Quieter Than Killing Page 3

  Washed away everything but the itch, lodged under his skin, to do it again.

  6

  ‘Detective Inspector Rome, this is Detective Sergeant Kennedy.’

  ‘Trident?’ Marnie shook the man’s hand. ‘Yes, we’ve met.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ Welland nodded at them to be seated. ‘I was forgetting how often gang tension resolves itself into homicide.’

  ‘Always happy to have DI Rome’s help.’ Kennedy took the chair next to Marnie, facing Welland across the desk. He was her age, dark hair and blue eyes, a swimmer’s build. Dressed neutrally in a grey suit over a white shirt, no tie. If he knew he looked good he gave no sign of knowing it, didn’t cross his legs or fuss with the hang of his jacket. One of Trident’s rising stars.

  Welland rested his gaze on Marnie’s face. ‘DS Kennedy is heading up an investigation into an aggravated burglary that took place in the early hours of this morning.’ A beat. ‘At your house on Lancaster Road.’ His left eye was shadowed by a red bruise. ‘Your tenants are in hospital.’ He nodded at Kennedy. ‘Trident think a local gang, kids.’

  ‘Were they badly hurt?’ She fought to numb her first reaction. Terror, at the thought of blood on those floors all over again. ‘The tenants. I’m sorry, I can’t remember their names, it’s handled through an agency . . .’

  ‘Alan and Louise Kettridge,’ Kennedy said. ‘They took a beating, but they’ll be okay.’

  ‘May I see the report?’

  Welland started to shake his head but Kennedy said, ‘I don’t have a problem, sir. I’d want to see the report, in DI Rome’s place.’

  How much had Welland told him? Did he know how Marnie had knelt on the pavement in Lancaster Road with Welland’s hand heavy on her neck while Forensics walked blood to the mobile unit with their poly bags and boxes? She took the incident report from his hand.

  ‘We made the house secure.’ Kennedy kept his distance, didn’t try to lean in while she read. ‘Hopefully the agency can sort out the rest. If you’re able to give me a name and number, I’ll make the calls. It’d be useful to know who else has access to the house during the tenancy.’

  ‘They broke in at the back.’ She kept her eyes on the report. She was thirsty, and knew it was shock. ‘Through the kitchen.’

  ‘Crowbarred the door. A neat job, considering the mess they made inside—’ Kennedy stopped.

  ‘What was taken?’

  ‘Very little, as far as we can tell at this stage.’

  She nodded, glad that he hadn’t apologised; she’d had her fill of sympathy six years ago. And whatever mess these kids had made, it couldn’t compare with the chaos left behind by Stephen. From the way he’d bitten his tongue, Kennedy knew that.

  ‘It’s early days,’ he said, ‘but we think it’s most likely an initiation rite. Very young kids hoping to get into an established gang by showing off their muscle. We’ve had a number of break-ins along those lines, but this one got out of hand. It’s possible the Kettridges pushed back.’ He paused, watching Marnie. ‘Have you met them? Are they the type to do that?’

  ‘I haven’t met them.’ She handed back the report. ‘Like I said, it’s all done through the agency.’

  She would meet them now. Visit the hospital, take flowers. Was that appropriate? What did you take to your tenants after a fresh act of barbarity carried out in your former home?

  ‘DS Kennedy will keep me informed of progress with the investigation,’ Welland said. ‘I’ll keep you in the loop but you’re busy, I know that.’

  He didn’t want her anywhere near this. Protecting her, the way he’d tried to six years ago. He’d told Noah, she realised. That early morning meeting then the awkwardness in the car; Noah knew about the break-in. Had Welland warned him to watch out for her?

  ‘Pep talk,’ Noah had said, ‘about our teamwork.’

  Now Welland was saying he knew how busy she was. Wanting her at arm’s length from what had happened in Lancaster Road. Her ears popped, as if the pressure in the room had changed.

  ‘I appreciate it.’ She kept her tone neutral. ‘I’m sure DS Kennedy runs a tight ship. I’ll text the number for the agency. If you need anything else from me at any stage, just ask.’

  She met Kennedy’s eyes finally, relieved to find no pity there.

  ‘Thanks. And if you have questions, do the same.’ He matched her tone, hitting it dead centre. Professional courtesy, mutual respect. A nod for Welland. ‘If that’s all, sir?’

  Welland waited until he was gone before saying, ‘He’s a good detective. He’ll steer this right.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Marnie watched him get to his feet and walk to the table by the window. He came back with two bottles of mineral water, handing one to her. ‘Thanks.’

  She broke the seal, drank. Held the bottle in her lap. ‘I’m okay.’

  He gave a slow nod, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

  ‘Bad memories,’ Marnie said. ‘For you as well as me. But it’s okay. I’m not about to go to pieces, or demand a role in the investigation. Believe me, I don’t want to be back inside that house.’

  She’d made a promise to herself six years ago that she would never again set foot in there; a rare act of self-compassion at a time when she was flaying herself with guilt and remorse.

  ‘I’m sorry for Alan and Louise.’ She followed the water bottle’s moulded shape with her thumb. ‘I always wondered how they got on in there—’

  How anyone was able to live in that house.

  Welland moved his hand. ‘There’s more.’ He paused. ‘I’m stepping out for a while. DCS Ferguson’s stepping in.’

  Her mouth dried again at the look on his face.

  ‘Lorna Ferguson. I doubt you’ve met her. She was in Manchester until recently.’

  The bruise under his eye spread its red shadow down his cheek.

  Marnie’s heart thumped. ‘You’re not . . .’

  He gave a slow nod. ‘The cancer’s back. I need an op and chemo, you know the drill.’ He didn’t smile, wouldn’t make a joke of it coming after the news about Lancaster Road. ‘DCS Ferguson’s a tough cookie, to put it in the vernacular. She’ll keep DC Tanner and DS Carling in check. You think Kennedy runs a tight ship? She favours a frigate, type twenty-three.’

  Marnie wanted to reach across the desk and hold his hands. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Nothing a good surgeon can’t sort out. Providing they keep the kale and chia seed smoothies away, I’ll be fine.’

  She returned his smile, but felt a cold rush of dismay. ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Four months. Long enough for DCS Ferguson to convert you to her tactics. Up north they call her H.M.S. Dauntless.’

  ‘Dauntless is a destroyer, not a frigate.’

  Welland pointed a finger at her. ‘I’m going to miss you. And you’re going to be all right. Leave Kennedy to do his thing. He’s got a big brain so don’t let the boyish good looks fool you.’

  ‘Not a mistake I’m likely to make.’

  She wished he’d stand up from behind his desk; she needed to hold him. How many times had she reached for this man six years ago? Her rock, her rescuer. So tightly tied to her recovery, the distance she’d managed to put between herself and that period of self-flagellation, self-destruction. She struggled to set her pain aside; this wasn’t about her. Other people, better people, were going through worse. ‘You’ll stay in touch? Or I can, via Sean.’ His son.

  ‘I’m counting on you to smuggle me a decent single malt.’ He got to his feet. ‘And you can stick a pin in any “Get Well” balloons they send me. Damn, I hate hospitals . . .’

  He opened his arms. ‘Are we doing this?’

  He’d held her after the verdict, as Stephen was being led away to start his sentence. Eight weeks later, he’d told her about the cancer. It’d been coming on for a while but the diagnosis was new. She couldn’t remember hugging him after he beat it that first time but she must’ve done, we
ak with relief, with not having lost him too.

  ‘You’ll catch your vigilante.’ Gruffly, across the top of her head.

  She kept her face pressed to his shoulder. He smelt of bacon, and aspirin. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in my vigilante.’

  ‘I’ve been known to get it wrong.’ He set her at arm’s length, raising an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell DCS Ferguson I said that.’

  Marnie fought to keep the fear from her face, skin tightening in resistance to the idea of Ferguson – or anyone – taking this man’s place. ‘It doesn’t sound as if she’ll believe our theory any more than you do.’

  ‘Catch her half a dozen vigilantes and do the paperwork in record time. She’ll be happy.’

  ‘I’ll settle for one arrest. And an end to these assaults.’ Marnie knotted her hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Kyle Stratton died. Whether or not he’s a vigilante, we’re looking for a killer now.’

  7

  From the outside, Kyle’s house matched all the others in the street. Grotesquely gabled, faux leaded windows winking, mock Tudor with a heavy emphasis on the mock. A suburban CEO’s wet dream of a home, right down to the rake tracks in the frozen gravel drive.

  ‘Shit,’ Ron said. ‘How’d he afford this? Twenty-six, I was living in a cruddy bedsit in Peckham with other people’s toenail clippings for company.’

  ‘The house belongs to his parents.’ Noah checked his phone before pocketing it. ‘They know what’s happened. His dad was at St Thomas’s earlier.’

  Brenda Stratton answered the door. Briskly, unsmiling. In an orange cashmere tunic and black leggings, strappy sandals on bare, bony feet. ‘You’re the police. Gerry!’ Calling up the stairs. ‘The police are here. Come on, come through.’

  She marched them to a sitting room shiny with furniture polish, the light crazing off glass cabinets and framed photographs, central heating at full blast to combat the cold outside. She knocked the cushions into shape before offering Noah and Ron a seat on the sofa. ‘Gerry!’

  ‘I’m here.’ A short, round man in a red roll-neck and grey slacks, the same savage suntan as his wife, incongruous given the weather.

  All four of them sat before Brenda jumped back up. ‘You’ll want coffee. I’ve made coffee.’ She headed towards the back of the house.

  Gerry shook his head, but didn’t try and stop her. ‘We’re knocked for six by this.’

  Noah nodded. ‘We want to find the person who attacked Kyle as quickly as possible. We have a few questions, and we’d like to see his room.’

  ‘I knew you’d ask that.’ Gerry’s face was tanned so deeply its creases were black. ‘They want to see his room, Bren!’

  His wife returned with a tray of cups, her sandals slapping at her heels. Brittle bronzed hair, brown eyes under plucked brows. Expensive body lotion, lilies and jasmine. She seated herself next to her husband, twisting a gold cuff at her wrist. Above their heads, photographs showcased the Strattons holidaying in world-cruise-brochure locations. Gerry was a foot and a half shorter than his wife, her bare arm resting across his shoulders with a hint of bingo-wing, but only a hint. She kept herself bikini-ready. Gerry was balding but his face was boyish, blue eyes fringed by blond lashes.

  ‘He should’ve been on a train coming home,’ Brenda said. ‘Have you spoken to his work?’

  ‘We’ll be doing that next,’ Ron told her. ‘We wanted to see you first. When was the last time you heard from Kyle?’

  ‘Saturday lunch,’ Gerry said without hesitation. ‘He honoured us with his presence. Of course it was breakfast, for him. He’d only just got out of bed.’

  ‘He keeps late hours.’ Brenda blinked but no tears came; it was too soon. ‘Kept late hours.’

  ‘He was running late,’ Noah said, ‘last night. He didn’t call to let you know he’d be late?’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Gerry laughed. ‘We’d have been in bed in any case.’

  ‘He often stayed out late? Didn’t keep in touch?’

  ‘That was Kyle.’ Gerry’s tone was nine parts resignation, one part pride. Or possibly envy.

  ‘As far as you know—’ Ron started.

  ‘No enemies,’ Gerry interrupted. ‘No. Absolutely not. No funny business there. He knew better than that.’ He drank a mouthful of coffee. ‘Credit where it’s due. He did know better than that.’

  At his side, Kyle’s mother beat time with her sandal against her heel. Her toenails were painted the same electric orange as her tunic.

  ‘Do you know the names of the workmates he was drinking with?’ Ron asked. ‘It’d save us a bit of time down the line.’

  ‘Oh he was mates with the lot of them. Made friends like that,’ Gerry snapped his fingers, ‘easy-going.’ He polished his bald patch with the palm of his hand. ‘Very easy-going was Kyle.’

  Noah had been in a lot of rooms like this one, breaking terrible news to bereaved parents. Always the atmosphere was empty, as if the loss had taken a chunk from the house and the people in it. Often they held onto their grief until he’d gone. One woman had smiled and nodded and thanked him until the door clicked shut and she howled on the other side, her grief unwinding, filling the house. Here, it was different. The Strattons were different. It didn’t feel as if anything was missing. More as if something had been added – a wall of resistance around Brenda and Gerry, their sun-beaten faces blank beneath the holiday snaps.

  ‘If we could see his room . . .’

  Gerry nodded at his wife with a hint of triumph. ‘I told you they’d want to do that.’

  ‘I’ll do the washing-up.’ She scooped the coffee tray from the table, power-walking away. ‘And put the bins out.’

  Kyle’s room was at the back, overlooking a garden as trimly spacious as the house. Half an acre of lawn tortured into icy stripes, frozen shrubs like sentries on all sides. Central heating was cooking the bedroom. Double bed with a blue duvet pulled neat to its pillows, double-fronted wardrobe with mirrored doors, desk and chair, iPod dock, expensive speakers. Two suitcases at the side of the wardrobe with luggage tags on their handles. A trouser press hung with a pink silk tie. Everything clean and tidy. Stripes hoovered into the carpet to match the lawn outside.

  ‘How long’s he lived here?’ Ron asked.

  ‘Never moved out.’ Gerry rubbed his thumb at a smear on the mirrored wardrobe. ‘Property prices in London, can you blame him? We’ve got the space, as you can see.’

  ‘You didn’t see a lot of him, though.’ Ron sent a look of sympathy across his shoulder. ‘Treated it like a hotel, did he?’

  Gerry gave a stiff nod. ‘Put a bit of money our way for food and fuel. That was the trade.’

  A business arrangement? It didn’t sound like a family.

  ‘He liked to go drinking with his mates.’ Ron opened drawers in the desk. ‘That was a regular thing? Making friends, going out, coming back late?’

  Gerry nodded again and folded his arms, staying beside the wardrobe. He was sucking in his gut, either from force of habit or because he was on edge. Detectives in his dead son’s room; that would put anyone on edge.

  ‘Had he ever run into trouble before?’ Noah asked. ‘Drinking late in London, travelling back on the last train. That can be . . . lively.’

  ‘Never any trouble. Not like this. No.’

  Nothing in the room suggested that Kyle had known his attacker. No drugs stashed in the desk or wardrobe, both suitcases empty. His passport was in the desk, together with a recent bank statement. No unusual transactions. He’d earned a good salary, and known how to spend it.

  ‘When was the last time he left the country?’ Noah asked.

  ‘Oh he was always flying off here and there. Stockholm before Christmas, with friends. He got the travel bug from us, but hated hot countries. We like the sun. He liked the clubs.’

  ‘Did he have a partner?’

  ‘Nothing steady. Work and play, that was Kyle. Work and play.’

  Noah returned the passport to the drawer, sliding it shut. ‘He was in
a juvenile detention centre when he was fifteen. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Gerry clenched his jaw. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘We’re looking at all the angles,’ Ron said appeasingly. ‘We have to.’

  Kyle’s dad ignored him, focusing on Noah. ‘He did three months for being a bloody idiot, falling in with the wrong crowd, with a thug. Jack Goodrich.’ He spoke the name with a ripe contempt. ‘Kyle thought the sun shone out of him. He was fifteen. A bloody idiot, but it was nearly twelve years ago. Ancient history. I can see why you’d bring it up.’ Slight emphasis on you. Because Noah was black? ‘I can see that. Makes me ashamed to this day. Kyle was ashamed too once he’d woken up to what a fool he’d been.’ Pride in his voice, and a certain grim satisfaction that he’d helped his son towards his epiphany. ‘Never fell for any of that tomfoolery again, never followed anyone else’s lead. He was doing the leading. Not wild. Just working hard, and having fun. Good and clean, nothing you’d need to look into. Nothing like that.’ He walked into the centre of the room, eyeing the bed. ‘He’d moved on. Nearly twelve years. I told him at the time, “This’ll dog you. It’ll dog you.” And I was right.’ His voice sharpened. ‘I saw him at the hospital. Thank God his mother didn’t. His eye must’ve been hanging out of his head—!’ He tapped with his thumb at his right cheek. ‘Nothing here, smashed to bits he was.’ He blinked. ‘That’s the lunatic you need to be looking for, the one who did that. Not digging up old dirt, raking it up. He did his time when he was fifteen, learnt his lesson the hard way. Never forgot it. You want to be finding this maniac.’

  ‘We will,’ Ron said. ‘We’ll find him.’

  Gerry nodded, stepping back a pace, out of breath. He looked around the room again. ‘I knew you’d want to see in here. And I knew you’d bring up that nonsense from years ago. First thing I said to his mum when I got home from the hospital.’ He glared at the bed. ‘Oh, I knew.’

  ‘Thanks for letting us look round,’ Ron said. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’