by Jane Casey
‘Josh, you don’t need to stay. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I just thought we could go for a pint.’ Derwent was standing with his hands in his pockets, affecting to be relaxed, but I could tell he was tense. He’d have denied it to his dying breath but Derwent wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be. For the very small number of people he cared about, Derwent would give his all. It made him vulnerable, and every now and then that vulnerability showed.
‘I’m too busy.’ Godley took out his phone and stared at it again.
Derwent looked at me and tilted his head towards the door. Get going. I went, before he could change his mind. I knew he would persevere with Godley, and I knew Godley would keep saying no. I didn’t want to hang around to deal with a disappointed Derwent. The fallout would be dreadful.
As I walked away from the office towards the Underground, I worried about Derwent. He worshipped Godley with a blind, unswerving loyalty, a loyalty Godley had earned when they worked together years before. I’d felt the same way, once upon a time. I hoped Derwent would never find out the truth. And if he did find out, I just hoped it wouldn’t be through me, because I’d be lucky if shooting the messenger was all he did.
Chapter 9
I was right about Julie Hammond not wanting to keep her daughter close to hand. It was only two days before Vanessa Hammond was sent back to her expensive private school, Uplands – two days Derwent and I filled with following up dead-end leads produced by Godley’s appeals for information. The nutcases were out in force, and not just on the other end of the telephone or by email. Because Hammond had been a police officer, the newspapers were full of speculation about who had killed him, and why. Godley had been careful to keep a lot of the details out of the press – there was no suggestion yet that he had been with anyone when he died. Lack of information didn’t prevent conspiracy theories from blossoming. Endless, moralising editorials suggested that the Metropolitan Police was unpopular because of institutional arrogance, racism and being out of touch with the communities it was supposed to serve. The blame was placed squarely at our door. It was almost as if Hammond was a legitimate target.
‘I’d like to see how they’d manage if we weren’t doing our job.’ Derwent folded one of the more sanctimonious broadsheets and dumped it in the back seat of the car. We were sitting outside Vanessa Hammond’s school, waiting for our scheduled time to interview her. ‘I’d like to see them deal with the shitbags who’d come out if we weren’t keeping them under control.’
‘Levon Cole wasn’t a shitbag,’ I pointed out, retrieving the newspaper and spreading it out so his photograph wasn’t creased. ‘People are angry about what happened to him, and rightly so.’
‘Yeah, he should never have been shot and the armed officers should never have tried to cover it up, but the fact he was a good boy is irrelevant. We don’t execute people, no matter what they’ve done. Not our job.’
The photograph of the teenager took up a quarter of the page reporting on Hammond’s death, far more space than Hammond himself had been allotted. Levon had been beautiful – high-cheekboned and doe-eyed, with dark skin and hair cut close to a finely shaped head. At sixteen he’d been growing into his features still, which gave him a fragility that was poignant once you knew what had happened to him. He looked like a rapper or a young actor, not a victim of mistaken identity. He’d bled to death in a grim stairwell, shot by police officers who’d tried to make it look as if it had been his own fault, not theirs. I wasn’t one to think we were in the right, automatically, no matter what – it had been a mistake, and a bad one. The more right-wing media had gone to elaborate lengths to prove that he’d been a gangster, trouble personified, and had come up with nothing substantive. The truth was that his death had been a tragedy, pure and simple, and a stain on the Met’s history.
‘If I was Levon Cole’s mother I’d be livid that his death was being brought up in connection with this killing. It’s not relevant and everyone knows it. They’re just using him to create a controversy.’
‘If I was Levon Cole’s mother I don’t know how I’d get out of bed in the morning. Mind you, I have a lot of time for her,’ Derwent said.
It wasn’t all that often that Derwent succeeded in surprising me. ‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s got dignity. She could be calling for people’s heads. She’s just asking for an independent enquiry. She wants to know the truth.’ Derwent shrugged. ‘I respect that.’
‘I understand why she wants an enquiry but nothing’s going to bring him back. And his death is subject to an IPCC investigation anyway. There’s no need for a separate enquiry.’
‘She doesn’t believe that.’
‘The clue is in the name, though. Independent Police Complaints Commission. If there’s a criminal case to answer it’ll go to the CPS and they’ll prosecute the hell out of the officers. You know that. No one is going to want to look as if they’re not taking this seriously.’
Derwent shook his head. ‘You’re bringing logic to bear on this. That’s not what Claudine Cole is looking for. This is about feeling someone is listening to you when you don’t otherwise have a voice.’
‘It’s not like you to out-empathise me.’
‘I’ve picked up the pieces a couple of times. Not in the police. In the army.’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying to adjust my opinion of Derwent to incorporate a new, compassionate side to his character. ‘What happened?’
‘Never you mind,’ Derwent said. It was the usual thing: he hinted at his past but never actually told me the details. I thought it was a power trip, and I also thought it was annoying. ‘The main thing to focus on is that widows and mothers love me. These shoulders? Made for crying on.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ It made so much more sense for Derwent to use other people’s grief to feed his ego, I didn’t know why I was disappointed.
‘Invitation only, Kerrigan. Don’t go getting any ideas.’
‘You’re the last person I’d ask for comfort,’ I said, truthfully. ‘Is it time to go in yet?’
‘We’re still a bit early.’
‘No harm in that, is there?’
Derwent grinned. ‘Teacher’s pet.’
‘Amy Maynard is not a teacher.’
‘You’re right. What bullshit title have they given her?’
‘Student counsellor, I believe.’
‘And that’s a real job, is it?’
‘Don’t knock it,’ I warned. ‘She’s the ideal person to be Vanessa’s responsible adult, and she volunteered.’
‘Do-gooder.’
‘Yeah, and we’re lucky she is a do-gooder. Without her we’d be stuck with Julie Hammond. Believe me, you don’t want that.’
‘You probably didn’t see Mrs Hammond at her best.’ Derwent smoothed the sides of his hair. ‘I bet I could charm her.’
‘I think you’re sorely mistaken about that. Even the boss didn’t make a dent.’
At the reference to Godley, Derwent’s face darkened. He opened the car door. ‘Let’s go.’
It answered the question I hadn’t dared to ask. Godley was still keeping Derwent at arm’s length, and Derwent was still upset about it. Titanically so, from the moody way he strode into the school’s reception, flashed his warrant card and demanded directions to Amy Maynard’s office.
‘I’ll just give her a call and see if she’s available,’ the receptionist said. She reached out to the phone in front of her. Derwent leaned over the desk and put one finger on the back of the receiver, holding it in place on its rest.
‘She’s expecting us.’
‘At eleven, I was told.’ The receptionist glanced at the clock near her desk. She was in her fifties and very tanned, with short dark hair and a lot of eye make-up. ‘It’s only a quarter to.’
‘So we’re early. We won’t hurry.’ Derwent raised his eyebrows. ‘Seriously. There’s no need to call her.’
‘Oh, all right, then.’ She took a photocopied map off the
reception desk and laid it in front of us with a flourish. ‘You need to go to Baker – that’s this building here, two over from where you are now. Her office is on the ground floor. Go through the doors and straight down the corridor in front of you and it’s on the left. You’ll see the chairs outside it.’
Derwent set off at a fast pace, and I had to hurry to catch up with him.
‘What’s the rush?’
Derwent checked the map. ‘You know what would have happened if I hadn’t insisted on seeing her. “Just take a seat for a few moments while you’re waiting for Miss Maynard.” Half an hour later you’re still sitting there and Vanessa Hammond is getting her story together, with the help of her devoted guidance counsellor. No thanks.’
‘First of all, do you really think Vanessa has something to hide? And secondly, if she does do you think you’re going to surprise her into telling us the truth just by turning up ten minutes early?’
‘I will take any and every advantage I possibly can,’ Derwent said, opening the door to Baker Building and ushering me through with a flourish. ‘And I’m assuming nothing about Vanessa Hammond. She might be honest and open about how she got that bruise on her face. She might tell us all about her parents’ marriage. She might even know who her dad was shagging on the side. But I bet we’ll have to drag it out of her.’
‘I think you should let me do most of the talking.’
‘Why?’
‘You can come across as slightly … intimidating.’
‘So?’ Derwent’s eyebrows were drawn together, his expression fierce.
‘So maybe that’s something to hold in reserve. If she doesn’t seem to want to talk, you could give her a nudge. If I can gain her trust, don’t interrupt. I met her at the house, remember. A familiar face might be reassuring for her.’
There was a long pause before Derwent said, ‘Fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Go for it.’ His expression had changed to studied neutrality and I wondered what he was really thinking as we walked down the echoing corridor towards a row of three metal-framed chairs, the seats wooden and chipped. They looked punishing.
‘A. Maynard Student Counsellor,’ Derwent read off the door. ‘What do you think? Knock or wait?’
‘Knock,’ I said, and did so.
There was a flurry of movement behind the door – a chair pushed back, a cascade of things that might have been books hitting the floor. Derwent raised his eyebrows at me and reached past me to knock again, more heavily this time.
‘Coming!’
The voice sounded breathless and girlish, and when Amy Maynard opened the door her appearance matched it perfectly. She was petite, with shoulder-length brown hair and a nervous expression. There was no colour in her face at all, which could have been shock or could have been normal for her; I couldn’t tell. She looked from me to Derwent and back again, apparently at a loss. It didn’t bring out Derwent’s gentlemanly side.
‘Detective Inspector Josh Derwent, Detective Constable Maeve Kerrigan, here to interview Vanessa Hammond. Or had you forgotten?’
‘You’re early.’
‘A bit.’ Derwent checked his watch. ‘A few minutes.’
‘I’m not ready. Vanessa’s not here. I’m with another student, actually, so …’
‘We’ll wait.’ I pressed my elbow into Derwent’s side, a movement too subtle for Amy to notice. He stood for a couple of seconds longer, staring at Amy, his expression forbidding. I felt like a dog owner tugging on a lead, in vain. Derwent’s hackles were definitely up. It seemed like a long time before he turned away and sat down on the chair nearest the door, folding his arms. I smiled at Amy and got nothing in return except for a blank look and a door closed in my face.
I sat down beside Derwent who was glowering at the wall opposite us.
‘Glad we’re not sitting waiting in reception. You’re right, this was a much better idea.’
‘Shut up, Kerrigan. It was worth a try.’
‘These chairs are much less comfortable than the ones in reception.’ I shifted on the hard wooden seat. ‘I bet the receptionist would have got us a cup of tea while we were waiting.’
Derwent leaned towards me, lowering his voice. ‘Why do you think she volunteered for this job?’
‘Who, Amy?’ I shrugged. ‘Sense of duty? Curiosity?’
‘She’s shit-scared of us.’
‘Of you.’
‘Us.’
‘I don’t think she’s scared of me. I wasn’t the one staring her out.’
He grinned. ‘She didn’t like that at all.’
‘Yeah, and I can understand why. What I can’t understand is why you felt it was necessary to glare at the poor girl.’
‘To see what kind of reaction I’d get.’ He said it as if it was perfectly reasonable. ‘She was shitting bricks.’
‘Most people she interacts with are teenagers. They’re not big on eye contact. She’s probably never met a police officer before, let alone one who seems to think she’s got something to hide.’
‘From the way she reacted she probably does have something to hide. It’s just unlikely to be relevant to this enquiry.’
Behind us, the door handle rattled. I leaned forward to see around Derwent. The two of us watched as a teenage boy walked out, turning left, away from us. He had a mane of curly fair hair, like a surfer. He didn’t so much as glance in our direction. People who studiously avoided looking at police officers had raised a red flag when I was on the street.
Then again, he was a teenager. And one who had been having a quiet chat with the school’s counsellor when we knocked on the door. He was probably embarrassed. He had almost reached the double-doors at the end of the corridor when a sound from the other direction made me look round and I forgot about him. A girl was coming towards us, fast, her hair flying as she strode. She had her arms wrapped around herself. Her uniform jumper was huge, her skirt correspondingly brief. Black tights made her legs look spindly, especially since her shoes were thick-soled and heavy.
‘Vanessa?’ Derwent asked me. I nodded.
She stopped in front of us.
‘Waiting for me?
Derwent stood up and held out his hand. ‘I’m Josh. And this is—’
‘I know who she is.’ She didn’t unfold her arms and after a second Derwent let his hand drop back to his side.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Fine.’ From her tone, she thought it was a stupid question, and it was, in a way. But I genuinely wanted to know. I wanted to know if she was coping all right, if she was ready to be back at school, if she was sleeping at night. It wasn’t any of my business, really, but I couldn’t turn off the part of me that wanted to make the world better.
I didn’t hear her come out of her office, but suddenly I became aware that Amy Maynard was standing beside Derwent.
‘If we’re all here, we might as well get started.’ She smiled at Vanessa. ‘Get it over with.’
The girl nodded and followed her into her room. It was painted grey, with half-closed Venetian blinds at the window so the light was dimmer than I would have liked. A spindly plant was the only decoration. Most of the surfaces were piled with books, files and photocopied pages. My desk was legendary for being untidy but this was in another class. Derwent, who couldn’t stand mess in any shape or form, had to be hating it. Four low chairs surrounded a coffee table in front of the desk.
‘Please. Take a seat. Does anyone need water? Or a cup of coffee?’ In her own room, in charge, Amy seemed to be far more confident. She was wearing a fluffy green jumper that leached all the colour from her skin and a long tweed skirt with boots. I could tell she had a good figure, even though her clothes hid it effectively. She moved with the precision and economy of movement of a dancer or a gymnast. She didn’t have a scrap of make-up on, I noted. My mother would have been horrified, something that made me reassess my own reaction. Why did it bother me? Maybe it helped her to relate to the students.
No on
e wanted anything to drink. Amy Maynard sat on the chair furthest from the door, and Vanessa took the one next to her. I sat opposite Amy. Derwent pushed his chair back a foot or two before he sat down, breaking the neat circle. I had no doubt that was deliberate.
‘So, Vanessa, thank you for seeing us,’ I said. ‘We just have a few questions for you about your dad. I’m so sorry about what happened.’
She nodded with a hint of impatience. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘We’re trying to understand your father’s world. We want to find out what he was like.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We never talked all that much. He wasn’t around a lot.’
‘Because of work?’
‘Yeah. Shifts. Even when he wasn’t working, when he had some days off, he was always out. At least when Ben and I were at home.’
‘Where would he go?’
A shrug. ‘The gym. The pub. Hardware stores. Anywhere but where we were.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘He didn’t like being at home with Ben. Or me. Mum and I fight. He didn’t like that.’ She swallowed, hard. ‘You’d hear him pick his keys up and then he’d be gone. Phone off. It used to drive Mum mad.’
‘Do you think they had a good marriage?’
‘No.’ The reply was instant. ‘If it wasn’t for Ben they would have totally got a divorce years ago. Mum wouldn’t let him walk out on his responsibilities that easily though.’
I thought that phrase had come straight from Julie. ‘She couldn’t have stopped him, could she?’
‘She made him feel guilty enough about not doing much for Ben. Mum pays for our education. She runs the house. Dad was supposed to help. He always said he’d fix things around the place when they broke, but he never really got round to it. He was kind of useless.’ The last word cut through the air. Vanessa herself looked surprised to have said it. I thought it was long habit. I was starting to feel sorry for Terence Hammond.
‘But your mum still wanted him to be there.’
‘Yeah.’ She used the cuff of her jumper to blot away some tears that were threatening to spill on to her cheeks. ‘She said it was better than being on her own. But I suppose she’ll have to get used to it now.’