Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

  “So does Steele.” I turn on the tap, splashing my face with cool water. “Well, she says she does after the event. At the time, I think she wishes I’d shut up.”

  She hands me a paper towel. “Kate’s been a good mentor to you, hasn’t she?”

  “The best.”

  “She’ll be retiring soon, though. What is she? Midfifties?”

  “Fifty-three.”

  “She’s done her thirty years; it must cross her mind now and again.” Not once, but I don’t want to quibble, not after “Suze”-gate. I crouch down and rummage through my bag for a hairbrush to avoid giving an opinion. “And you heard her, she’s not interested in promotion. She’s happy to sit out the rest of her career.”

  I shoot up. “Hold on, that’s not fair. That’s not true.”

  She nods, her face immediately softening. “Sorry, that sounded worse than I meant. Steele’s great, she really is. It’s just . . . you need to think of yourself, Cat. You need to be working with people, learning from people, who are going places. Steele’s got bags of experience, but . . .” She presses her lips together, closing her eyes briefly. “But with experience comes complacency. I saw it with Olly Cairns. A reluctance to keep learning, to keep up with new technologies, new cultural and social phenomena. A desire for a quiet life, to keep the powers that be happy above everything else.”

  I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Have you met Steele? She’s more worried about keeping the canteen staff happy than the powers that be.”

  Dyer laughs too, but it sounds hollow. “You’re probably right, but that’s not ideal either. There’s an art to keeping all sides happy. I could teach you.”

  Suddenly, Parnell’s voice in the corridor outside. “Catrina Kinsella! Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .”

  I’m not sure whether I want to kiss him or kick him.

  “In here,” I shout. “Be out in a sec.”

  I pick up my bag and make a beeline for the door. Dyer grabs me as I walk past, a loose grip on my wrist.

  “Look, Cat, what I’ve made a complete mess of saying is that I think you’ve got great potential, and SO15 needs officers like you. People who question everything, who think critically. I’m going for superintendent and if I get it, recruitment’s going to be one of the first things I look at.”

  Did she just offer me a job?

  “Counter-Terrorism?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I’m embarrassed, sure that I’ve picked her up wrong.

  “Just think about it, OK? Don’t let your loyalty to Steele hold you back.”

  The door bangs open: Parnell.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire?” I say, taking a step away from Dyer. If Parnell’s curious, he doesn’t show it. There’s something else on his face—white-hot excitement.

  “We stirred up a fire in Brandon Keefe, that’s for sure.”

  “Eh?”

  That attention shift again. Peters to Fellows to Bailey, now back to Brandon Keefe.

  “We’ve had a call from Kentish Town station. Seems Brandon Keefe had one too many and went berserk. Threw a brick through the window of an ex-girlfriend’s flat in the early hours of the morning.”

  “Not very godly,” I say, my head still swimming. “But why have they called us?”

  “Because when they ran his fingerprints through the system, a big red flag popped up.” Parnell’s eyes gleam. “They match a set of prints taken from 6 Valentine Street. He was in that house, Cat. Funny he forgot to mention it.”

  18

  It’s late afternoon before Brandon Keefe is deemed sober enough to be interviewed—not surprising given he “couldn’t see a hole in a ladder” when he was booked in to Kentish Town at four a.m., according to their custody sergeant. It’s early evening before he arrives into our care, flanked by his mum and dad, a docile couple in their early sixties who appear utterly sideswiped, gawking around reception like they’ve just landed on the moon. It’s then another two hours before the Duty Solicitor, Colin Gaffney—aka “Juicy Fruits” on account of his constant chewing—arrives to do his duty. Which effectively amounts to sharing his gum, nodding his head, and reminding Brandon that he’s under no obligation to speak.

  Fortunately, though, Brandon wants to speak. He’s got concerns, important ones.

  “Who’s going to feed Nimbus? I haven’t been home for twenty-four hours, she’ll be in a terrible state.”

  I bring a hand down on the table. “Don’t worry about bloody Nimbus, Brandon. Worry about yourself. Things aren’t looking great, you know?” I eyeball Gaffney. “He understands why he’s here, right?”

  I feel bad about “bloody Nimbus.” I like cats, generally—their inherent laziness, their lofty indifference. But I’m playing the bitch and Parnell’s playing the charmer. Hopefully, Keefe will play ball with one of them.

  “Forget why you’re here for the moment, Brandon.” Parnell, his voice like warm milk, slides a hand toward Keefe’s—not quite touching, but the message’s clear: You can trust me. “Tell me about last night. What was going on, son? That wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

  I let out a snort. “Yeah, forget ‘What would Jesus make of Instagram?’ Maybe your next Alpha chat could be ‘What would Jesus make of men who throw bricks at young women?’”

  Keefe looks to Parnell for backup. “I didn’t throw the brick at her, I threw it at the window. I thought I was aiming at the living room, and as the lights were off, I thought there’d be no one in there. I didn’t know she’d moved her bedroom to the front of the house. I was just trying to . . .”

  Another slap of the table. “Trying to what, Brandon? Scare her? Teach her a lesson? Why? What has Josie Parr ever done to you, except dump you, and I think she made the right decision there, don’t you? Is this what you’re like after one too many tequilas?”

  Just the mention of alcohol is enough to drain the red anger from his skin, leaving him looking once again like something that’s been buried, dug up, shoveled repeatedly around the head, and then buried again.

  Parnell continues his lullaby. “Look, son, we know this is out of the norm for you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t faced rejection before. That girl you told us about, the one you wanted to go traveling with—she was sleeping with someone else, but you didn’t throw a brick through her window.” Gaffney’s eyebrows are pulled down in concentration, trying to gauge where this is headed. Keefe’s looking like the act of concentration might kill him. “What I’m saying is we know, Brandon. We understand. We know why you acted out. Our visit on Wednesday. It brought it all back, didn’t it?”

  “He might have thrown a brick through that other girl’s window,” I say, technically addressing Parnell but staring boldly at Keefe. “Maybe he just didn’t get caught, or she didn’t want to press charges.”

  Keefe issues an exhausted plea to Gaffney. “They’ve charged me with criminal damage, can’t I just go home?”

  “Criminal damage!” I offer a slow handclap. “You lucked out there. They must be a charitable bunch over at Kentish Town. I’d have gone for assault. We’ve only got your word that you didn’t know it was her bedroom, and your word doesn’t mean a lot, given your fingerprints were all over 6 Valentine Street and you never once mentioned being there.”

  “All over?” says Gaffney, one brow raised.

  A girl can but try. What we actually have is one matching print lifted from a sliding-glass door, another off the kitchen worktop.

  “So talk us through it.” I shrug my shoulders, a little less hostile.

  Keefe bristles. “Could you talk me through a less-than-ten-minute incident from over six years ago?”

  At last, some backbone, although he’s picked the wrong person to challenge. I could talk him through a less-than-five-minute car journey from nearly twenty years ago. Maryanne Doyle swinging her legs into Dad’s Ford Mondeo. Asking if he’d be in town that night. Asking nothing about the child in the back seat, wolfing down Taytos to soothe the tight feeling in her tummy.

/>   “Oh, come on, Brandon. Don’t tell me you haven’t played it over and over in your head.”

  “I didn’t trip over any dead bodies, I remember that much.” Gaffney throws him a glare, then draws him in for a whisper. It goes on far longer than a whispered conversation really should. I’m thinking of whistling just to make a point when Keefe nods, resolutely, and looks back to the front. “I went there once. Once, OK?”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Months before Chris . . . well, did what he did. The Rugby World Cup was on, though, so it must have been October. I was annoyed, see, because England were playing and I thought I’d be able to have the TV on in the storeroom, but Chris said I had to come to the house. He needed me to bring some tools over and help him measure a few things. That’s the only time I ever went there. That’s the only way my fingerprints could be in that house.”

  It’s plausible. And very difficult to prove or disprove. I know it, Parnell knows it, and gum-chewing Gaffney knows it. Brandon Keefe, though, with his squeaky-clean record, probably doesn’t, so I take another shot.

  “The bit I don’t get is, if it was all so innocent, why did you never mention it?”

  “Would you have admitted being there? In the place those girls were . . .” He shudders. “It was bad enough people asking me about Chris, never mind asking me about that hellhole.”

  “Yeah, but the papers would have loved it. You’d have probably got more than £15,000 for some ‘House of Horrors’ details. And you were desperate for money, so I think there must have been another reason—a stronger reason—for you wanting to keep it secret.”

  “I wasn’t keeping secrets. I was never asked—by the papers or the police. If I’d been asked outright by the police, I’d have said yes, I went there once. I just didn’t see why I should volunteer it. It was hardly relevant.”

  He’s either the best liar, or he’s had the worst luck. I honestly can’t make my mind up.

  Time for a cozy chat. I pull my chair in, lessening the space between us.

  “Right, Brandon, I’m not going to keep any secrets from you, OK? We’re looking into the possibility—and it is only a possibility, let me be clear—that Christopher Masters had an accomplice. Now, cards on the table, me and Sergeant Parnell here weren’t convinced. Masters seemed like a lone wolf to us, a control freak. But there are a few things that have come up that mean it’s got to be a consideration, at least.” I give him a weak smile. “And then you come along. You worked closely beside him, you don’t have an alibi for Holly Kemp—you told us last time you were at home on your own that day playing video games—and now your fingerprints have been placed in the house where those women probably died. You’ve got to see how it looks.”

  Another conflab with Gaffney, shorter, this time.

  “I think I have alibis for the others.”

  “Wow, just like that?”

  He sits up a little straighter. “I was staying with my brother for most of February. He lives in Tulse Hill and I went back there every night after work. I was there until my parents went away to Venice—which was a few days before Holly Kemp disappeared. They might be able to give you the exact date.”

  “Hang on.” Parnell lifts his hand. “You lived a ten-minute walk from Masters’ store but you went to stay with your brother over two miles away?”

  “I wasn’t getting on with my folks, my mum mainly. She was disappointed about me not cracking on with a proper career. I saw it as nagging, but of course she just cared.” He slumps forward onto the table, the effort of staying upright too much. “And my brother had just split up with his fiancée. He was going through a tough time and what with Valentine’s Day coming up, I decided I’d stay with him for a few weeks. Keep him company. We drank beer and ate takeaways every night. He’d moan about Tara, I’d moan about Izzy, the girl I liked. You can check all this with my brother.”

  “We will,” says Parnell. “Although I’m sure you understand beloved big brothers aren’t the best alibis, for obvious reasons.”

  Keefe sags. Gaffney’s cautious. I take one last shot before the words “take a break” kill the mood.

  “You know what I’m thinking, Brandon? If you spend a lot of time with Christopher Masters, a man who clearly hates women a great deal and—”

  “I never got that impression,” he interrupts quietly, mumbling more to the table than me. “He hated his ex-wife. Always going on about her new life, her fancy car, her posh house, her new partner. He never said anything else bad about women though, not to me, anyway.”

  “Oh, so you were spicing it for the Mail then?” I flick through the file in front of me, pull out Keefe’s interview. “His eyes darkened. His posture went as rigid as a steel bar. His voice took on a rough, husky tone. Like he’d entered some sort of altered state.”

  “They twist your words.”

  “OK, well, I won’t twist mine. I think you weren’t getting anywhere with—what did you call her—Izzy?” His head bobs. “She was flirting with other people in the pub, not realizing she had a good man right under her nose, am I right? Then your brother—who you sound really close to—gets ditched by his fiancée. And on top of that, your mum’s nagging you, making you feel bad about your decisions, your life choices. So I’m thinking you had a lot of reasons to dislike women around that time, Brandon, and then you go into work and there’s Christopher Masters, angry at this ex-wife, bitter. And you make a connection.”

  Keefe looks up at me, deadbeat, but with eyes full of focus. “I know what you’re getting at and I’m not going to demean myself by answering. You have nothing, so you want me to incriminate myself. Well, I won’t do it. Though they plot evil against you and devise wicked schemes, they cannot succeed. The Book of Psalms, chapter twenty-two, verse eleven. Now I’d like to take a break.”

  Nearly ten, Friday night.

  Brandon Keefe has gone home, bailed to return next week. Nimbus lives to eat another bowl of Whiskas. And all is not right with the world.

  “Nothing more we could do,” says Parnell, as Steele switches the lights out in her office. “Without his fingerprints on any of the bodies, or on a weapon, it’s weak.”

  “Ha! A weapon. Imagine that.” Steele’s laugh is rueful, desperate even.

  “We should get someone onto this Izzy.” I slam the last of the sash windows shut. “I got the sense the first time we met Keefe that he was still smarting from that rejection. Maybe she can tell us something interesting. Violence, weird behavior . . .”

  “Is that thorough investigative work or clutching at straws?” asks Steele.

  “Probably the latter.” I hold the door open for them both. Steele has her weekly pile of online shopping to contend with. Parnell’s carrying two bags of food—dinner he promised he’d have on the table by eight. “Although I do think it’s strange that a grown man like Masters would savage his wife to a young lad like Keefe.”

  “He didn’t have many friends to savage her to,” says Parnell.

  “I guess.”

  Steele puts her hand over the lift button. “OK, we’re not going anywhere until you say what you’re thinking.”

  I shrug. “That maybe Masters saw something in Keefe? That he was testing him, seeing how he’d react.”

  Parnell’s with me. “It’s possible. It’s classic predatory behavior—throw out the bait and see who bites.” A quick glance at Steele. “What, you don’t agree?”

  Her face is buried in the yellow plastic of a Selfridges parcel. “Christ, I don’t know what to think about any of this.” She looks up. “We’ve got a witness who connects our victim to Masters, but Masters has no connection to guns that we can find—and now the witness could be iffy, for all we know.” She nods at me, Serena Bailey having been designated my weekend project. Tomorrow should have been my first Saturday off in a month, and technically, it still will be, but with this case gathering momentum, I’ve agreed to some unpaid overtime. Serena Bailey, lucky her, is getting a visit. “And with
Fellows, we’ve got a name that’s very associated with guns, but as of yet, no provable connection to Holly.” She lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a yawn. “The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m bloody starving and there’s no one worrying about when I was last fed. Remind me to come back as a cat next time around.”

  19

  I stayed at my own place last night for the first time in weeks. Aiden grumbled, but I had reasons at the ready: mail (who gets mail?), a desire to “air the place,” and a sudden and overwhelming concern that there might be some chicken slowly putrefying in the fridge. Another reason was genuine. The need to check on my neighbor, Jerry, who lives on the ground floor and in la-la land half the time. Jerry’s become increasingly housebound over the past twelve months, and with not a soul in the world to care, I try to sit with him sometimes, have a cup of tea, listen to his tall tales. Last night’s flight of fancy was an account of the time he caught Jimi Hendrix trying to bed his ex-wife, Beverley. It was a good story, full of detail and drama, and I’d cheerfully played along, even encouraging him to tell me more.

  The main reason though, and far less entertaining than Jerry’s nutty reminiscences, was that I needed to call Jacqui, and that’s always easier if Aiden isn’t next to me, looking wounded. Wondering if he’ll ever get a mention. Wondering if they’ll ever meet.

  It was a typical Jacqui conversation: me asking questions, her going off at convoluted tangents.

  “So is Dad in pain?”

  “A bit, not really, his meds are pretty good. I tell you who is in pain, though. Do you remember Sarah Phelan? She was in the year above me. She was the first at Lady H’s to get a mobile, lived in tartan miniskirts, you must remember her . . . Anyway, she had a boob job and it’s gone tits-up, pardon the pun. A capsular contracture, whatever that is. I’ll have to google it . . .”