Chapter One
Id seen enough dead bodies to know they can look peaceful. Calm, even. At rest.
Princess Gordon was not that sort of corpse.
It wasnt her fault. Anyone would have struggled to look serene when they had been battered to death, then shoved into the boot of a Nissan Micra and left to stiffen into full rigor mortis.
“Im going to need to get her out to give you a proper cause of death, but from a preliminary examination she was beaten with something hard but rounded, like a pole, sometime within the last twenty-four hours.” The pathologist stood back, touching the back of one gloved hand to her forehead. “I cant narrow it down for you yet, but Ill have a look at stomach contents during the post-mortem and make an educated guess.”
“I can make an educated guess for you now. It was her husband.” The voice came from beside me, where Detective Inspector Josh Derwent was taking up more than his fair share of room in the little ring of officers and crime-scene technicians that had gathered around the back of the car. The garage door was open but it still felt claustrophobic to me to be in that small, cluttered space. The air was dusty and the lighting cast long, dark shadows. I felt as if the piled-up junk was reaching out to grab me. Derwent had his hands in his pockets, with his elbows jutting out on either side. I had already inched away twice, to get out of range, but there was nowhere left to go.
“She wasnt married,” I said.
“Partner, then. Whoever that bloke is in the house.”
“Adam Olesugwe.”
“Him.”
“What makes you say that?” The pathologist was new, earnest and heavily pregnant. I wished she would just ignore Derwent. She had no idea what she was dealing with.
“Bound to be him.”
“If youre basing that on statistical probability—”
Derwent cut her off. “Im not.”
One of the response officers cleared his throat. I thought he was going to raise his hand and ask for permission to speak. “He said he came back and she was missing. He said someone must have come into the house and attacked her.”
“Yeah, hed know. He was the one who did it.” Derwent waved a hand at the body. “Say this wasnt a domestic. Say it was a burglary gone wrong or a random murder. Why bother putting her in the car? Why not leave her in the house?”
“To hide her,” the response officer suggested.
“Why, though? Its hard work, moving a body. And shes a big girl, too. Look at that arse.”
“Sir.” I didnt usually try to manage Derwents stream of consciousness but I had seen the look of shock on the pathologists face. Dr. Early, who had arrived late and made a joke about it. Derwent hadnt laughed.
“What is it, Kerrigan?” He glared at me.
I didnt dare say why Id actually interrupted. It would only provoke worse behavior. “Just—why would Olesugwe move the body?”
“He was planning to get rid of the body but then her sister came round.”
It was Princesss sister, Blessed, whod found the body and called 999. Last seen in hysterics being comforted by a female officer at the kitchen table, shed been too incoherent to interview.
“Why would he want to kill her?” Early asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine. She was having an affair, or he was, or she didnt do the ironing.” He looked down at the pathologists rounded belly. “She was four months pregnant, according to Olesugwe. Women are more likely to be victims of domestic violence when theyre up the duff.”
“Thats a myth.” Dr. Early put a protective hand on her stomach, as if she was trying to shield her unborn child from Derwents toxic personality. I personally felt lead-lined hazard suits should have been standard issue for anyone who came into contact with him, pregnant or not.
Derwent shook his head. “They did a study in the States. Murder is the third most common reason of violent death for pregnant women.”
“What else kills them?” I asked.
“Car accidents and suicide. Women drivers, eh?”
“Well, this lady didnt die in a car accident and she certainly didnt beat herself to death.” Dr. Early folded her arms, resting them on top of her bump.
“Thats my point. He killed her,” Derwent said. “He gets angry about something, he beats her up, it goes too far, he dumps her in the car, starts to clean up, gets interrupted by the sister and all bets are off.”
“There was a smell of bleach in the kitchen,” I remarked.
“And no sign of a break-in. Wherever she died should look like an abattoir but I didnt see a speck of blood in the house.” Derwent pushed past a couple of officers and peered into the back seat of the car. “Bags. If you forensic boys would like to do your jobs and get them out for us, I bet well find blood-stained clothes in Olesugwes size.”
Dr. Early looked down at Princesss body. “Ill need some help to get her out of the boot.”
“Nice to hear a woman admit she needs some help,” Derwent said, and walked out without waiting to hear what Dr. Early had to say in response, or, indeed, offering any assistance.
The doctors lips were pressed together and her eyes were bright. I recognized the signs of someone trying not to cry. Id been there, many times. “Is he always like that?” she asked me.
“Not always. Sometimes hes worse.”
“I dont know how you can stand it.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
* * *
The reason I could stand it was because in addition to his numerous personality defects, Derwent was a brilliant copper. He left the SOCOs to their work and took both Olesugwe and Blessed to the nearest police station, Great Portland Street, where Blessed confessed to the affair shed been having with Olesugwe, and Olesugwe admitted that Princess had found out about it. The murder weapon—a metal pole that had been used as a clothes rail in the couples wardrobe—turned up in a shed in the garden of the small house, stuffed in a bag behind a lawnmower. Olesugwe had the key to the sheds padlock on his key ring, as well as the only set of keys for the Nissan. When I pointed out that neither the padlock nor the car boot was damaged in any way, he admitted moving the body and hiding the weapon.
“But he still wont admit that he killed her,” I said to Derwent as we left the police station, heading back to the office to get the paperwork underway. I shivered as the cold hit my face. We were on foot because Derwent had flatly refused to drive through central London to Somers Town, where Princess had breathed her last, when our new offices were in Westminster and it was twice as fast to go by public transport.
“Hes still looking for a way out. I bet hell say it was Blessed who attacked her and he was just trying to help her.”
“Do you think thats what happened?”
“Nope. Doesnt matter, though. Hell still lie about it.”
“I dont think Blessed would have called the cops before they were finished tidying up if shed been involved.”
“She might have. She might be thick. Most criminals are.”
“Ive noticed,” I said. I was only a detective constable but I had seven years of experience behind me. Derwent tended to forget that.
Instead of answering me, he sighed. “What a waste of fucking time.” It wasnt my imagination: Derwents mood was darker than usual.
“We got a result,” I pointed out.
“Anyone could have got it. Even you.”
“We did a good job.”
“The local murder team could have handled it.”
“They were too busy.”
“Is that what the boss told you?” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and walked faster. I lengthened my stride to keep up.
“Why else would he send us up there?”
“Why indeed?”
I realized I wasnt going to get an answer out of Derwent. Besides, I wasnt sure I wanted one. There was a chance he was referring to the fact that I was out of favor with the boss, and I couldnt imagine that Derwent would be pleased if he knew about it. Especially if he knew why.
Id have been sensible to keep my mouth shut and walk in silence, but there was something I wanted to know. “You were a bit off with Dr. Early. What was the problem?”
Derwents jaw clenched. “She shouldnt be doing that job in her condition.”
“Shes more than capable of doing it.”
“If you say so. She probably wont even be able to reach the table to do the PM.”
“Im sure shell manage.”
“She shouldnt have to.” Derwent flipped up the collar of his coat, hunching his shoulders as a scattering of rain spat in our faces. “Its no job for a woman anyway. But when shes got a baby on board, she shouldnt be near dead bodies.”
“You are so old-fashioned its untrue. Are you worried her unborn child will see the corpses and be upset? Wombs dont come with much of a view.”
“Its just not right.” His voice was flat. No more arguing.
I held my tongue until we got to the tube station and discovered that two lines were closed, just in time for the evening rush hour. We forced our way onto a packed Metropolitan line train to Baker Street, switched to the Bakerloo line and suffered as far as Charing Cross. It was a positive pleasure to resurface from the super-heated, stale depths of the Underground, even though the cold autumn air made my head ring as if Id just been slapped.
Even with the inspector as a companion it wasnt a hardship to walk through Trafalgar Square and on down Whitehall as the lights came on. It had rained properly while we were on the tube, a short but sharp cloudburst, and the pavement had a glassy sheen. Fallen leaves were scattered across the ground, flattened against it by the rain, looking as if they had been varnished to it. The going was slick and my shoes werent designed for it. Opposite the Cenotaph I slid sideways and collided with Derwent, clutching his arm for support. He bent his arm so his biceps bulged under my fingers. I snatched my hand away.
“Steady on,” Derwent said.
“Its the leaves.”
“I know you, Kerrigan. Any excuse to cop a feel.” He crooked his arm again. “Come on. Hang on to Uncle Josh. Ill look after you.”
“I can manage, thank you.”
“Its not a sign of weakness, if thats what youre thinking. Its good to recognize your shortcomings. Look at Dr. Early. She knew she couldnt shift that body on her own so she asked for help. You could take a lesson from that. Accept help when its offered.”
“Is that what you do?”
He laughed. “I dont need any help.”
“Of course not. The very idea.”
“Seriously, if you need to hold on to my arm, do it.”
“I would if I did, but I dont.” I would rather take off my shoes and walk barefoot than reinforce Derwents ideas of chivalry. He would see it as proof of what hed always thought—women need looking after. And I was junior to him, as well as being female, so he was totally comfortable with patronizing me.
It made me want to scream.
We turned the corner into Parliament Square and I gazed across at the Houses of Parliament, not yet tired of staring at them even though I saw them every day on my way to work. They were a Victorian idea of medieval grandeur and there was something fantastic about them, something unreal about the delicate tracery, the honey-colored stone, the soaring gilt-topped towers. From here, Britain had ruled the world, temporarily, and the buildings remembered. They were a physical manifestation of the superiority complex that was bred into the British, my father had said once. He had little time for the Empire and less sympathy for the country he lived in. I didnt think you could characterize a whole nation that way, but then I wasnt in the comfortable position of being foreign. Nor could I count myself as British. I was born in London of Irish parents, bred and raised as an Irish girl, despite the fact that we lived in Carshalton rather than Killybegs. Id learned to dance the Walls of Limerick and played “Down by the Sally Gardens” on the tin whistle and struggled into thick, sheep-smelling Aran jumpers knitted by relations and swapped the soda bread in my packed lunches for my friends white crustless sandwiches. Id played camogie, badly, at weekends, and played hockey equally badly at school. I was Irish by blood and English by accident and I didnt belong to either tradition, or anywhere else. Id grown up feeling as if Id lost something and it was only now I was starting to wonder if it mattered.
Derwent threw out an arm. “Look at that. What a disgrace.”
“The Houses of Parliament?” I asked, surprised. I should have known Derwent was unlikely to be experiencing post-colonial guilt.
“Those fuckers. Shouldnt be allowed.” He was referring to the protesters camping on the grass in the middle of Parliament Square, occupying the space where the anti-war crowd had maintained their vigil, and where the demonstrations against globalization had raged. There were regular police operations to clear the lawn, but somehow the campaigners came back in ones and twos, and it was rare to see it empty.
I tried to read the banners but it was hard to see them in the dusk, especially since they were rain-sodden. “Capitalism is evil?”
“Dads Matter.”
“Oh, them.” The Dads Matter group was the militant alternative to Fathers for Justice, a pressure group for men who felt they had been victimized by the family courts. Dads Matter was small but growing and prone to extravagant publicity-seeking. Its leader was Philip Pace, a handsome, charismatic forty-year-old with a background in PR. He was a smooth talker, a regular interviewee on news and current affairs programs and had made the Top Ten Most Eligible Males list in Tatler the previous year. I didnt see the attraction myself, but then I wasnt all that keen on zealots. As the public face of Dads Matter, he made it his business to be reasonable and moderate, but as a group they were neither. “Whats their new campaign? Twenty-Twenty?”
“Someone hasnt been paying attention to briefings,” Derwent said. “Its Fifty-Fifty. They want the courts to split custody of children equally between parents. No exceptions.”
“Oh, that sounds reasonable. What about abusers? What about protecting children from that?”
“Dads dont harm their children. They love them.” For once, Derwents ultra-sarcasm had a decent target.
“What bullshit.”
“You dont think fathers have rights?” Derwents eyebrows were hovering around his hairline. “I thought you were a liberal, Kerrigan. If I said feminism was wank, youd report me.”
“You say that frequently, and I havent yet. Anyway, its not the same thing. The courts make their decisions on a case-by-case basis. Sometimes the mothers get full custody because the dads arent fit to be involved with their families. These men are just sore losers.”
“Doesnt mean theyre not dangerous. You know theyve been sharing tactics with extremist anti-abortion activists in the States, dont you?”
“I didnt, actually.” I was amazed that Derwent did. He generally didnt bother with reading briefings. In fact, I wasnt aware of him having read anything properly since wed been working together.
“Pace was over in Washington recently, trying to get a US branch up and running. He appeared on a platform with the pro-lifers at a massive rally, though he doesnt want that to get out in this country in case it puts people off. Theyve got a lot in common, though. Its all about the sanctity of the family, isnt it? Two-parent happy families with hundreds of smiling, cheerful children. Fucking fantasyland. If you didnt read the briefing notes youll have missed this too: they found a Dads Matter-affiliated messageboard on the Internet with a list of names and addresses for family court judges and their staff. Everyone is very jumpy about it. Theyre expecting parcel bombs and anthrax and God knows what.”
“How did I miss all of this?” I felt as if I hadnt done my homework and Id been caught by my least favorite teacher—which was basically what had happened.
“Dunno. Maybe youre too busy concentrating on whats right in front of you to get a decent idea of the big picture. Thats why youre a DC. You do all right at the small stuff, but you need a bit of a flair for strategy at my level.”
Maybe if you didnt leave all the paperwork and form filling to me Id have time to read about the big picture. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Freely given,” he said. “Listen and learn.”
“I do. Every day.” It was true. If I wanted to know about misogyny, right-wing conspiracy theories or competition-grade swearing, working with Derwent was roughly equivalent to a third-level education.
Our route took us close to where the protesters stood, rain-blasted and pathetic, huddled in their anoraks like penguins in nylon hoods. Most were middle-aged and a touch overweight. They didnt look dangerous.
“They cant all be evil, and they must miss their children,” I said.
“Pack of whingers. If they loved their kids so much they wouldnt have left them in the first place.” He glowered at them. “Anyone whos got the nerve to sit under the statue of the greatest Englishman who ever lived and make it look like a gypsy camp has got no principles and no soul.”
“Winston Churchill?”
“Who else?” He looked at me as if he was waiting for me to argue, but I knew better than to try. Derwent needed a fight occasionally, to do something with the aggression he seemed to generate just by breathing. But I was not going to be his punchbag today.
I could have sworn his ears drooped.
Copyright © 2013 by Jane Casey