Quieter Than Killing Read online

  ‘Thanks. Good luck.’ Kennedy rang off.

  The traffic kept her busy, saved her from landing too hard on the idea that he wanted her inside the house. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t do that – break the promise she’d made to herself never to go back there. Without even Welland to understand, or to stop her. She couldn’t.

  ‘That was DS Kennedy,’ she glanced at Noah. ‘With Trident. Do you know him?’

  ‘No.’ He moved his right hand, but didn’t touch her. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You heard about the break-in at my place.’ She wanted to make this easy for Noah, or as easy as it could be. ‘That’s what Kennedy’s investigating.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ He took a breath. ‘I should’ve said, when you asked about my chat with Welland—’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ She found a bright smile from somewhere. ‘I’d prefer to keep this on a professional footing. Luckily DS Kennedy’s picked up on that vibe . . . Let’s talk with Kyle’s mates from the office, find out why he was in Page Street last night.’

  ‘He should’ve been on a train home according to his mum. But he kept irregular hours. They weren’t surprised when he didn’t come back.’

  Noah’s phone played the theme tune from The Sweeney.

  ‘DS Jake. Yes, we are . . . No, that’s okay, go ahead.’ He switched to conference call, thumbing at the volume control.

  Ron was saying, ‘. . . porn mags, like we thought. And torn-up letters. A lot of torn-up letters. And did I mention the smartphones? Take a punt at how many his mum and dad junked in that bin.’

  ‘From the Christmas-came-early vibe,’ Noah said, ‘I’m guessing it runs into double figures.’

  ‘Close. Seven. Seven smartphones. Old models, but only just.’

  ‘SIM cards?’ Marnie asked.

  ‘Intact.’ Ron sounded triumphant. ‘Colin’s taking a look right now.’

  ‘What about the letters?’

  ‘We’re seeing how much we can salvage. Might take a while.’

  ‘They didn’t want us to read them, or to find the phones.’ Noah frowned. ‘But they can’t have been that scared about the content or they’d have burned the letters and flushed the SIM cards.’

  ‘You’re thinking like a detective,’ Ron said. ‘They’re thinking like a mum and dad. They didn’t know we’d intercept their bin. They were expecting the council to get shot of it all.’

  ‘True,’ Noah conceded.

  ‘Good catch,’ Ron said. ‘We’d have missed this little lot if it wasn’t for your eagle eyes.’

  Marnie nodded at Noah. ‘We need to speak with Evan Lowry,’ she told Ron. ‘The cabbie who found Kyle. And do we have the list of his drinking pals?’

  ‘I’ll text it over.’

  ‘Thanks. And ask DC Tanner to dig out the files on the first victims. Rawling’s wife, Valerie. Ollie Tomlinson. Mazi Yeboah. I want current contact details, and whatever else she can find.’

  Three victims of the vigilante.

  Three victims of the victims.

  The case was growing heads, like a hydra.

  10

  Finn heard the key in the front door and even though he’d heard it tons of times in the last ten weeks, the sound made him freeze up, goosebumps pinching his skin. He looked round the kitchen, checking everything was in its place. The bin by the back door, oven on, supper cooking. His throat was scratchy when he swallowed. He wanted to say he’d caught a cold, but he knew it was fear making his tongue fat, stopping him from saying anything that might get him punched, or worse. The goosebumps were another warning, his skin’s way of screaming at him not to get hurt.

  ‘There you are.’ Brady had a carrier bag from the Spar.

  Hundreds of Spars all over London. Finn had stopped trying to figure out where this house was. He knew Brady drove a long way because he’d been hungry by the time he was let out of the car, and he’d really needed a piss.

  ‘Put this away, will you?’ Brady handed Finn the bag. He’d brought the cold in with him, a smell like iron railings, litter and grit.

  Milk in the bag and bread, grapes, Doritos, bog paper, wine. The usual shopping. No receipt to give any clue to where the Spar was, just a warning printed on the plastic bag about the dangers of suffocation. Finn put the shopping into the fridge and cupboards.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ Brady wanted to know.

  ‘Pasta. The one you like.’

  Brady looked round the kitchen, taking his time, before fixing his stare on Finn. ‘Have you showered?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted the hot water for the washing-up. I’ll have one later.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Brady said. ‘You stink.’

  He pulled a grape from the bunch and threw it up into his mouth. Tipped his head back down and grinned with his wonky teeth. Ugly fucker. Scary, too. His teeth cast shadows.

  ‘Sorry,’ Finn said. ‘I’ll shower now, before supper.’

  He ducked sideways, towards the stairs, fighting the urge to run, and the urge to check over his shoulder that Brady wasn’t following.

  Brady wasn’t his real name, just the one Finn gave him that first night when he woke up here with his stomach growling because they’d driven miles from where Brady found him. He must’ve carried Finn into the house. He was squatting at the side of the bed when Finn woke up. The first things he saw were those wonky teeth grinning down at him.

  Dad had taught him about perverts. Men who stole kids off the streets and did sick stuff to them before burying their bodies where they wouldn’t be found. ‘Fucking Brady,’ Dad had said and it’d stuck in Finn’s head afterwards when he was on his own, which was how Brady found him.

  In the bathroom, he turned on the shower but didn’t get undressed, standing with one foot propped to the door because there wasn’t a lock. He hadn’t washed that first week, thinking that’s when Brady would do it, waiting until Finn was naked, with the water running to get rid of the mess. His heart ran a race whenever he was in the bathroom, even when Brady was out of the house. This was where he’d do it. Rape Finn and cut him into pieces to be put out for the bin man – that bastard in the beanie. It’d been ten weeks and Brady had shown no interest in seeing him naked, but that didn’t change how sick he felt being in the bathroom, his tongue fatter than ever, stoppering his throat like a wet wad of meat.

  Pasta for supper. His favourite. Finn wished he had the guts to spit in it, or piss in it. Dad would’ve done that. But Brady made Finn take the first mouthful ever since that time he added bleach to the stew. He’d thought it’d poison Brady, that he’d fall face-first into his supper and Finn’d be able to grab the keys and get free. Stupid. That’s how he got the bruises. That was the night Brady made him kneel so long on the kitchen floor he couldn’t hold it in and wet himself and even then Brady made him kneel, stinking of his own fear and thinking what Dad’d say if he was here, what Dad would do—

  He’d nut Brady, for starters. Break his teeth, crack his skull open. No one fucked with Finn’s dad, least of all a filthy pervert, a kiddy fiddler.

  Steam crowded the bathroom, making him cough. His foot was jammed to the door. He should get it over with, strip and get in the shower, get clean as fast as he could. Couldn’t go back downstairs until he was clean. Brady wasn’t coming up here, didn’t care whether Finn had his clothes on or not, only cared if he stank. And if the supper burned.

  He took his foot away from the door, tripping out of his jeans and boxers, dragging his T-shirt over his head and getting into the shower, yelping because the water was running cold. He grabbed the shampoo and squelched it into his hand. Rubbed it everywhere and kept rubbing until the water washed it away.

  He avoided looking at his body, at the bruises and the skinny whiteness, all the evidence that he was weak, useless, a stupid ten-year-old kid.

  Shook himself like a dog and scrubbed a hard towel at his skin before dressing again, hopping on one foot when his jeans snagged, sobbing under his breath, tears comi
ng from nowhere, making his nose burn and his throat close up worse than ever.

  ‘Just fucking let me . . . Just come on!’

  His shoulders hit the door. He dragged at the jeans, panicking, wishing he’d never taken them off. Stupid Gucci jeans that cost Dad a fortune and didn’t fit any more and stank of piss even though he’d washed them twice, shrunk them probably, but he weighed less than he had ten weeks ago even with all the pasta, because he puked most days, mostly from fear, he was so scared—

  ‘Just . . . Please . . .’ He rubbed his eyes on his shoulder, new goosebumps there. This place was a prison, shitty food and threats, cold showers and clothes that didn’t fit, didn’t feel like yours. Being bored all the time, being scared.

  ‘You’re a stupid piece of shit.’ He kicked at the empty leg of his jeans, feeling savage, feeling small. ‘A stupid, worthless piece of shit.’ Snot came out of his nose, salty on his top lip.

  When he had it under control, he straightened and reached for the jeans, trying again to get dressed, slower this time, chewing the underside of his lip in concentration.

  No good being angry. No use. At least being scared made him careful. Kept his head down, kept him wide of Brady’s feet and fists, no matter how much he wanted the fucker face-down in his supper, choking. All that would have to wait. It would all have to wait.

  He hauled the T-shirt over his head, shook it into place.

  Lifted his face and looked in the mirror.

  Steam had softened the glass, running into a mesh of streaks, like grey bars.

  From downstairs, the sound of a cork coming out of a bottle of wine.

  Suppertime.

  11

  In Lancaster Road, one of the street lights guttered like a candle. The Audi parked under it blinked from red to black as the light struggled off and on.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’ Harry Kennedy was waiting by the car in his grey suit, white shirt. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Marnie nodded, pulling her coat closer. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘The house. It’s a mess. Hard to say what’s been taken. If we could question Alan and Louise, it’d be easier. But neither of them’s in any shape for it yet.’

  Marnie turned to look at the house. Taped off, the way it had been six years ago. No frost then, just rain. Weeks and weeks of rain. But that day . . . the sun came out. Shining on her dad’s car, and on the knife in the SOCO’s poly bag. The pictures were like Polaroids in her head, freshly taken Polaroids; she had to shake each one to make it come into focus.

  ‘You want me to check inside the house. See what’s been taken.’

  When Kennedy didn’t speak, she turned to look at him.

  ‘You’ve not been here in years.’ His eyes were black in the half-light. ‘And in any case, I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Crime scene photos, maybe. But not that.’

  She waited for him to say what he did want. Why he’d called her here at the end of the day when the light was gone and it was hard to see – anything. In the houses across the street, slabs of yellow marked the lit rooms, carving pictures from furniture and the blue pulse of televisions, breathy patches of condensation on the windows. She should check on her flat, the place she rarely visited now that she was with Ed, make sure the heating was clicking on twice a day to keep it from turning into a block of ice. Places needed people living in them to keep the brick breathing and the air circulating, to stop the doors from swelling shut.

  In Lancaster Road, all the houses were lit, save one.

  It was going to freeze tonight, the cold like teeth against her cheek. The Audi’s windscreen was already icing over. She shivered. ‘I bet it’s warmer, inside.’

  Kennedy didn’t have a coat. If he’d meant this conversation to take place out here, he’d have put on a coat. He wanted her inside the house, he just didn’t want it to be his idea. Welland would never have allowed this to happen, not on his watch. He’d have physically blocked her view of the house with his bulk. But he wasn’t here. Just Harry Kennedy, shivering because he’d left his coat in the car, expecting it to be warm inside the house. Fear circled its shark’s fin in her blood. No good. She needed something better. Anger. This house had reverberated with her anger, once.

  ‘You have the keys.’ She moved in the direction of the police tape. ‘I’m guessing.’

  He followed, ducking under the tape when she held it for him. ‘Yes.’

  The gravel rolled under their feet, the way it had when she was fourteen and trying to sneak home without waking her parents. Perfect perimeter security, better than a dog because gravel didn’t sleep. She resisted the instinct to duck when she passed under the hanging basket above the front door, its smell – peaty, acidic – scratching at the exposed nerve of her memory.

  Inside, shadows stirred, peeling away when the light clicked on, to crouch in the corners of the hall and at the closed doors to the living room, and kitchen.

  He’d killed them in the kitchen.

  If she could avoid going in there, she would.

  ‘They came in the back door,’ Kennedy reminded her. ‘We’ve fitted a temporary lock.’

  She nodded, not speaking. The stairs stretched up, their treachery still mapped in her head, the steps that creaked and the ones that groaned, making a pantomime of her ascent.

  Six years ago, Stephen had sat on the third step – one of her safe, silent steps – red to the elbows with their blood. And his own; his right palm sliced open where the knife had jarred against her mother’s breastbone, making his grip slip from handle to blade. They’d stripped him at the station, peeling off clothes that shed flakes from their already-drying blood. It can’t have felt real to him, what he’d done. If it had felt real, he’d have been screaming, thrashing. He’d sat on the third step quietly, waiting for the police. Hearing – what? Mrs Poole, the neighbour, shouting in the street. The dinner burning on the stove. Blood stretching across the tiled floor, did that make a noise? In her head, it did. But perhaps Stephen only heard his own blood beating with whatever imagined threat or danger had driven him to kill the two people who’d tried hardest to help him.

  ‘Sorry about the smell,’ Kennedy was saying. ‘Someone’s coming to sort it out.’

  It prompted her to breathe. She’d been holding her breath since the hanging basket. Faeces and urine. That kind of burglary. No stains on the hall walls, or carpet. No stains on the stairs. The agency had re-carpeted, six years ago, painting over the stains before putting the house on the rental market because she wasn’t ready to sell, dogged by the idea that it held clues she’d missed. Alan and Louise Kettridge had been living here ever since.

  ‘Which room were they attacked in?’

  ‘Alan was on the landing. He confronted them, that’s how it looks. Louise was in the back bedroom.’ Kennedy paused. ‘No sexual assault. Just a beating, the same as Alan got.’

  Marnie nodded, but didn’t move. In her head, the Polaroids kept popping, like pins. Vicious little bursts of light and dark. Memories, on the blink. She wanted to reach for the wall, something to hold onto just for a second, until she got her balance back. Stupid—

  Six years. It had been six years. But he was there on the stairs, a skinny fourteen-year-old with their blood all over him. And she was the same age, trying to sneak home. Tasting of tequila and cigarettes, a half-prepared lie in her mouth, in case she was caught.

  Kennedy touched a hand to her elbow, static tightening the skin inside her sleeve. ‘Are you okay? We can—’

  She broke the contact by moving a step deeper into the hall. ‘What did you want to show me?’

  ‘Upstairs. Look, this was a mistake.’ His eyes darkened. ‘I’m sorry—’

  His remorse brought her anger into focus, like turning a dimmer switch the wrong way.

  ‘You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t need me.’

  He searched her face, shook his head. ‘No . . .’

  ‘So show me.’ She moved past him. Through the blood-soaked ghost on th
e stairs, and up. To the landing where Alan Kettridge had been beaten unconscious.

  Spatter on the walls. A reek of faeces from her parents’ bedroom at the back of the house. Her chest hurt, overcrowding with nostalgia. Six years ago: a white waffled bedspread, her mother’s jewellery on the dressing table, Dad’s red cardigan on the wardrobe door, and photos everywhere, her three-year-old face looking back at her from their bedside cabinets.

  Kennedy stopped her going into the bedroom. ‘Not there.’ He nodded towards the bathroom.

  She turned and saw the ladder. Dad’s heavy-duty loft ladder, standing in position outside the bathroom door. The kind you pulled down on a pole, its steps leading up into the attic where she’d stored the boxes which she hadn’t wanted in a warehouse. Clothes, and books. Nothing valuable, just things she wasn’t ready to look through and make decisions about. The agency had said it was fine, they’d tell the tenants not to use the attic, but—

  ‘They went up there?’ An alien sensation, her skin stiffening, resisting the pressure of the air from the hole above her. ‘The gang . . . They went into the attic?’

  ‘That’s how it looks.’ Kennedy kept his distance. ‘Fingerprints on the ladder that match our gang’s. And footprints up there.’

  ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘That’s what we don’t know. The Kettridges didn’t use the attic. No pressure marks on the carpet,’ he pointed, ‘and fresh plaster dust where the ladder came down.’

  ‘The pole . . .’ She looked for it.

  ‘In the bedroom. They used it to hit Louise. Their prints are on it, the only fresh prints.’

  ‘What were they after?’

  ‘We don’t know. We don’t know what was up there.’ He paused. ‘They didn’t take anything from down here. Both smartphones left in the bedroom. Televisions, laptops. Good stuff, expensive, and two of everything. They left it all.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t an initiation.’ Marnie turned to look at him. ‘It wasn’t young kids.’

  ‘The prints belong to kids. But they didn’t come here to steal, or not the usual stuff. They came to beat up whoever was living here, and to make as much mess as they could.’