  ‘Kate who?’

  ‘You know very well which Kate, Diana. My daughter.’

  Diana’s eyes narrowed and she fixed me with a cold stare. ‘I don’t want to talk about that person. Not now. Not ever.’

  ‘She’s back in the country and she’s missing.’

  ‘I fail to see what that has to do with me.’

  I decided it was best to ask her straight out. ‘Are you responsible for her disappearance, Diana? Because if you are, and you let her go now unharmed—’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Hugh? I’m seventy years old. I don’t go around kidnapping people. Might I suggest that rather than accusing your former wife, who divorced you almost thirty years ago, you call the police and get them involved. That would seem to me to be the sensible option.’

  I stared at her and she returned the stare, hard and angry. If she was involved, she was doing a very good job of hiding it. But then if she was part of it, she would have been prepared for this meeting.

  ‘I’m not saying you were the one who actually made her disappear, but—’

  ‘But what? That I hired someone to do it? You really are living in a fantasy world, aren’t you, Hugh? Rattling around in your mansion, waiting to die. And if you’ve invited me here just so you can accuse me of kidnapping your little bastard girl, then frankly I’ve got better things to do.’

  She sprang to her feet with an agility that belied her age, and I was all too aware how cumbersome I was by comparison as I pulled myself up.

  ‘I’m asking because you’ve got form,’ I told her, failing to stifle a cough that I managed to control before it turned into a full-scale fit.

  She gave me a withering look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. David Griffiths. I remember when you came to me not long after he was released from prison, demanding that I make him pay. You wanted him dead. Those were your exact words. “I want him dead.” And you wanted me to organise his murder. But I refused to do it. And then three months later, lo and behold, he’s murdered in his home, and my daughter – my daughter, Diana – is found in a coma in their back garden. She almost died too. She was in that coma for three weeks. They didn’t think she’d make it.’

  With an effort, I raised myself to my full height. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘I had nothing to do with that. And as far as I’m aware, you were the only other person in the world who had a motive.’

  We glared at each other like two boxers, and it was Diana who spoke first. ‘Do you know, Hugh, for a man who’s been very successful in life – at least financially – you’re not very perceptive. Yes, I was furious. Yes, I was full of grief. Especially when I found out that it was your daughter who was with Alana on her last night. Who was with her, in fact, when she supposedly slipped and fell. And I wanted answers. I have always believed that David Griffiths was withholding information. I told you that I wanted him to tell us the truth of what happened that night, and if he refused to do that, then yes, I wanted you to take action against him, to give us justice for Alana. And I’ll be honest, I thought it was you who’d had him killed. After all,’ she added with a barbed smile, ‘you’ve done that sort of thing before, haven’t you? Used men like Burns to do your dirty work for you.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve never committed murder, Diana. Or had anyone else commit it on my behalf.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Then you’ve heard wrong. I would never have done that to Kate. I’d already lost one daughter. It would have been too much to bear to lose another.’

  ‘But as I recall, you admitted to me that you had no relationship with this other daughter of yours at the time. And as I recall further, the police theory about the David Griffiths murder was that your daughter returned home unexpectedly and disturbed the killer, and that she suffered her injuries when she jumped from a second-floor window to escape him. So it could still easily have been you behind it. Making Griffiths pay for Alana’s death but protecting your bastard daughter. Or trying to, at least. You know the police always suspected it was you who was ultimately responsible.’

  I did know that, which proved my earlier point. They’d questioned me twice, although I was never formally arrested (mainly because there was no evidence linking me to it), and both the questioning itself, and my relationship to Kate, were kept out of the newspapers by my lawyers.

  ‘You have a remarkable memory for the case considering it happened sixteen years ago,’ I told her.

  Diana gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Are you surprised? The two individuals involved were responsible for the murder of our real daughter. Because I have never believed that she slipped. I think she was pushed. And the person most likely to have pushed her is your bastard daughter.’

  ‘Bullshit. Why on earth would she have done that? They were friends.’

  ‘Didn’t it ever surprise you that she took up with Alana’s boyfriend as soon as he was out of prison? They were living together when he died, remember? She was jealous of Alana. She wanted to take what Alana had. And she did, too.’

  Diana’s words silenced me, because the relationship between Kate and Griffiths had always bothered me, even though Kate and I had since made peace. She’d told me that the two of them had got together because neither of them had anyone else, and because of Alana, whom they’d both adored. I’d chosen to believe her. It seemed a plausible enough story if you didn’t look at it too closely, and I suppose I hadn’t.

  In truth, I’d had something of a road to Damascus conversion regarding Kate when I’d learned that she’d been horrendously injured in the same incident that had left David Griffiths dead. Believe me when I say that it made me realise for the first time that, having lost one daughter, spent more than two de
cades pretending another didn’t exist, and in the meantime seeing my son go completely off the rails, it was time to act before I lost everything. It had been me who’d paid for Kate to recuperate in a private hospital, and me who’d organized security so that there was no further attempt on her life. And it had been me who’d been there when she’d finally woken up in her hospital bed. The relationship that had followed had built up very slowly, and very awkwardly, and for most of the intervening time, the two of us had lived on different continents, but at least it was something I’d actually done right.

  I looked at Diana now, still unsure about her involvement. ‘There’s no evidence whatsoever that Kate pushed Alana. And as for Griffiths’ death, I never had a thing to do with it, as the police rightly concluded.’

  ‘Well neither did I,’ said Diana. ‘Whatever you may have concluded. And nor have I had anything to do with what may or may not have happened to Kate now. From what I remember, she’s more than capable of getting herself into trouble. What’s she doing back in the country anyway? I thought she was over somewhere in Sri Lanka.’ She waved a dismissive hand, as if she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be in such a place.

  ‘How did you know she was in Sri Lanka?’

  Diana gave me another of her scathing looks. ‘I’m not a complete fool. It’s not exactly a trade secret.’

  I didn’t like the fact that she knew so much about Kate. I was about to say something else but felt a cough coming up fast from deep in my lungs. I doubled over as it racked me, swift to get a handkerchief to my mouth before I produced any blood. Diana might have known I had cancer, but I didn’t want her to see how low it had brought me.

  The fit passed quickly, thank God, and I stood back up straight, clearing my throat and swallowing something thick and viscous. I wiped my mouth as casually as I could under the circumstances, replacing the handkerchief in my jacket pocket.

  Diana was watching me carefully, and there was a knowing look on her face. She’d always been one of those calculating types, measuring people’s strengths and weaknesses. ‘So,’ she said, stretching out the word, ‘are you going to hand over your share of the company to your bastard daughter now that you’re stepping down?’

  ‘Stop calling her that. And it’s none of your business.’

  ‘While all the time you ignore your son. Your real son.’

  The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my ‘real’ son, whatever that meant. ‘I don’t ignore him. But too much water has passed under the bridge for us to ever have a relationship again.’ I knew how this must have sounded to Diana, given that I’d managed to form a relationship with Kate after all that had happened with her, but there was no way back for Tom and me. Diana resented me because of it, which also gave her another motive to hurt Kate.

  ‘So you’re going to give her everything, are you? And leave Tom destitute?’

  ‘He’s hardly destitute. And he can live perfectly well without my money.’

  Diana shook her head dismissively, her features hard. ‘You know, I almost feel sorry for you stuck alone in your big palace, but then I remember that all your life you’ve always done exactly what you wanted, and fuck everyone else along the way. And now finally you have to sit down to a nice big banquet of the consequences. And I’ll tell you this – not just from me, but from all the other people out there who can’t stand you, and I can assure you there are plenty of them – it’s not before time.’

  And with that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the door, her head held high with a perfect finishing-school posture.

  I suddenly felt terribly weary, and as I heard the front door close, I sat down, wondering what I’d got from our meeting. Diana had a motive for Kate’s disappearance, but she hadn’t come across like someone with anything to hide. And even though she looked remarkably fit and healthy for her age, she couldn’t have done it on her own.

  Yet it was eminently possible that she’d used someone else to carry out her dirty work. She certainly had the financial resources. But if she was involved, I’d find out. I might have been dying, but I was no fool.

  When I heard her car accelerate away up the drive, I called Burns. Again it sounded like he was outside. ‘She’s just left,’ I told him. ‘Did you get inside her house?’

  But Burns didn’t have good news either. ‘No. I went over there, but there’s a younger fellow there. I think it might be her boyfriend. Did she say anything that makes you think she’s involved?’

  ‘She denied everything. It was hard to tell whether she was acting or not. I don’t know how I’m going to find out either way.’

  ‘I can follow her if you like. See if she goes anywhere. But I doubt she’d have involved the boyfriend.’

  I sighed, stifling a cough. ‘Hold back for now. I need to think.’

  I put the phone down on the desk and sat back again, wondering if I could even trust Burns now. We’d never been friends. Just close business associates who shared some potent secrets. His loyalty to me was based on money, and if someone was paying him more, then it would disappear immediately.

  I looked round at my beautifully furnished office: the expensive paintings; the Persian rug worth ninety-four grand; the industry awards on the mantelpiece; the photo of me with the Queen as I accepted my knighthood . . . and none of it mattered. I might not have followed the herd, but I was still heading for the abattoir.

  And it looked as if I was going there alone.

  33

  DCI Cameron Doyle

  I was wondering if Roper would try to deflect blame from himself over the murder of David Griffiths while he was giving his version of events to my two colleagues, DI Webb and DS Sharma. And, of course, he did, very conveniently blaming his ex-wife.

  But let me tell you something, it wasn’t Diana. She may have been a hard-nosed battleaxe, but she’s not the kind who’s got the connections to organise a murder, whatever Roper might claim.

  Roper, though, he’s got the connections. And he’s done it before. We were certain he was behind the 1986 murder of Ronnie Welbeck, a fellow developer with links to organised crime, who he’d fallen out with over a property deal in Spain, and who’d ended up riddled with bullets outside his Marbella villa. Roper might not have pulled the trigger (we were sure it was his head of security, Burns, who’d either been the triggerman or had organised the logistics), but we knew he was responsible. We just couldn’t prove it.

  It was the same with Martin Bymer, the council planning officer who was about to blow the whistle on a huge bribery scandal involving – surprise, surprise – Peregrine Homes. He vanished in 1992, never to be seen again. Not only did Roper have a compelling motive to get rid of him but, more damningly, a witness positively identified Burns as the man he’d seen near Bymer’s home the night he went missing. Unfortunately for us, the witness later retracted his statement, so again we couldn’t prove anything. But the fact was, we knew who was behind it, even if we couldn’t make it stick in a court of law

  Jesus, you must be thinking, how can a man like that, someone who’s so obviously a serious criminal, end up being knighted? There’s a simple answer to that. Lawyers. Roper’s got plenty of very aggressive ones on his books, the sort who’ll sue the shirt off your back if you so much as hint that the bastard isn’t whiter than white.

  But as any police officer will tell you, when you’ve killed once and got away with it, it’s a lot easier to kill again. Easier still when you’ve done it twice.

  I’d bet my life Roper ordered Griffiths’ killing. Of course, he had a cast-iron alibi that day (he was at a board meeting), and the investigating officers were pressured from on high not to arrest Burns (who didn’t have an alibi). Burns eventually submitted himself for questioning and denied everything. There wasn’t any physical evidence tying him to the scene, so that was the end of that. Case unsolved. Just like the others.

  I strongly suspect that Kate realises it was her father who ordered the murder of her boyfriend and the attemp
ted hit on her. And that’s got to hurt. The two of them may have made up now, but who knows? She might have been planning her own revenge on him for all these years. She may even be using her fiancé to help carry it out.

  Because as I’ve said before, Matt Walters isn’t whiter than white either.

  34

  Matt

  It was 4.30 p.m. and already getting dark as I parked up a couple of hundred metres down the street from the pub in Camden where we’d been drinking last night – a time that might as well have been a thousand years ago. The front of the car was mangled where it had gone into the back of the Land Rover, and one of the headlights was out, but somehow it had made it. The car was finished now, though. I had no doubt that every cop within a fifty-mile radius would be looking for it, which was why I’d left it a long way down the road from where I was going.

  Okay, I’ve got a confession to make here. The friend I’d spent the previous evening with was Geeta Anand, my police mentor from my days on Night Beat. Geeta had also once been my girlfriend. We’d fallen in love during the time she’d been mentoring me and we’d been together for close to four years, the longest relationship I’ve ever had. Even after we broke up we’d remained close and I counted her as possibly my only real friend in the world.

  That was another reason why I hadn’t wanted to involve her in this. Because I knew she’d feel pressurised to help, and as a former high-ranking officer in the Met, who’d made detective inspector before she’d left, it would have put her in too much of a precarious position.

  To be fair, I should have done the honourable thing and left her alone, given that the charges against me seemed to be mounting almost by the hour. But I no longer had the strength to keep fighting this battle alone and I was painfully aware how little time I had to locate Kate. On the drive here, which had taken the best part of an hour and a half thanks to the appalling traffic, I’d been listening to the radio to find out whether my name was in the public domain yet. Thankfully it wasn’t, but on the local London news they had the first report about the man I’d accidentally killed this morning. They hadn’t named him but said that an individual, believed to be in his fifties, had been stabbed to death during a suspected burglary, and that the police were looking for a white male who’d been seen running from the scene.