24
“No. It can’t be.”
The conviction was absolute. Not just in a voice clipped with authority but in the woman’s face. The regular features and blue eyes were unremarkable except for being fixed in total and utter disbelief. Until now, Bev had only encountered Louise Kent in court. The woman was a partner in a big city law firm. She didn’t suffer fools gladly; didn’t suffer them at all.
“You’ve got it all wrong.”
Louise sounded so convinced that for a moment Bev’s certainty wavered. Then she remembered the school books, the passport pictures sellotaped onto a Friends pencil tin.
Louella and classmate: grinning and pouting, monkeying around. What kid hadn’t giggled through a session in a Woolie’s photo-booth?
Bev swallowed hard. She hated the job, hated herself, hated the whole goddamn f*cking mess. “There is no mistake. I’m so sorry.”
Louise ran a hand through her hair. “It’s Tuesday. She’s with Gary on Tuesdays.”
Bev shook her head. Louella wasn’t with Gary; she was en route to the city morgue. God alone knew where Gary was. Why the hell else was she doing this? Telling Gary would have been bad enough, but at least he could have broken the appalling news to his wife. That was going by the book. Trouble was the Kents didn’t have the book, and Bev was making it up as she went along. As soon as she realised Gary wasn’t at home, Bev had tried backing out, but Louise Kent wasn’t a woman who could be fobbed off. The solicitor knew damn well that a post-midnight police call wasn’t a social visit. Bev kept telling herself she’d had no choice. In an ideal world it shouldn’t be happening like this.
“He hasn’t told you, has he?” Louise was fiddling with a bowl of potpourri on the hall table. She wouldn’t look at Bev, didn’t wait for a reply. “No. He wouldn’t want anyone at work to know.”
Bev had no idea what the woman was talking about. “Know?”
“You’d better come through.”
Bev didn’t want to go through; didn’t want to discuss Gary Kent’s messy domestic arrangements. She’d just told the woman her daughter was dead. Either Louise Kent was in denial or the solicitor in her genuinely believed it was a police cock-up. Bev followed her into a room at the end of the hall. Louise had obviously been working. There was a dictaphone on a desk and a couple of pens were marking a place in a brief. A black tailored jacket was slung over the back of a swivel chair; soft leather pumps lay on the deep carpet.
Bev tugged at her dress. She felt like something the cat wouldn’t deign to drag anywhere. Damp velvet still clung to her thighs and her hair was plastered like a cap to her skull. She cursed herself. Why hadn’t she brought a WPC? Why hadn’t she listened to the guv? Byford would’ve handled this nightmare a damn sight better. But, oh no. She was Gary’s mate, she’d argued, and shit job though it was, she’d do the decent thing. Some mate Gary was turning out to be.
“Gary’s not here,” Louise said. “I threw him out. Two weeks ago.”
What was she meant to say? And what the f*ck was Gary playing at? How long did he think he could keep something like this quiet? “Mrs Kent. We… I…”
“He has Lou one night a week and every other weekend.” She paused, honing the sarcasm. “Work permitting. Naturally.”
No, he doesn’t. Not now. Not ever again. “Mrs Kent…”
Louise Kent was perched on the edge of the desk, arms folded. There was a poster on the wall behind her, a tourist board promo: suntanned couple, toothy smiles, blue sea, bluer sky. But it wasn’t a poster. Bev looked again. It was a holiday snap blown-up. Louise and Louella posing on a cliff top, each with an arm round the other’s waist. They could almost have been sisters; the same dark hair, the same heart-shaped face. They looked so happy, it was impossible not to smile back. Bev realised Louise was watching. The woman had slipped her shoes back on and was swinging a leg. The body language was telling Bev to get a move on.
Bev wanted to run. She wanted a drink so stiff she could carve it; more than anything she wanted to wake up and find it was a bad dream. She cleared her throat. “Mrs Kent. We found Louella’s…” She was searching for words; didn’t have the phrase book.
“What? What did you find?” The woman’s hand went for the crucifix round her neck.
Bev could smell her own sweat. “Your daughter’s school hat. Some of her books.” She could see them now. They’d been dumped in the same bin, their pristine covers spattered with fag ash and lager dregs.
“It must be a prank. No!” The woman was desperately searching for the acceptable. “Bullies. It’ll be the bullies. The girls are soft targets for the thugs from Thread Street. They get jeered at in the street. They’re always having dinner money stolen. And their mobiles. One girl had her face slapped. Lou’s always saying how the Holy Child girls have to go round in groups. I’ve told her a million times not to cut through that park. Some lout will have snatched her bag and she’s been too afraid to say anything. I wondered why she hadn’t phoned. Then again, I was back late. That’s what it’ll be, won’t it?”
She was babbling, trying to convince herself; pleading for reassurance.
Bev took a few steps closer. “Mrs Kent. Is there anyone I can call?”
“Of course!” She snatched up the phone at her side. “Gary’ll sort it. You’ll see. What time is it? Gone twelve. She’ll be in bed.”
Bev waited as Louise hit buttons then tried to take the receiver from her.
“No.” The courtroom voice was calm. “I’ll do it.”
Bev watched as the colour drained from the woman’s face. The knuckles of the hand clutching the phone were white, the fingers of her other, still twisted the gold cross. Louise tried several times to replace the receiver but her eyes were unfocused, swimming with unshed tears. Bev took it gently from her, laid it in the rest.
“Is he coming?”
Louise nodded dully. “Half an hour.”
“Can I get you anything? Tea? Brandy?”
Bev needed a shot of something. She was thinking the un-thinkable. Every cop knew random killings were rare. Murderers almost always know their victim and the nearer the relationship the closer the odds. Gary was Louella’s father. He was also an insider. He knew details about Michelle Lucas’s murder that hadn’t been revealed to anyone outside the team. Position of the body; location of the wound; likely weapon. Details that appeared to have been duplicated in the latest killing. She told herself not to be stupid. Gary was a decent bloke. For God’s sake, his kid was lying on a slab. Either way, when a cop was in-volved in any crime, in any capacity, it was bad news. Bev was beginning to feel out of her depth. She brought her mind back to basics. “Want to show me where everything is?” Louise looked blank. Bev prompted. “The kitchen?”
The room was a clash of pine and primary colours. An un-finished game of Cluedo was still spread out on the table. A Mickey Mouse bookmark peeped from the pages of Wuthering Heights. It was more of a family room, she thought, then realised how inapt the description was. Gary was shacked up across town. Louella was dead.
“Why don’t you sit down? I’m sure I’ll be able to find things.” Bev busied herself while Louise sat slumped, staring into space. The woman was falling apart. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to put a call through to my boss. Just to let him know what’s going on.”
It was possible she hadn’t heard; she certainly gave no indication. Bev stood just outside the door, half an eye trained on Louise. The woman noticed nothing – not even Bev’s return.
“That’s fine. He’ll be along shortly.” He was still at the scene, but it was only ten minutes in a car.
“I want to see her.” Louise shot up and was making for the hall. “I want to go to her. Now.”
Bev laid a hand on her arm, spoke softly. “It’s not possible. Not yet.”
Louise stiffened, jerked away. Bev read the signs, braced herself. The woman was on a knife-edge, panic rising, her glance darting about in a frantic search for escape routes, a bolt-hole. Hands clenched into hard, tight fists, she struck out at the nearest target. If the blow had been more than glancing, it could have dislocated Bev’s jaw, but she dived to one side and grabbed the woman’s wrists. The tears in Bev’s eyes were not for her own pain, but they acted as a catalyst. Louise covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Bev laid her arm around the woman’s shoulder and steered her back to her chair. She pulled up a seat for herself and just stayed close. Words weren’t going to help at this stage. Questions – a mountain of questions – would come soon enough.