‘William, I don’t think you’ll be able to see her.’
‘It’s not fair. She’ll want to talk to me, not you.’ He sounded petulant and I caught that flash of arrogance I’d seen from him before: the kind of arrogance that had run rings around a good police officer when he’d been the main suspect in an investigation. I’d started to think of Turner as an ally when he was nothing of the kind, I reminded myself.
‘You’re way down the list, even if Bethany’s parents are all right with you speaking to her.’
‘You know they wouldn’t want me to talk to her.’
‘Yes, I do.’ I kept my voice level and calm. ‘I think you should go home.’
‘You can’t make me.’
‘It would be very tedious to try,’ I said. ‘But a lot of things I do for work are tedious, and I still do them.’
He swung away from us, muttering something under his breath. Derwent took a step after him. I grabbed his arm and shook my head.
‘Not worth it.’
‘Little shit.’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ I watched Turner limp off across the car park. ‘I wish we could use him, though. Bethany is far more likely to talk to him than to us.’
‘You can win her round.’
‘No. I think I’ve burned my boats with the Norrises. I doubt any of them are going to trust me from now on.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t trust them.’
‘No, I do not.’
‘Well then, let’s get on with ruining their day,’ Derwent said.
Ruining their day meant extending mine long beyond the point where I was ready to go home. I took a small team, including Pete Belcott, Liv and Georgia, and turned the house upside down. We found nothing useful, again, while Morgan Norris stood in the garden and smoked, watching us with thinly veiled hostility. I stayed away from him, sending Belcott out to talk to him whenever we needed to ask a question. It annoyed both of them, which was a win for me however you looked at it, since neither was a paid-up member of my fan club.
Searching the house was enough of a distraction that I didn’t have to think about the way my knee throbbed, the way my shoulder ached – nagging reminders of what had happened earlier in the day. It could have worked out differently. I could have been in hospital myself, instead of at work, and that would still have counted as good luck.
‘Are you all right?’ Liv asked me quietly as I helped her lift the mattress on Bethany’s bed to check there was nothing underneath.
‘Fine. Why?’
‘I heard what happened. Burt wanted to send you home.’
‘There was no need.’ I let the mattress fall back into place.
‘You were brave.’
‘It’s only brave if you’re scared.’ I flashed a grin at her. ‘Otherwise it’s blind stupidity.’
‘But you must have been scared.’
I thought about it. ‘There wasn’t time to be scared. I just needed to stop her.’
‘Still.’
‘Nothing bad happened.’
‘It could have.’
‘But it didn’t.’
‘I wouldn’t have done it.’
‘Yes, you would.’
But she shook her head and I thought she meant it. I didn’t really want to think about it at all, let alone to consider whether or not I’d been reckless. I concentrated on the search, bringing new meaning to the word thorough as I combed through every room, every drawer, methodically hunting even if I didn’t know what I was looking for.
By the time I got back to the flat I was clumsy with tiredness. It was quiet in the flat. Too quiet; the low hum of remembered fear that had been the background to my day buzzed in my ears. I put on some music to drown it out. I didn’t really want to eat anything but I boiled water for pasta, conscious that I’d missed dinner. I’d been running on empty for too long. I was better than that. The new me had regular meals, wore ironed clothes, lived in a clean, orderly flat that contained more or less edible food. The new me could look after herself. Self-care, my counsellor had told me, was part of being a competent adult. Taking responsibility for my own life. Making good, healthy decisions. Valuing myself.
I burnt my tongue on the pasta when it was done, because the way I did self-care was a lot like self-harm.
28
The text message telling me to meet Derwent at a café on the high street in Putney was typically brief and didn’t give much away. I braced myself, expecting the worst as I pushed open the door and scanned the room for him. He was right at the back, reading the paper, immaculate in a dark suit. A plate smeared with egg and ketchup told its own tale: I had missed breakfast, for better or worse. He glanced up and nodded to me, unsmiling. I ordered tea in a takeaway cup and a bacon sandwich and threaded through the buggies and pensioners to sink into the chair on the other side of the table.
‘You look better than I expected.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’
‘What did you get up to last night?’
‘Not much.’
‘I thought you’d have a hangover the size of a house.’
‘I didn’t even have a drink.’
‘So what did you do to celebrate still being alive?’
‘I finished work late. By the time I got home I only wanted to go to bed.’
Derwent frowned. The bruise on his cheek was fading to green, the edges blurring as it healed. His eyes were unblinking, surveying me at the same time as I stared at him. The waiter brought my breakfast and I took the interruption as a chance to change the subject.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘This.’ He lifted the newspaper to reveal a cardboard folder that he slid across the table. I flicked it open.
‘The blood-spatter report.’
‘The preliminary one.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I was in the office this morning.’
‘What time did you get up?’ I asked around a mouthful of food.
‘Six.’
‘Seriously?’ I stared at him, awed.
‘Yes, seriously.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
I thought about asking why but the expression on his face was a warning: Stay out of it, Kerrigan.
He tapped the folder. ‘Have a read of that.’
‘What about Chloe Emery?’
‘Still waiting for lab results and phone records. In the meantime, you need to look at this.’
I ate my breakfast while I read about angles of spatter impact and points of convergence and inconsistencies and felt an ache start to tighten around my head. There was a lot of information in the report, a lot to absorb and interpret. And this was the preliminary version. I was glad it would never be my job to explain it to a jury. Eventually I looked up, frowning. Inconsistencies.
Derwent nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘You wanted another look at the house.’
‘No time like the present.’ He was already standing. I picked up the end of my sandwich and my tea. He glanced at them. ‘Good thing you got a takeaway cup.’