The Burning

by Jane Casey

  ‘Do you know where she worked?’

  ‘Ventnor Chase. It’s a PR agency.’

  ‘She hasn’t worked there since August. You really weren’t in touch with her, were you?’

  ‘We were supposed to go for a drink last month. I cancelled. Couldn’t face it in the end.’ He was staring into the distance. ‘You think you know someone.’

  ‘Apparently she wasn’t as simple and straightforward as all that.’ I flicked back in my notebook. ‘Can you give me a contact number for Tilly Shaw?’

  He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through the address book, handing me the phone so I could write down her number. ‘I never meant to lose touch with Bex. We ended things amicably – I thought we would stay closer than we did. She was all right.’

  ‘She obviously thought a lot of you.’ I stood up, looking down at him. ‘She made you the beneficiary of her life-insurance policy. Luckily for you, the policy runs until the end of the year. You’re in line for quite a pay-out, Mr Maddick.’

  ‘I–I had no idea.’

  ‘Before you can claim it, you’ll have to prove you weren’t involved in her murder. Good luck with that.’ I walked towards the door. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  I left him sitting in his over-designed chrome and leather chair, staring into space. As I walked down the street, I tried to analyse why I had disliked him so much. Something about him was unsettling. Something made me edgy. I thought he was a smug, manipulative creep, for all his good looks. But being a creep wasn’t an arrestable offence.

  On the bright side, it was a life sentence.

  LOUISE

  It seemed to me as if I didn’t sleep at all on Friday night, but I must have drifted off at some point because I woke up stiff and cold in the morning with the duvet sagging on the floor and what felt like grit behind my eyelids. It was still early, still dark outside and quiet, with the hush that only fell at weekends, when all my early-rising, over-achieving neighbours gave in to exhaustion. No one was stirring yet. I looked out of my bedroom window at the bare, frosty gardens on either side of my own, and across to the backs of the houses in the next street. There were no lights on in any of the rooms and no signs of life, just blank windows that stared blindly back at me.

  I couldn’t go back to sleep; I couldn’t switch off. I felt more alive than usual, more aware of my physical self and its surroundings. I was exceedingly conscious of the dense pile of the carpet under my feet, the soft felted flannel of my ancient pyjamas on my skin, the chill from the air leaking into my bedroom through the old sash window. My hair curled against my neck, feeling like a soft fingertip stroking the skin, and I shook it away with a quick movement and a shiver. The shiver, I told myself, was because the house was freezing and I shuffled downstairs in a thick towelling dressing gown to make a cup of tea, taking it back to bed. I left the bedside lamp off and sat upright against the pillows watching for the dawn, the mug clasped in both hands, sipping the steaming liquid and planning. I made a list for myself of tasks for the day, the week, the remainder of the month. Nothing was to do with work; everything was to do with me, with how I was and what I could be. Rebecca had coaxed me for so long to change myself. The irony wasn’t lost on me that now, when her voice had fallen silent for ever, I was finally starting to do what she’d suggested.

  By the time I left the house some two hours later, I had been through every room, collecting and bagging up clothes, shoes and bed linen that needed to be thrown away. It was all destined for the dump, not good enough even for a charity shop. I threw out a few of the more unflattering items in my wardrobe, things I had meant to get rid of for a long time – sagging suits I had had since I was a trainee, old jeans with tar on the cuffs, a pair of trainers that had seen better days. I hesitated over a jumper with a hole in the sleeve that I had found when I was a student, thrown over the back of a chair in the Law Bodleian. It had had the exciting strangeness that someone else’s clothes always seemed to possess for me, as if by wearing it I borrowed something from a different personality, tried on a different life. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it now, and in fact I found myself putting it on before I left the house.

  I was glad of it; the morning air was cold as I walked quickly to the Underground station along silent streets. I liked travelling on a Saturday, especially early. The trains were empty and on time, the other passengers more relaxed and considerate than during the week. You had space to think. But then, I had been doing too much thinking lately. I sat and looked at my reflection in the window of the train, distorted and doubled by the thick glass. Both versions of me looked pale, washed out in the fluorescent lights of the carriage, and from lack of sleep. It was a relief when the train stopped at Earls Court and a man sat opposite me, blocking my view. When I changed trains at Victoria, I didn’t bother to sit down, just stood holding on to a pole, staring at the floor. I counted under my breath, clearing my mind of anything but the numbers: how long it took the train to go between stations, how long it stopped, how many people got off, how many got on. Numbers were straightforward. They quietened my mind.

  I started at Oxford Circus and worked my way along the street. I was looking for a dress, but not just any dress. It had to be dark, as plain as I could find, but not drab. The Haworths, they had told me, were thinking of having a memorial service for Rebecca. They’d been told they might have to wait some time before her body would be released but they needed the consolation of some kind of ceremony to mark her passing. I would be invited, they said. The service was a bad idea and it was too soon, the grief too raw for public display. I would have to be there, nonetheless, to support the Haworths. It was what they would expect and I couldn’t let them down. And I might as well look as good as I could; it was a way of remembering Rebecca. I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that Rebecca’s friends would be there too – the ones who remembered me as a quiet mouse happy in her shadow, if they remembered me at all. I wasn’t that person any more. I wanted them to look at me, not past me. I wanted them to see me for what I was.

  I found it in Selfridges, a midnight-blue dress in fine wool with bracelet-length sleeves. It had a straight skirt, a tiny waist and a low round neckline. The saleswoman was delighted, all the more since I took her suggestion of a new coat to go with it and bought a blindingly expensive one that fitted like it had been made for me and flared into a soft bell-like skirt. I bought shoes to go with it, and a wide grey cashmere scarf. I handed over my credit card without the least hint of guilt. It was all right – right for the occasion, right for me.

  I found myself struggling to manage all of my bags as the street became busier towards lunchtime. I was suddenly exhausted, thirsty and conscious of the fact that I hadn’t had any breakfast. It was unthinkable to attempt another tube journey with all of my shopping. A black cab rolled towards me with its orange light on and without thinking I put out my hand to hail it. The driver pulled in to the kerb a couple of yards ahead of me and I hurried over, only to fall back, catching my breath as another woman got there first. Long blonde hair piled up messily, slim legs in black tights and high-heeled ankle boots, an elegance of movement that was totally unstudied, narrow hands, a red coat, a sweet curve of cheek as she laughed, a neat, flat ear decorated with a small diamond hoop earring – it was Rebecca who got to the door before me, Rebecca who leaned in to talk to the driver, Rebecca who stepped into the back of the cab and sat back, waiting to be taken where she had asked to go. It was her – and then it wasn’t. A stranger looked out of the cab window at me, a woman much plainer than my friend, with a gap between her front teeth and over-plucked eyebrows. The shape of her face was wrong, the hair was too brassy, the coat cheap and gaudy with gold buttons. The resemblance was fleeting and once I had seen her properly, I couldn’t see Rebecca in her at all, but as the taxi drove away I still stared after it. I suppose she must have thought I was angry that she had stolen my cab, but I didn’t care about that, not really. There would be another one soon, and indeed there was,
and this time I got into it before anyone else could get there first. I sat in the back and watched the shoppers jostling on the pavement, looking without meaning to for fair hair, for a quick turn of a head, a flash of a smile.

  Looking for something that was gone for ever.

  I came home to my small, cold house and ate, standing up by the fridge: an overripe pear that dripped juice down my wrists, a curl of salty ham, a fig yoghurt. It was an unorthodox lunch but I was too hungry to cook and too impatient to go out for food. My muscles ached from the physical effort of shopping and I found myself laughing at how weak I was, how tired, after a morning of self-indulgence. I hung up the new clothes, taking off the labels that told the story of how much I had spent. Then I ran a bath and soaked in it for a ridiculously long time, adding more hot water when it threatened to cool down, drifting, holding up my hands and looking at them as if I’d never seen them before.

  When I finally gave in and got out of the bath, I put on a plain black jumper and skinny grey jeans, tying my hair back out of the way. In the kitchen, I marshalled my supplies of cleaning products, preparing to clean the entire house. I would start with the bathroom, I decided, and headed into the hall with an armful of cleaners and bleach. Housework was therapeutic, and restful, and totally necessary, I thought, pulling a tangled cobweb off the stairs with a shudder. I passed the phone in the hall and, as an afterthought, backtracked to check for messages, frowning to hear that there was one, picking up a pen to write down anything important. There was a tiny pause before it started. The voice that spoke into my ear was low, heavily ironic, instantly recognisable, and I dropped the things I had been carrying so I could hold on to the receiver with both hands. My heart was thumping. I didn’t know he had my home number. I didn’t know he knew where to find me. I had heard a lot about Gil from Rebecca. I knew he was demanding, manipulative, possessive. I also knew he was exciting, charismatic, unforgettable. I had mentioned his name to the police because if they wanted to know about Rebecca they had to know about Gil.

  ‘Louise. It’s Gil. I would apologise for phoning you out of the blue, but I understand you’ve been talking to the police about me, so I suppose I’m on your mind. We should talk, I think. About Rebecca.’ There was a pause, so long that I thought he had finished, before he said, ‘There’s plenty to say.’ Another pause, a briefer one. ‘I’ve missed you, Louise. I’m glad to know you’d been thinking about me. I certainly hadn’t forgotten you. Call me back when you get this message.’

  Listening to his voice, I could picture his face precisely, the simmering anger overlaid with a veneer of cynicism and wry amusement. I listened to it again, dwelling on the way he said my name, drawing the second syllable out teasingly. I played it again. I deleted the message before I could play it a fourth time, and hung up the phone, dropping the receiver with unnecessary force. I looked up to see my face reflected in the hall mirror, the eyes wide, looking too big, my cheeks and slightly parted lips colourless. The dark material of my jumper disappeared into the background, making my head float as if it had been cut off. I felt exposed. He had always ignored me before. All his attention was always on Rebecca, as if no one else even existed.

  I would not call him. Not then. Not ever. I would go on with my plans for the day.

  But as I went up the stairs to scrub the bathroom as I had intended, I couldn’t hide from myself that I was afraid.

  Chapter Five

  MAEVE

  After I had finished with Rebecca’s ex-boyfriend, I made my way back to the incident room. I was looking forward to spending the rest of Saturday at my desk, considering the four blue lever-arch files on my desk fat with notes on the Burning Man murders – witness statements, forensics analysis, the pathologist’s reports on the autopsies, crime-scene photographs. The sad thing was I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, even if I hadn’t had a message on my phone from Ian to tell me that he was going to the cinema with some friends. I was, apparently, welcome to join them, but since it was an ultra-violent horror film, it was an easy decision for me. I got to see plenty of real horror at work; I couldn’t sit through a fake version of it in the name of entertainment. Besides, the friends he was with were not my favourites. Like Ian, they worked in the City; like Ian, they were comfortable with flashing their cash. But they brought out the braying idiot in my boyfriend and I couldn’t stand to be around him when he was like that.

  Better to stay at work and spend my time going through the files once more, to see if there was anything that I and everyone else had missed. Somewhere in all those words and images, there had to be some answers.

  When I got there, the room was emptying out, some officers heading off duty, others going out to do more house-to-house enquiries where the residents hadn’t been available before, or to man checkpoints in the Burning Man’s area of operations so they could speak to motorists driving through it. They had ANPR units set up – automatic number-plate recognition – to help with identifying cars that might be of interest, and if nothing else, they tended to pick up a fair few drivers who didn’t have insurance or full licences. We were spreading the net widely but that made it all the harder to pick out our particular fish from the catch.

  Superintendent Godley was in his glass-fronted office, the door closed. He was on the phone. He leaned his forehead on one hand, shading his eyes, as if he needed to concentrate on a difficult conversation. He looked exhausted. As I watched, he hung up, then sat for a second without moving.

  DI Judd interrupted him, knocking on the door and poking his head in without waiting. They had a brief conversation that ended with the two men turning to look at me. I ducked my head behind my computer screen, hoping that they hadn’t seen me staring at them. I was aware of Godley crossing the room in my direction, the inspector a couple of paces behind him.

  ‘Maeve, I was just talking to Tom about the Haworth investigation, letting him know how we’re going to take the investigation forward.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, trying to work out why Judd looked so irritated. He ignored me and spoke to Godley in a low voice.

  ‘Just don’t put a note in your policy log, Charlie. It’ll be disclosable to the defence if we ever catch this guy. They’ll know we weren’t sure about putting this murder down to him and that won’t help us in court.’

  Godley’s face was shuttered, remote. ‘I’ve made my decision and I’m going to stick to it. I’ll answer for it in the box if I have to.’

  ‘You don’t honestly think there are two of them out there, do you?’

  Godley looked at me. ‘Tell him about the differences we’ve observed, Maeve. It’s a reasonable suggestion.’

  Judd pulled a face and turned to me. ‘Was this your idea?’

  ‘No, but––’

  Judd didn’t wait to hear what I had to say. ‘We’ll be making a big mistake if we’re anything less than definite about this case. If we lose this one in court because the jury don’t understand how you’ve decided to run it––’

  ‘It’ll be up to me to take responsibility,’ Godley finished for him. ‘And I will. It’s my name on the line, Tom, not yours.’

  ‘That’s not what worries me.’

  ‘I know you are worried about making a strong case, but need I point out that we have to catch him first? I get a bad feeling about the latest murder; I want it investigated as if it was a new crime, not part of the series, until we’re sure it fits in. End of conversation.’

  Judd and I watched as Godley strode away, head down. I had never heard him speak to the inspector that way before. Neither, it seemed, had Judd. He turned back to me.

  ‘Follow whatever wild-goose chase the boss is on and then get back to work on this enquiry. But don’t bother me with the details. If you find anything that proves this murder is part of the series – or proves that it isn’t – let me know about it. Otherwise, I really don’t care to hear about it.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, smarting a little from his tone. ‘I’ll just get on with it
.’

  ‘You do that.’ He stared at me for a second. ‘Don’t think this is a sign that the boss likes you, Kerrigan. It’s the sort of job you’d give to someone you didn’t want fucking up elsewhere. He’s got you out of the way.’

  What he said was uncomfortably close to what I had thought myself, but I managed not to react. If my face was hot as he walked away, picking up his coat as he went, it wasn’t surprising – the incident room was always boiling, the radiators on twenty-four hours a day. It was unpleasant even for me, and I could generally stand any amount of heat. The air was stagnant and we relied on a few ancient, highly prized fans to push it around. This late in the day, one or two were unattended. I went on the hunt, picking my way around the desks with care, because the hazards underfoot included loose sheets of paper, empty water bottles and discarded sandwich wrappers. In spite of the grand title, the incident room was an absolutely bland office space. It might as well have been a call centre, and not a very good one at that; the place was a tip. Stained mugs stood at practically every workstation. Someone had ripped open a packet of digestive biscuits beside the photocopier. I could tell this because at least two seemed to have disintegrated on contact with the air. Passing foot traffic had worked the fine beige crumbs into the fibres of the nylon carpet tiles and even though I wasn’t the tidiest person in the world I yearned for a vacuum cleaner. If there had been one standing beside the mess, already plugged in and waiting to go, I wouldn’t have touched it in front of any of the other officers, though. I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t wash up or make tea; I never tidied. Show the slightest hint of weakness and I’d be looking after all domestic duties for the entire squad in a heartbeat.

  I returned to my desk triumphant, carrying a nine-inch non-rotating number that wheezed asthmatically and didn’t seem to do much more than ruffle the pages on my desk. They flapped like wounded birds. Cooling of the atmosphere was not particularly noticeable, but I didn’t care; I had stolen it from Peter Belcott’s desk and I would have cherished it for that reason alone. A cold Diet Coke from the vending machine took care of my caffeine craving and also made a handy paperweight. I knotted my hair up at the nape of my neck, stuck a pencil through it to hold the makeshift bun in place, jammed my hands against my ears to block out any distractions, then got down to some serious reading.