by Casey, Jane
‘I know, I do, but you can’t be scared now. We have to go. We’re going to crawl until we get to the stairs and then we’re going to hold on to the handrail and walk down, but not stopping for anything, and if we see a fireman like Fireman Sam we’ll ask him to help us.’
‘Fireman Sam?’ He looked around, his eyes vacant, tuning her out. It was what he did when he was scared or uncertain, and it worried the hell out of her.
‘Come on, Thomas.’ She snatched up his coat. No time to look for hers. Keys: yes, in case they had to come back, if it was too bad outside. People died in fires because they left their hotel rooms or their flats and couldn’t get back in. Escaping could be more dangerous than staying. But Melissa had learned the hard way about staying where she was. The devil you knew could be worse than any trouble you could find elsewhere.
‘Just keep moving,’ she said to her son. ‘Don’t stop for anything. Don’t wait for me if I get held up. Go down to the bottom of the stairs and go outside and I’ll find you in the car park.’
‘But I want to stay with you, Mummy.’
‘I’ll be right behind you. If you can’t see me, just wait for me outside. I’ll be there.’ She knelt down and hugged him, a quick, hard embrace, pressing his head into her neck. ‘What’s your name?’ she whispered.
The answer came back straight away. ‘Sam.’
‘Sam what?’
‘Sam Hathaway.’
‘Good boy.’ Melissa made herself stand, her knees trembling, and opened the front door a crack. There was no one in the corridor. She ushered Thomas out in front of her, keeping a hand on him, and the two of them ran towards the door that led to the stairs.
She lifted her head off the pillow. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘It’s nothing.’ He didn’t hear anything, didn’t care. ‘You’re so beautiful.’
‘Shut up.’ She put a hand on his chest, pushing him away. ‘I heard something.’
‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’
She wouldn’t. She got up and walked through the bedroom, disappearing into the living room. He followed reluctantly, and found her standing at the front door, listening. ‘There’s something going on out there.’
There were noises from outside, footsteps and swearing and an occasional scream. A party getting started, he thought, or an argument spilling over into the estate’s grim public spaces. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘I’m going to look.’
‘Don’t open the fucking door, you stupid bitch – not with people outside. If I’ve told you once …’ He moved fast to stop her and she turned and hit him on the jaw, a punch that had plenty of power behind it. He reeled back, losing his balance, falling. He clutched his face. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
‘I don’t like this. I’m going.’ She stepped over him, picking up her clothes from the floor. She started to wriggle into them at speed, shoving her underwear into her handbag. She left her boots unzipped. They jangled as she strode past him on her way to the door. He was still lying where he’d fallen. She stopped.
‘You all right?’
‘No, I’m not. You hit me.’ He sounded petulant and he knew it. She tossed her head.
‘Well, you rushed me. I’ve warned you about that before.’ A double blink, very fast. ‘Seriously, you need to get dressed and get out of here. There’s something weird going on.’
‘I can’t leave if there are people in the corridor. Especially not with my face like this.’
‘Give me strength,’ she said. Then, more gently, ‘Don’t leave it too long, will you?’
He shook his head.
‘Will I see you soon?’
‘I don’t know.’ He wanted to punish her, to make her feel as bad as he felt. Maybe she didn’t care about him at all. He’d have to get back at her some other way. ‘I’m not giving you anything for today.’
A shrug. ‘Suit yourself. Not as if you got to do anything, is it?’
He didn’t answer her. He watched her open the door and disappear through it. Almost immediately, she poked her head back in.
‘It’s full of smoke out here. I think there’s a fire.’
‘Shit. Go on, get out of here.’ He waved her on irritably, getting to his feet as she closed the door. He wasn’t worried about the fire. It was the repercussions that worried him. If there was a fire, that meant one thing: London Fire Brigade responding with all the weight of officialdom, which meant form-filling, which would involve answering awkward questions. He didn’t want to explain why he was on the Maudling Estate in the first place, let alone in that flat.
As for the fire, well, he had to approach it logically. He couldn’t be found in the flat so he had to get out. He had to get out without being seen. He had to avoid, at all costs, a scandal.
He didn’t start to be afraid for his life until it was much too late to save it.
Chapter 1
WHEN MY PHONE rang I knew it was bad news, but there was nothing remarkable about that. If your business is bad news, some part of you is always waiting for the phone to ring.
And for once, it was ringing before I had got as far as going to bed. No dreams to shatter. Small mercies. I checked the time – ten past eleven – before I answered it.
‘Kerrigan.’
‘Have you been watching the news?’ Una Burt’s voice filled my head and I winced, holding the phone a little bit further from my ear than I would usually.
‘No.’ I glanced at the television and its fine layer of dust. I had no idea where the remote control was. I hadn’t used it for weeks. ‘What’s up?’
‘A fire on the Maudling Estate.’
It felt as if I’d run head first into a wall. I took a second to respond. ‘Fatalities?’
‘Three, so far. It took out the top two floors of one of the blocks. Gutted them completely. The floors below aren’t all that much better.’
‘Arson?’
‘Possibly. There’s a fire investigator floating around here somewhere. He can tell us more.’
I held back a sigh. Una Burt was a Chief Inspector, but she was acting up, running the team in place of my real boss, Superintendent Charles Godley, who was on indefinite leave. That meant DCI Burt was in charge. You queried her actions at your peril, as I had found out before. Still, it was worth asking why she was calling me at that hour of the night on my day off.
Delicately.
‘Is there a particular reason for us to be involved with the investigation?’
‘Of course, or I wouldn’t be calling you.’ Offence taken. Great.
‘Sorry. It’s just that we’re not the closest Homicide team.’ And we’re already trying to cope with the extra work you’ve insisted we can handle because you can’t say no to anyone. Godley’s team usually handled the most complex and sensitive investigations that came to the Met. Since Una Burt had started running the team, we’d taken on a lot more work than usual, and much of it was run-of-the-mill. It was as if she couldn’t bring herself to say no when our help was requested. She liked feeling important and we were close to being overwhelmed.
‘It’s not likely to be a straightforward investigation. Not when one of the fatalities is very well known. Not when it isn’t clear how he died.’
‘Who?’
Una’s voice was muffled, as if she was covering her mouth so no one around her could lip-read what she was saying. ‘Geoff Armstrong.’
‘The MP?’ The far-right, immigrant-hating, welfare-criticising MP, to be specific.
‘Exactly.’
Which meant that the investigation was likely to be both sensitive and complex, I conceded, and felt the first twinge of interest. ‘But what was he doing there? It’s hardly his natural habitat. Not much point in him canvassing for support on an estate that’s largely social housing. There aren’t all that many high-earning conservatives on the Maudling Estate, I’m willing to bet.’
‘Yes, these and other questions need answers – which is why I would like you to come straight here. I’ve alre
ady contacted DI Derwent. He says he’ll pick you up.’
‘Really?’ I stared into space. ‘There’s no need. I can get there myself.’
‘I don’t care if you take a flying carpet to get here,’ Una Burt snapped. ‘Just hurry up.’
She was gone. I weighed the phone in my hand. Worth a try.
No need to collect me. I’ll see you there.
I sent the message, put the phone down on the coffee table and stood up. It vibrated.
Already here. Buzz me in.
Great.
Against my better judgement I let him into the building. I had about thirty seconds before he arrived at the door, I thought, and tried to decide where to start. I looked around, feeling helpless. There was so much to do, and no time to do it. I drifted into the bathroom, where the mirror confirmed my worst fears. I stopped looking at myself in it and concentrated on squirting toothpaste on the brush. If I was brushing my teeth, at least I wouldn’t have to talk to him.
Unfortunately, nothing would stop him talking to me.
A volley of knocking on the door. I went and opened it, but I checked the view through the peephole first. These were the rules I lived by. Never open a door without knowing who’s on the other side of it. Never park somewhere dark and deserted. Never get into the car without checking the back seat and the boot. Know who’s walking behind you. Know who’s driving behind you. Know where you’re going. Never relax. Never forget there’s someone watching you.
They were rules that had kept me alive, so far, but they made me feel as if I was dying a little more every day. I couldn’t ever allow myself to forget I was a target for someone else’s obsession. A creep named Chris Swain had been hunting me for years and he wouldn’t give up until I gave in to him.
And that was never, ever going to happen.
‘What happened to you?’ Derwent demanded, shouldering his way in with all the finesse of someone on a dawn raid. ‘You look like hell.’
‘Mmph,’ I said. I missed you too.
He closed the door. We both looked down at the mountain of junk mail that had built up over the two months I’d been living alone.
‘God almighty, Kerrigan, you could tidy up occasionally.’
‘I’m busy,’ I said through the toothpaste. ‘I have better things to do.’
‘Like what?’ He strode past me to the sitting room, where he whistled. ‘I hadn’t realised Rob was the tidy one. This place is a pigsty.’
I took the toothbrush out of my mouth. ‘Shut up.’
‘Didn’t catch that.’
I raised a middle finger, and my eyebrows. Derwent grinned. There wasn’t much he enjoyed more than getting a reaction from me. He stood in the middle of the living room and turned, taking in far more than I would have liked him to. The bin, overflowing. Untouched saucepans hanging in a neat row. Crumbs on the counter. Takeaway cartons stacked by the sink. Papers everywhere. My laptop, open on the sofa. The room said, more loudly than I could: I can’t be bothered. His eyes came back to me.
‘Nice outfit.’
I looked down at myself and shrugged. Leggings and an old t-shirt of Rob’s. It wasn’t haute couture, but they were real clothes, not just pyjamas. I counted that as a victory.
‘Did you even leave the flat today?’
I nodded vigorously. A trip to the corner shop counted as leaving the flat. I must have been out for all of five minutes.
‘Did you eat anything?’
Another nod. I was sure I had. I couldn’t quite remember what.
‘For God’s sake, Kerrigan, I can’t talk to you like this.’
I shrugged again. That was basically my plan.
Derwent’s expression darkened. ‘Okay. Try this. You have ten minutes to get ready. If you’re not ready, you’re coming with me anyway. You can explain to DCI Burt why you’re inappropriately dressed at a crime scene.’
I rolled my eyes but headed back to the bathroom.
‘And do something about your hair,’ Derwent yelled after me.
In nine minutes and 59 seconds precisely I walked into the living room, suited, booted and with my hair tamed into a bun. Derwent was leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands in his pockets.
‘That’s better.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘You need make-up.’
‘No one needs make-up,’ I snapped. ‘Especially not at a crime scene.’
‘You need make-up. Assuming you want to look human.’
‘Oh, great, thank you.’
‘Halloween was last month.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘So the zombie look isn’t really appropriate.’
I opened my mouth to answer him and then shut it again. I held myself very still. Do not throw up. Do NOT throw up.
‘Kerrigan.’
I ignored him, staring at the floor until the wave of nausea receded. When I looked back at Derwent, the mocking smirk had disappeared. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, trying to sound as if I meant it. Then I frowned. Something was different. ‘Did you tidy up?’
‘A bit.’
‘You emptied the bin,’ I said slowly. ‘And you did the washing-up.’
‘And got rid of the junk mail in the hall, and threw out the food in the fridge that was actually rotting, and plugged in your computer.’
If it had been anyone other than Derwent who tidied up, I’d have been grateful. But Derwent was the king of ulterior motives.
‘My computer,’ I said. ‘Why did you even touch my computer?’
‘You only had five per cent of your battery life left.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘I know you like living on the edge but that’s just unnecessary.’
‘You must have been looking at it,’ I said, fighting to stay calm. ‘Why were you looking at it?’
He levered himself off the counter and came towards me, crowding me, getting into my face. I’d seen him do it hundreds of times. It wasn’t even the first time he’d done it to me. It was one of Derwent’s favourite interrogation techniques. ‘What’s wrong, Kerrigan? Something to hide?’
‘Nothing to hide. I’m entitled to my privacy, though. Sir.’
A minute narrowing of his eyes told me he’d registered the last word and its implications. You are my boss. You are in my home. Your behaviour is, as usual, inappropriate and I have had enough of it for the time being. I held his gaze, my expression stony.
‘I’m just looking out for you.’ His voice was soft, which meant precisely nothing. Derwent’s temper was volcanic, legendarily so, but he had enough control over it, and himself, to shout only when he needed to. And since we were inches apart, shouting would have been excessive.
‘You don’t need to look out for me.’
‘Someone should.’
‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘I am managing. So stop patronising me.’
He didn’t move for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, at least to me. Then, to my enormous relief, he turned away. ‘I was going to carry the bin bag down for you. But if that’s too patronising you can carry it yourself.’
I rolled my eyes at his back. ‘Thanks.’
He wouldn’t have missed the sarcasm in my voice, but he didn’t look back. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go.’
Chapter 2
IT DIDN’T TAKE long to get to the Maudling Estate – at least, not the way Derwent drove. It wasn’t the first time we’d been there in the middle of the night and I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the memory of another visit, a couple of months earlier.
‘All too familiar,’ Derwent said, echoing my thoughts. He was trying to find a place to leave the car on the street nearby. There was no point in trying to get into the car park at the centre of the estate. The blue lights from police cars, ambulances and fire engines flared on the buildings, reflecting on the windows. Countless people milled about, apparently aimlessly, evacuees from the buildings or j
ust curious onlookers. Inevitably the media were there, TV reporters clutching microphones, caught in a halo of white light from their cameras. Derwent pulled in at the end of a row of vans with satellite dishes mounted on the top.
‘As if they have a right to be here,’ he growled. ‘You know they think they’re important. All they’re doing is getting in the way.’
‘They’re reporting the news.’
‘They don’t know any news. They haven’t been told anything yet.’
‘They still need to cover the story.’
‘A bloody great building caught fire and no one knows why yet. That’s the story.’
‘And when they hear about Armstrong?’
Derwent grimaced. ‘Then life won’t be worth living. Come on. At least this time we’re not going to a van full of dead coppers.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’ I got out of the car and looked up at the flats, to identify the tower that had burned. It was easy to see where the fire had been – black shadows clouded around the windows on the top floors and smoke was still seeping out, dark against the orange-tinted clouds that passed for a night sky. Most of the windows were open or broken, holes in the building that reminded me of wounds. The remains of curtains fluttered inside and out, caught by the breeze that was stronger the higher you went. The movement was eerie. I couldn’t stop myself from seeing it as people waving, crying for help, but I knew the fire brigade would have rescued anyone up there by now. Water stained the concrete all the way down the outside of the tower. The whole building was glowing eerily, the emergency lighting shining with a greyish glare. It was a long way from the top of the tower to the ground. The remarkable thing wasn’t that three people had died. It was incredible that only three people had died.
When Derwent spoke, I jumped. I hadn’t realised he was standing right beside me.
‘All right, Kerrigan?’
‘Fine.’
‘It’s just – well, this isn’t your favourite place, is it? Not after what happened here.’
‘I haven’t even thought about it,’ I lied. It was on the Maudling Estate that I’d been trapped for ten minutes in a stairwell with four teenage boys who wanted to hurt me, at the very least. Only ten minutes – but it had changed the course of my life. It had crossed my mind, once or twice.