Let the Dead Speak (Maeve Kerrigan #7)

‘Great.’ Georgia said it under her breath as she turned away. I went back to my paperwork, but not before I caught Liv Bowen’s eye and shared a meaningful look with her. Liv got it. Georgia didn’t, yet. But I wasn’t ready to write her off. I had to be fair.

I was trying to make sense of a bank statement when she came back.

‘OK. I’ve got hold of this lady: Raina Khan. She’s still at the same address and she says you can come round this afternoon at three.’

‘Oh, well done. Do you want to come with me?’

She brightened. ‘Yes. Definitely.’

‘Any luck with the others?’

‘Not so far, but I’ll keep trying.’ She headed off with a spring in her step.

‘You’re so good at motivating people, Kerrigan.’ Derwent, leaning over my desk, murmuring so Georgia couldn’t hear. His breath tickled my neck and I twisted away.

‘I learned it all from you, obviously.’

‘Obviously. Does she remind you of yourself when you were a lowly detective constable?’

‘Nope.’

‘You were so sweet before you became all cynical and embittered.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘That happened about five minutes after I started working with you.’

‘Sexual frustration will do that.’

‘Frustration, certainly.’ I swivelled on my chair so I was facing away from him. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘Found anything?’

‘Besides the psych info? I found this.’ I flattened it out and showed him.

‘A life insurance policy. For Kate?’

‘Yep.’

‘Who’s the beneficiary?’

‘Chloe.’

‘How much?’

‘Half a million quid.’

Derwent whistled. ‘Is it valid?’

‘All she has to do is claim it once the death certificate comes through.’

‘It would help if we had a body, wouldn’t it?’

‘Without a body, we have less chance of proving Chloe was involved in her mother’s murder,’ I pointed out. ‘It might be worth the wait for the death certificate in those circumstances.’

Derwent frowned. ‘If this was the reason Kate was killed, Chloe would have had to know about it and plan her mother’s murder. That’s a lot to ask of any eighteen-year-old, let alone one who isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.’

‘Well, she could have known about it fairly easily, because it was in this envelope.’ I showed Derwent. It had CHLOE written across it in the clear, distinctive handwriting I recognised as Kate’s. I flipped it over and read the sentence scrawled across the back: In case I get run over by a bus!

‘It wasn’t sealed. She could have read it. Everything Chloe might have needed was in here – her birth certificate, her passport. Kate planned for a time when she wasn’t around, so Chloe didn’t have to go looking for anything. And Chloe asked me about it on Sunday night, and on Monday when I spoke to her. She knows it’s important.’

‘Life insurance and plans for what might happen in the event of her sudden death.’ Derwent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Either Kate was highly organised or she knew her life was in danger.’

‘This is jokey,’ I said, tapping my finger on the envelope. ‘This doesn’t suggest to me that she knew what was coming. The house was very organised too. Nothing out of place. Some people are just like that. You’re like that.’

‘I like to know where to find things. I don’t have an envelope for anyone to open in the event of my sudden death.’

I shivered, suddenly spooked. ‘Don’t talk about it.’

He grinned. ‘Feeling nervous? Someone walking over your grave?’

‘Stop,’ I said quietly, and for once, he did. I slipped the envelope into an evidence bag and started filling in the details. ‘Of course, it wouldn’t have to be Chloe’s idea to kill her mother and claim the life insurance policy. If she’d told someone about it, they might have come up with the plan. All she had to do was play along.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Her dad? Her stepmother?’

‘It’s possible. Maybe they recruited Chloe rather than the other way round. Or maybe Chloe isn’t so dim after all.’

‘Do you think we should bring her in?’

Derwent thought about it. ‘Not yet. Save that for when we know a bit more. At the moment she has no idea we’re interested in her and I think we should try to keep it that way for as long as possible.’

‘What if she runs?’

‘She won’t.’ He sounded certain. ‘She has too much to lose if she goes.’

It was raining again when we arrived at Raina Khan’s address, a narrow townhouse in a back street of Pimlico, near the river. The building was shared between different businesses: an interior design company in the basement and on the ground floor, a solicitor’s office on the first and second floor, and Raina Khan’s consulting rooms at the top of the building.

‘It would be the top,’ Georgia complained as the psychologist buzzed us in.

‘It’s always the top.’

I was amused to see how the different businesses had laid claim to their share of the communal spaces: flowers and a scented candle on the ground floor, files stacked in boxes on the first and second floor where they didn’t have time for fripperies. And on the third floor there was a child-sized chair with a fat, sagging teddy propped up in it. It set the tone nicely.

I knocked and the door opened immediately. ‘You’re the police officers. Come in, come in. Take a seat. Let me pour you some tea. It’s an infusion, not tea. Herbal, very good, very relaxing.’

I blinked against the light and the onslaught of hospitality; somehow I hadn’t been expecting either. The room ran the length of the building, with windows on either side and a view of rooftops stretching into the distance. Seagulls whirled around outside the windows like scraps of paper caught in the wind. The room was crammed with art and books, with batik wall-hangings and carved wooden furniture, and the overall atmosphere was as welcoming as the woman who worked there.

Raina Khan was tiny, her long hair streaked with grey, her eyes very bright. She wore a dark red dress and flat ballet shoes, and she didn’t stop moving or talking for as much as a second while we settled into low, squashy armchairs.

‘If you’re hungry you must have a biscuit. I made them with my last client – he’s a regular, very sweet, loves making things. He does better when he’s doing something with his hands, you know? He needs that tactile element in everything. Kneading dough is wonderful. Pressing out biscuit shapes – terrific. It’s all about feeling what he’s doing, taking time, learning to control his movements. It’s very soothing, baking. You can’t rush it. I have a minuscule kitchen but I can make a surprising amount in it. People tell me they’re very good, these biscuits. Go on, have one.’

She put a tray on the coffee table: small cups of steaming, aromatic liquid and a pile of dry-looking biscuits. I took a cup and sipped it, tasting mint and something else, something bitter but somehow wholesome.

‘Good?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and it was the first thing I’d managed to say since we arrived. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Dr Khan.’

‘You can call me Raina.’ She sat down, shaking her wrist to settle her collection of silver bracelets into place. ‘Which one of you is Georgia?’

‘Me.’ Georgia waved. She had taken a bite of biscuit and seemed to be struggling slightly.

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