The Stranger You Know (23 page)

‘I know. But I can’t understand why when you also want me to help you.’

‘I’m my own worst enemy.’

‘Despite considerable competition.’

He stared at me, deciding how he was going to react, before he threw his head back and laughed. ‘You know, Kerrigan, I’m starting to see the point of you.’

‘Then I can die happy.’ But I muttered it as I followed him to the flat, and I was pretty sure he didn’t hear me. I’d gone just about as far as I could go with Derwent and the next smart remark would earn me a snarl.

It was warm in Derwent’s flat and this time I let him hang up my coat downstairs, as a token of something – what, I wasn’t sure. Trust wasn’t quite the word. I wasn’t feeling at home, exactly, but I was getting used to being around him.

We were halfway up the stairs, both carrying files, when Derwent stopped without warning. I almost collided with him. ‘Who else is on this investigation?’

‘Generally? Burt, Maitland, Colin Vale, me … oh, Peter Belcott was out with Burt today. Then there are the teams in Whitechapel and Lewisham.’ I propped the files I was carrying on the step nearest me, since Derwent didn’t seem to be moving any time soon.

‘And they all know about Angela? And me?’

‘No!’ I suddenly understood what he was getting at. ‘Absolutely not. Godley wants to keep it quiet to protect your reputation in the team.’

‘So who knows? Burt does.’

‘Yes, but she’s senior to you.’ It was the simple truth but I saw him flinch; he hated that it was true and I quite liked reminding him. ‘I’m the only other person who’s seen the file. I don’t think anyone else has even heard Angela’s name.’

‘The file?’

Belatedly, I realised the trap I had dug for myself, and also realised that I was peering up from the bottom of it.

‘You’ve got Angela’s file?’ He was staring at me.

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘Read it?’

I nodded.

‘Can I see it?’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Don’t.’ He shook his head, warning me. ‘You know better than that.’

‘Okay. All right.’ He was leaning over me, looming, and I took a step back, flustered. ‘I’ll have to ask Godley.’

‘He’ll say no.’

‘Not necessarily.’

Derwent hit the banister with the side of his hand, thinking. I know he could tell that I was spooked enough to take the files I’d been carrying and go. And he wanted to know about the other victims too. He had enough control to weigh it up and make the right choice.

‘Okay. Run it by him first. That’s how I’ve been training you to behave. No independent thinking. Chain of command.’ He punctuated the last three words with a forefinger poking my head.

‘I’m not going to show it to you just to prove I’m capable of making up my own mind.’

‘Exactly what I’m saying. I’d be disappointed if you did.’

I followed him into the sitting room, still very much on my guard.

Derwent lined up the files he’d been carrying, two inches from the edge of the coffee table, in a straight line. ‘Drink?’

‘Ever the perfect host. Tea, if you’re making it.’ I stacked mine on the sofa to watch his face work as he tried to quell his OCD. No chance.

‘Gimme those.’ He put them beside the others, nudging them into position like a sheepdog coaxing recalcitrant ewes. ‘And I’m not making tea. No milk, for starters. You can have instant coffee.’

‘You spoil me. Coffee’s fine.’
Anything hot
, I almost said, but stopped myself. That was the sort of open statement he was likely to punish.

He left and I heard him opening and closing cupboard doors down the hall. I followed the sounds to a small, tidy kitchen – white units on two sides, with a fold-out table under the window and two chairs stacked beside it.

‘That’s nifty.’

‘What? The table? I made it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’ He wiped some non-existent drips off the counter. ‘Can’t stand eating in the living room.’

‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’

‘What’s wrong with that? First rule of life is don’t eat where you shit.’

‘Please tell me you don’t shit in your living room.’

‘Obviously not. But I’ve extended it to cover sleeping and watching TV too. No crumbs in the bed, no marks on the upholstery.’

‘I guess it depends on how messy you are.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Food belongs in the kitchen and that’s where you should eat it.’

‘But TV snacks are surely exempt.’

He looked me up and down. ‘Yeah. That’s how you’ll get fat.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve got the height advantage and your metabolism is ticking over now, but you hit your mid-thirties and it’s all going to go. Sitting on your arse watching telly eating crisps is the quick way to becoming obese. Mindless consumption.’

I folded my arms, feeling the familiar slow burn of rage that Derwent usually provoked. ‘I am a long way from obese.’

‘Now, maybe. But give it some time.’ He picked up the mugs. ‘Finished snooping?’

‘We were having a conversation,’ I pointed out.

‘You were nosing around.’

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. He was right, basically. Busted. Taking a leaf out of his book, I went on the attack. ‘Takes one to know one.’

‘Occupational hazard. Coppers don’t do casual chats.’ He grinned, then thrust one mug at me. ‘Come on. I’m not your slave. Carry it yourself.’

Back in the living room, he sat down. ‘How do you want to do this? Stay while I read, or pick them up tomorrow?’

‘I thought we could go through them together. See what jumps out.’ I opened the nearest one, which was Maxine’s. ‘You know, everyone’s been looking at them to see the similarities. I think we need to look at the differences too.’

‘Floor?’

‘Floor.’ I helped to move the coffee table out of the way, and then joined Derwent in taking the files apart. The space filled up quickly: victim pictures I hadn’t seen before with the three women full-face and smiling, crime-scene photographs, maps, floor plans, diagrams of the victims’ injuries, post-mortem close-ups, forensic reports. Witness statements. Interviews. Phone records. Bank statements. Paper, and lots of it. Three dead women generated a lot of words.

‘These are just the edited highlights,’ I said. ‘I left most of it at work.’

‘It’s a start.’ Derwent was scanning the post-mortem report on Anna Melville, scrawling notes as he went. ‘Let’s see how far we can get.’

For the next couple of hours, we read. I hadn’t had time to go through the paperwork for Maxine and Kirsty in detail and I was glad to have the chance to familiarise myself with it. Derwent talked to himself as he worked, which I had never noticed before. I found it strangely endearing.

I was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room, looking at a floor plan of Maxine’s flat, when Derwent stretched. ‘This is doing my head in.’

‘Problem?’

‘Just trying to get it all straight in my head.’

I put down the plan, realising that I’d ended up in a very uncomfortable position. My neck was aching. ‘Do you want to have a break? Talk it through?’

‘Yeah. What did you say? Focus on the differences?’ He flipped to a new page in his notebook. ‘Go for it.’

‘Right. Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt they were killed by the same man.’

‘
Differences
, Kerrigan.’

‘I’m getting to that,’ I said, with dignity. ‘From what I can tell, they each had very different personalities. Their jobs were completely different and none of them worked or lived near any of the others. No connection between their backgrounds – Kirsty grew up in Scotland, Anna in Hampshire, Maxine in Australia. So we really don’t know where our man found them or why he chose them.’

‘Something made his psycho radar ping,’ Derwent said. ‘Something they did, or said, or the way they looked.’

From where I was kneeling the three pictures of the victims were upside down. I glanced at them and then looked again. ‘Hold on.’

‘What?’

I grabbed three pieces of paper and made a frame that I laid over Kirsty’s head, hiding her hair. ‘One.’ I made another and put it on Maxine’s picture. ‘Two.’

‘What is this, kindergarten?’

‘Bear with me.’ I covered Anna’s hair. ‘They look alike now. That’s the same smile.’

‘You think they smile at him.’ Derwent did not sound convinced.

‘That could be enough.’ I frowned, remembering, then scrambled across to the forensic report on Anna Melville, which I hadn’t had time to read yet. ‘Bingo. We found a hair on Anna’s body. This report says it was a synthetic one. From a wig. He crops their hair so they can wear the wig.’

‘What colour?’

‘Fair.’

‘Like Angela?’

I really wanted to compare them too. I had to make a quick decision. Instead of answering Derwent I got up and found my bag, pulling out Angela’s file. ‘Don’t go mental.’

He was up on his knees, trying to see what I was holding. ‘What’s that?’

I laid the school photograph of her beside the other three. ‘Perfect match, I’d have said.’

‘Is that Angela’s file?’

‘Yes, but concentrate on this. This is important. He sees them – doesn’t matter where. He makes a connection. They were all about the same height – five two, five three – with a physical resemblance to Angela. The wig makes them identical. You’re right. This is all about her.’

‘Give me the file.’ Derwent’s eyes were fixed on it.

‘You’re not listening.’

‘Give it.’

I held it against me, my arms folded across it. ‘Not yet. What did you pick up? I heard you mumbling.’

Derwent glowered. ‘Enjoy this moment, Kerrigan, because you’re not going to be in charge for much longer. When things get back to normal, you’re going to get a reminder that you’re a very junior detective.’ He picked up the crime-scene pictures from Maxine’s flat and Anna’s bedroom. ‘Right. Look at these. Why is Anna Melville lying with her head at the end of the bed?’

‘Don’t know. So you can see her through the window?’

He made a buzzer sound. ‘Good answer but wrong. Why did the killer move Maxine’s bed?’

‘Did he?’

‘Definitely.’ Derwent pointed. ‘That’s the bedside table over there. That’s the line from the headboard on the wall. That mark in the carpet is from the castors on the bed. This isn’t where the bed was supposed to be.’

I checked Kirsty’s pictures. ‘This one wasn’t moved.’

‘No need. Do me a favour. Look up the crime-scene pictures from Angela’s file.’

I did as I was told. ‘And?’

‘He leaves them with their heads to the east. I bet Angela’s the same.’

He was right. I chewed my lip, thinking. ‘So he’s making them into Angela all over again. That suggests he killed her, too. Why the twenty-year gap?’

‘No idea. You’ll have to ask him.’ He looked pointedly at the file. ‘You know, it would be a good idea to compare the original crime-scene pictures with these.’

I slid them out of the file and hesitated, weighing them in one hand. ‘Are you okay to look at these?’

‘It was a long time ago, Kerrigan.’

‘Even so.’

He held out his hand. ‘Come on. I’ve seen them before, anyway.’

‘When was that?’

‘When Leonard Bastard Orpen was interviewing me.’ He fanned them out, his hands steady. ‘Right. What have we got?’

‘The flowers and greenery match our new victims.’ I looked across the images. ‘Candles, though. There weren’t any at the Poole crime scene.’

‘It would have been dark there, at that hour of night. The less light he has in the room, the more it resembles Angela’s death. A few candles give him enough light to see his victims. He can’t open the curtains or blinds in case someone sees him, and electric light isn’t going to make it seem real for him.’

‘Candlelight flickers,’ I said. ‘The light might make it seem like they’re moving. If he’s acting out a scene, I mean.’

We sat for a moment, imagining our killer and his conversations with the dead. Because dead women can’t answer back. Out of nowhere, I recalled Derwent telling a joke at a domestic murder scene, the victim lying on her kitchen floor in a pool of blood.

What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?

Nothing. You’ve already told her twice
.

‘And the eyes,’ Derwent said. ‘What about them?’

I told him Dr Chen’s theory about the retinal image.

‘Jack the fucking Ripper.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘He does it differently now. I don’t know if that’s relevant. Knife rather than by hand.’

‘More squeamish.’ He tapped the recent crime-scene pictures. ‘This is all more tentative, isn’t it? He doesn’t have the nerve to do them outside. Angela’s death was quick and dirty. He took a big risk, killing her beside the house.’

‘Why did he kill her in the first place? She wasn’t sexually assaulted, according to the file.’

‘Maybe he didn’t have time. Got interrupted.’ Derwent blew out a lungful of air. ‘I’m not imagining the connection, am I?’

‘I don’t think so. Are we looking for the same killer?’

‘Fuck knows. Maybe.’

‘A twenty-year gap and it’s not quite the same MO, is it? But he’s using the same signature as Angela’s killer. Reliving it.’

‘We could be looking for a twenty-something killer in 1992 who’s been in prison or abroad and now that he’s forty-something he doesn’t have the stomach for killing out of doors, or gouging out eyes with his hands. Or back then he
wanted
to use a knife on Angela and he didn’t have one. He’d have
preferred
to be indoors but had to go with being outside when the opportunity presented itself. Works both ways. Maybe he’s perfecting his technique, not imitating what happened in 1992.’ Derwent was pacing back and forth along a narrow strip of carpet that was all that remained uncovered by the drifts of paper.

‘I’ll go through the files again. See if anyone who was sent down for a long stretch in the year after Angela’s death has been released recently.’

‘Or if anyone’s just come off probation. That might be making him cocky, now that no one’s looking over his shoulder.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Speak to probation officers too. See if there’s anyone they’re worried about for these killings.’