Let the Dead Speak (Maeve Kerrigan #7)

‘How’s it going?’

‘It’s interesting,’ she said, muting the sound. On the screen, Norris was sitting with his legs crossed, his arms folded, his entire demeanour screaming that he was offended. Derwent was leaning across the table, talking. The tilt of his head told me he was making trouble. ‘I don’t think they’re going to be sending each other Christmas cards.’

I grinned. ‘There’s a shock. What about Morgan?’

‘He’s in Interview 2.’ Burt frowned. ‘Tricky customer, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know yet. He seemed pleasant enough whenever I spoke to him.’

‘He’s been asking if you’re going to interview him.’

I had been flicking through my notes but now I stopped. ‘And?’

‘I think you should.’

I relaxed a little. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘I don’t know why he’s particularly interested in speaking to you, but I know you and he doesn’t. You’re a good interviewer. If he underestimates you, so much the better.’

‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

Burt looked sideways at me. ‘You weren’t expecting me to say that.’

‘No.’

‘You’re doing a good job.’ She said it stiffly, as if it didn’t come naturally to her to praise anyone, but she said it. Even if it was only what she’d learned on her most recent management course, I’d take it.

I walked into Interview Room 2 behind Chris Pettifer, whose height and general bulk made the room feel smaller. Morgan was staring up at him with undisguised disappointment when I stepped into view.

His face lit up. ‘There you are. I’ve been wondering when someone sensible was going to turn up.’

I ignored that. ‘Did you want a solicitor to be present?’

‘I don’t need one.’

‘I’m going to ask you again when I start the interview, OK?’

‘For the benefit of the tape.’ He had been leaning back on his chair so the front legs were off the ground. He let it slam back down with a thud and winced. ‘Sorry. That was a bit loud, wasn’t it? A bit over-dramatic.’

I put some evidence bags on the floor beside my chair then sat down. Beside me, Pettifer put a folder on the table and flipped open a notebook.

‘Taking notes too? Very thorough.’ Morgan sat up, trying to read upside down. Pettifer tilted the notebook so he couldn’t quite see the page. ‘You’re going to have to forgive me for being curious about all of this. It’s my first run-in with a murder investigation.’ His eyes were bright, his expression artless.

‘Most people we meet aren’t all that familiar with murder investigations,’ I said.

‘I can’t really see why I’ve been dragged into this one.’ He pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. ‘The solicitor thing was to wind up Ollie. He’s not going to be enjoying this one bit.’

‘And you are?’ Pettifer growled.

‘Aspects of it.’ Morgan’s eyes stayed on me as he said it. It wasn’t the first time an interviewee had tried to flirt with me and I was more than capable of ignoring it. I checked the tape recorder was properly set up and started it. The CCTV in the room would have been recording from the moment Morgan walked in; if he claimed we’d intimidated him or tortured him there would be evidence to show that we hadn’t done anything of the kind. But the tape was our evidence. The tape transcripts were used in court, if a case got that far. I’d never yet had to feel embarrassed when reading out something I’d said in an interview and this was going to be no different, I told myself.

I read out the usual preamble, stating who we were and where we were, the time, the details that anchored our conversation in the investigation. Morgan listened politely.

‘Do you know why we wanted to speak with you?’

‘I don’t have the foggiest idea.’ His voice was totally sincere. There was no hint of tension in his body, in the carriage of his head, in his bright blue eyes. He looked about as stressed as if we were embarking on a meditation exercise.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Kate Emery. Do you know who that is?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What was your relationship to Mrs Emery?’

He shifted in his chair. ‘Um – temporary neighbour. I’ve been living nearby for the past couple of months.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever speak to her?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ He frowned, looking down, taking his time about it. ‘I’d remember, wouldn’t I? I was vaguely aware of her because her daughter spends half her life in my brother’s house. She’s friends with my niece, Bethany. So I knew who she was and what she looked like. Not that I’d have recognised her from the photograph of her you released to the media. Couldn’t you have done a bit better?’

The answer was no, we couldn’t. I had scoured the house for more recent, clearer pictures, and came up empty-handed. Single mothers didn’t really have anyone to take pictures of them. Colin Vale had diligently tracked her across various shop CCTV systems and got some smudgy images of a thinnish, smallish woman in a tracksuit, her hair hidden by a beanie cap, running errands.

‘It could be her. It could be your nan,’ Derwent had said, unimpressed, and Colin had taken offence, but Derwent hadn’t been wrong.

‘What made her different in real life?’ I asked now. ‘Why wouldn’t you have recognised her from the image we have.’

‘Um … what’s the etiquette on talking about how attractive murder victims were?’

I waited.

He sighed. ‘OK. She was attractive and she knew it. Very nice figure. Nice smile. Bit of a glad eye. You can always tell when women look at you when you’re walking towards them. The ones who aren’t interested don’t look, or half-look, or look away straight away. The shy ones look down. The ones who are keen make eye contact, and keep looking.’

Or they need a new glasses prescription and they’re wondering if they should recognise you, I thought. Or they’re wondering if you’re going to grab them, pull them into an alleyway and rape them. But OK, imagine it’s because they want to shag you.

Oblivious to what I was thinking, Morgan Norris smiled. ‘Whenever I walked past her, Kate kept looking.’

‘And you never spoke to her.’

‘I’m not looking for a relationship at the moment. Nursing a broken heart.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t really feel as if I have a lot to offer anyone. No job prospects and no income, living in my dear brother’s house, one step away from being on the streets – not a catch, am I?’

‘Were you ever in her house?’ I asked, ignoring the invitation to make him feel better. Find someone else to dry your tears.

‘What, burgling it?’ He laughed. ‘I didn’t know her, so no. I was never in her house.’

‘You knew Chloe, her daughter,’ Pettifer said.

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