by Casey, Jane
‘Are you actually sniffing the toilet?’ Derwent looked disgusted.
‘I’m trying to work out what happened this morning. She came upstairs, she threw up, she brushed her teeth. Ready to go shopping.’ I walked back into the bedroom. ‘Something happened. Something made her stop what she was doing. Look at the pillows. She was in the middle of making the bed when something interrupted her.’
‘This is her bag, isn’t it?’ Derwent held it up. ‘She’d have needed that for shopping.
‘You’d have thought.’ I looked at him, troubled. ‘What happened here?’
‘I don’t know. But Zoe’s car wasn’t in the yard.’ He shrugged. ‘Not worth getting too excited over it, is it? It probably took Lydia longer to upchuck her porridge than she’d bargained for.’
‘And her bag?’
‘It’s heavy. Maybe she had a smaller one, or she just took her wallet or something.’
‘She’s a teenage girl. She would want all her clutter.’
Derwent was rooting in the bag. ‘Fuck. Here’s her wallet.’ He opened it. ‘Cash card. Money. Her phone. All right, that is a bit strange.’
‘More than a bit, surely.’ I went back into the corridor and peered through one of the dormer windows. There were too many trees between me and the garage for me to be sure of what I was seeing. ‘I can’t see inside the garage, but I think the doors are open.’
‘You’d leave them open if you drove out.’
‘Yeah.’ I stared at it, troubled. ‘We need to search the property.’
‘Dornton and Liv are doing the yard at the moment.’
‘Let’s try out the back, then.’
‘Make sure the car isn’t there.’
‘Exactly.’
Derwent was silent as we cut through the house and stepped out of the back door. The heat was incredible, the air crackling with tension as the clouds massed overhead, heavy with rain. I had a headache already, a tight band around my forehead that no painkiller would touch. It was fear, fear and not knowing what we had missed. Savannah was our suspect, and Savannah was dead. Which meant that there were two killers, or we had been wrong about her. ‘But she fitted the DNA profile.’
‘What did you say?’ Derwent demanded.
‘Thinking aloud.’ I went ahead of him along the path towards the garage, which was more trampled than it had been the previous time we’d been there. Something moved in the grass beside the path, something big, and I stopped.
‘What now?’
‘Nothing. Just the dog.’ My heart was beating erratically; for the second time that day Beckett had terrified me. He was hardly stealthy, crashing through the undergrowth at the same fast pace that we were keeping, looking up over the feathery tops of the wild grass now and then to check that we were still there. Up ahead of us, the garage door banged.
Derwent gave me a tight smile when I looked around. ‘Just the wind.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ There was a breeze but it was hot air that didn’t refresh me in the least. ‘Dornton thinks there’s going to be a storm.’
‘Does he?’ Derwent managed to get precisely the same lack of interest into his voice that I had shown earlier, and I blushed, concentrating on keeping my footing on the last part of the path. The door banged again as we came around the side of the garage, which was empty.
‘They’re gone.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’ Derwent said it like he meant it.
‘She still hasn’t had the oil fixed.’ I pointed at the floor, where the puddle had grown and spread.
‘Something stinks.’ Derwent frowned. ‘Petrol.’
‘They had a can of it on the shelf. Must have been running low.’
‘I wouldn’t keep petrol around the place. Not if I had a garage made of wood.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a health-and-safety type.’
‘Just common sense.’ He backed away. ‘Didn’t she say there was another building?’
‘A barn. Behind here.’
‘I’ll go and have a look there.’
The door banged again. I went to look at how the catch worked and found that it was straightforward, a metal bolt that slotted into the ground. It would inconvenience Zoe a little bit to have to open it again when she got back, but she would have other things on her mind, I thought. She would see the cars in the yard and know that something had happened, even before someone got to her to tell her the news. I hoped it wouldn’t be me.
The door fixed, I wandered into the garage, waiting for Derwent to get back. The stuff on the shelves had to have been left by the previous owner, or the one before it; there was some extraordinary stuff. I paused over some tongs that looked like medieval torture equipment but were probably veterinary tools. Next to them was a coil of barbed wire, and beside that a tin of paint that was surely never going to be usable again. The lid was crusted on with dried paint and the sides of the tin were streaked with rust. From the style of the logo, it dated from the 1960s. There was being thrifty, I thought, and there was being a hoarder. I passed on to the back wall of the garage, which was tools and spare car parts, mainly. And stopped, my head cocked to one side, listening.
Derwent was saying something. The window above my head was broken, explaining why I could hear him even though he still seemed to be in the barn. He sounded calm, conversational even, but I couldn’t hear a reply.
He spoke again.
Someone else was in the barn with him. The dog, possibly. Beckett had disappeared when we came close to the garage, nose to the ground. I was not going to get overexcited for a third time that day about a sheepdog, no matter how nice his nature.
On the other hand, it wasn’t like Derwent to bother talking to an animal.
And there was no harm in looking to see what he was doing.
Once I was outside the garage, I saw the others gathered at the back of the house, heads together. I waved and Godley broke away from the group, shading his eyes to see what I was doing. I pointed to the side of the garage and he nodded. They would have finished the first search down at the house. They would be waiting for Glen Hanshaw, or for Zoe to return. The house would be off-limits until the crime scene specialists had checked it over. We had trampled around enough already, I thought, hacking through nettles and tall cow parsley to get to the barn door. I wasn’t used to being the first responder at a murder. The response teams were better at it, the uniformed officers who spent their time racing to answer 999 calls or being despatched to concern-for-safety calls, where someone hadn’t seen their elderly neighbour for a few weeks, actually, and the TV was on all hours of the day and night, and they were just worried there might be a problem …
Derwent sounded especially calm. I was walking softly. I didn’t want to startle the dog. Or Derwent. Or even reveal to him that I had heard him saying, ‘It’s okay. Really, it’s all right. You’re not in trouble. Everything is going to be fine.’ He was a soppy git under all the bluster, as I had always suspected. I was half-smiling as I stepped into the barn, which was dark and effectively derelict. The roof was nothing more than bare rafters in several places, and pigeons had colonised the space completely. The smell of old straw and damp was pungent.
And overlaid with another smell.
Petrol.
It was easy enough to see where it was coming from, when my eyes got accustomed to the light – easy, and terrifying. Derwent was facing me, leaning against a wooden partition that had somehow remained sound enough for it to take his weight. He had his arms folded and one foot crossed over the other, totally relaxed in his posture, the strain only showing around his eyes. He didn’t look at me because his attention was fixed on the person who stood between us, but he lifted his index finger very slightly. Wait.
Lydia was tiny in her oversized T-shirt and floor-length skirt, drowning in black. It didn’t show the blood that streaked her arms, but blood would be there when the forensics experts examined her clothes. I was more interested in the fact that she was soa
king wet, and not with water. Her hair was drenched, droplets oozing from the ends. In one hand she held the petrol can, loosely so it dangled down by her side. In the other hand there was a pink plastic lighter, held tightly in her fist, which was shaking. I couldn’t see if she had her thumb on the wheel, ready to strike the light. I couldn’t see how much danger she was in. Enough, I thought, edging sideways to avoid standing with the light behind me and sending a telltale shadow across the dirty floor. More than enough.
‘You don’t want to do anything stupid, do you? It’s been a tough day already. You want to go and have a shower. Get cleaned up.’ He was speaking in a low, soothing voice that was almost hypnotic, and what he was saying was far less important than the tone. All he got in response was a muffled sob that was barely a noise.
‘What can we get for you? What would make you feel better?’
An infinitesimal shake of her head. Her teeth were chattering, a low-level rattle that I could hear over the flutter and coo of the birds in the rafters. I had never seen her in short sleeves before, and the scarring on her arms was wicked. Years of work had gone into making the marks, and they ranged in colour from pearly white to an angry red that had to be recent. The blood that smeared her skin was streaked and patchy because of the petrol, but I was fairly sure that she herself wasn’t bleeding, and I was fairly sure whose blood it was too.
I moved forward a step, and then another. Derwent kept up the soothing babble, raising the volume very slightly to cover the sound of my progress. I had my eyes fixed on her right hand. I couldn’t decide what to do. If I tried to grab her and her thumb was on the wheel, the shock might make her strike a flame by accident as her hand clenched. If she dropped the lighter, it could still spark, and a spark was all it would take. It was petrol vapour that ignited, I recalled, not the liquid; she was surrounded in a cloud of it and I would be well within range if it went up. And it was seriously unstable. You weren’t even supposed to use a mobile phone at a petrol pump, not that anyone paid attention to that particular rule. How often had a mobile phone generate a spark when it was used? Not often, in my experience. Mine was on, in my pocket. Derwent’s, too.
I didn’t want to burn.
I stepped a little closer, testing the floor with my toe before I risked putting my weight on it. The floor was wooden boards, pitted with holes and dry as dust. The whole place would go up in a heartbeat if she did. Old straw. Old wood. A breeze through the open door funnelling air up to the damaged roof, making a natural chimney for a flame that would burn until there was no fuel left at all, until there was nothing but ash. They would find our bones, though. It was surprisingly hard to burn human bodies until they disintegrated.
The petrol can slipped out of her hand and clattered on the floor, something that surprised her as much as me.
Derwent started forward instinctively then stopped with his hands up as she lifted her clenched fist in warning.
‘Lydia, it’s all right. I know you got a fright, but it was just the can.’
‘It was empty.’ The first words I had heard her say so far, and her voice was dead.
‘Give me the lighter, Lydia. You don’t need it. That’s not the way to go.’ He took another step towards her.
‘Stay where you are.’ She pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘Don’t come close to me.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right. It’s never going to be all right.’ She had sounded like a teenager on the phone that morning, giggling about her plans for the day, but now she sounded like a child. Her voice was high-pitched and mournful and somehow distant, as if she had gone to a different place already, somewhere that we couldn’t reach her.
If I stretched out my hand, I could touch her arm.
I didn’t know what to do.
‘Tell us what happened this morning,’ Derwent commanded.
A sob and she shook her head over and over, sending a fine spray of petrol over me. I shuddered a little, not liking it, wanting to tear off my top and wipe my skin. It was the worst way to die, I’d heard. Painful beyond belief, and that was if you died quickly. People died weeks later, sometimes, after unimaginable agony. People lived with terrible scarring. I tried not to think about it. She was just holding the lighter in her fist, and loosely. She had dropped the can. She was weak. I was quick and strong, and I had the advantage of surprise.
I looked at Derwent, and saw him change his stance a little, ready to move. I looked at Lydia’s hand again. I was almost sure it would be all right.
Almost.
I don’t know if I could have done it if I hadn’t heard sounds from outside, heard the cavalry turning up at the wrong bloody moment. If they crashed in, she would turn around and see me, and she would be angry. Angry enough to burn? I didn’t want to test it out.
I grabbed her wrist like I was pinning down a poisonous snake and held on for dear life, trying to peel her fingers away from the lighter with the other hand. A second later Derwent’s arms were around hers, pinning them to her sides so she couldn’t fight me off. Her hand tightened around the lighter instinctively but it was small, and slippery, and as we struggled it slid out of her grasp and on to the floor. I kicked at it without thinking and sent it skittering away into the shadows by the door.
‘Careful,’ Derwent said sharply. ‘Don’t do that again.’
‘Sorry. I was just trying to get it away.’
‘It could have exploded when it fell on the floor, and then you kick it? Christ.’ This was all over the top of Lydia’s head; the girl was limp in Derwent’s arms. She was crying hard, her body shaking with each sob that tore out of her.
‘It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.’ Derwent smoothed her hair with a hand he had got free somehow.
‘It’s not. You don’t know what I’ve done.’
‘We know, Lydia. We were in the house.’
‘And so was I.’ Her father had a particularly resonant voice – years of practice at being heard in large rooms – and he delivered his line like a Shakespearean actor giving his all to his very last performance. ‘What are you doing, Lydia? What were you trying to do?’
‘Daddy?’ She had twisted in Derwent’s arms to see him. He was standing beside Godley and Liv, with Dornton behind them, all with matching expressions of shock on their faces. I couldn’t think about how we looked. Terrified, probably. There was no colour at all in Derwent’s cheeks.
‘Let’s not worry about that now.’ Godley put his hand on Kennford’s arm. ‘Let’s think about that later. The first thing is Lydia’s safety.’
‘The first thing is to find out what happened, surely.’ He looked back at his daughter. ‘Why did you do it, Lydia? What was the reason? You must have had a reason.’
She was crying again. She turned her face into Derwent’s neck and stayed there, her head on his shoulder, as if she was too weak to hold it up. He held on to her hair, shushing her. To Kennford, he said, ‘Drop it. Now’s not the time. We’ll find out later.’
‘I want to comfort her.’ Kennford stepped forward. ‘She’s my daughter.’
‘And you’ve never behaved like her father,’ Derwent hissed. He was still gripping her tightly, but it was to support her, not restrain her.
‘I’m still her father, for all that. She’s my daughter, whatever she’s done.’ Kennford sounded like he was on the edge of hysteria. ‘I love her. I might not have been the best at showing it, but I do love her. For all her faults, she’s all I’ve got left, and I’m not going to abandon her now.’
‘What did you say?’ Zoe was standing behind the group in the doorway, her eyes wide. She had bags from the supermarket in one hand; her car keys were in the other. ‘What’s happened?’
I went forward, my hand out to her. ‘Zoe, there’s some bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘What did he say?’ She switched her focus to Kennford again. ‘What was it? Who is all you’ve got left?’
He gestured in Lydia’s direction and Zoe saw h
er. She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. What are you doing?’
‘You should ask her what she’s done.’ Kennford’s voice was rough. ‘Then you’ll understand.’
‘I don’t – why––’ She looked around at us. ‘I thought – do I smell petrol?’
‘Lydia tried to kill herself.’ Derwent, cutting to the chase as usual. ‘We stopped her in time.’
‘You tried to burn yourself?’ She glanced down and saw the lighter beside her foot. ‘Using this?’
‘She’s been disarmed.’ Derwent sounded almost cheerful. ‘Nothing to worry about. She’s safe now.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘Zoe, I need to tell you what’s happened.’ I put my hand on her arm, which was stiff. ‘It’s Savannah. I’m so sorry.’
She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at Lydia. I didn’t even know if she’d heard me. I tried again. ‘Savannah’s dead, Zoe.’
Lydia twisted in Derwent’s arms. ‘She knows.’
I felt the tremor go through Zoe. Shock.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was there.’
Zoe started to shake her head. ‘No, Lydia. That’s not true.’ To me, she said, ‘I don’t know why she would lie. Unless she’s trying to blame me.’
‘Blame you? I don’t think––’
‘What did you do?’ Zoe demanded, ignoring me again. ‘What did you do?’
‘You know what.’ Lydia’s face was contorted as the tears began again.
‘Do you think you could tell us about it?’ I said gently. ‘Take your time.’
Derwent put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on. You’ll feel better if you spill the beans.’