After the Fire (Maeve Kerrigan) Read online

  ‘We’re not dealing the cards,’ Derwent said. ‘We just have to play them.’

  ‘You, me and as many spare officers as Una Burt will allow us.’

  ‘If any.’ He groaned. ‘I’d better give her a call. Let her know the good news.’

  ‘Please be nice.’

  ‘Me? I’m always nice.’

  ‘Seriously.’ I put a hand on his arm to stop him from making the call. ‘She’s under a lot of pressure. Go easy.’

  Derwent frowned at me. ‘What’s going on? Are you sucking up to her for any particular reason or just to annoy me?’

  ‘I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because she has to try to manage you. ‘She’s finding this investigation hard, I think. No point in making it worse for her.’

  ‘Very considerate of you.’

  ‘And I don’t want you to give her a reason to leave all the legwork up to us. Tracking down Nina Bellew’s clients is going to be a pain in the arse.’

  ‘You heard Louise. Nina has records. We just have to persuade her to cooperate with us.’

  ‘Let me put it this way. Your chances of getting anything out of Nina Bellew are about the same as your chances of charming Una Burt. So don’t burn any bridges. We don’t have any to spare.’

  Chapter 26

  I WALKED INTO the office on Monday morning and threw my notebook onto my desk from far enough away that eyebrows went up all around the room.

  ‘Problem?’ Liv asked.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Derwent? Una Burt?’

  ‘Not this time, actually.’ I sat down and swivelled on the chair, too irritated to sit still. ‘The Met’s task force on money lending won’t let us talk to Nina Bellew about her clients.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘They’ve been collecting evidence on her but they’re not ready to arrest her yet. They don’t want us to tip her off.’

  Liv pulled a face. ‘But if they’ve been collecting evidence …’

  ‘Oh yes, they have lists of people she’s screwed over, which we are more than welcome to consult. But those people are the ones prepared to talk to the cops. What we’re looking for is someone so angry that they’re taking the law into their own hands. And they wouldn’t own up – not if their actions brought about the deaths of four people.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Dead end. There’s nothing else I can do about Nina Bellew unless and until some new evidence turns up. I’ve asked the neighbourhoods team who cover the Maudling Estate to see if they can find out if anyone was talking shit about the Bellews – making threats, that kind of thing. Or if anyone is looking especially guilty, I suppose, since Becky died.’

  ‘You might get a tip-off.’

  ‘We might indeed. After all, who cares about two prostitutes and a politician? At the end of the day, they’re all whores. But an innocent kid is different.’ Derwent had arrived, without so much as a whiff of sulphur to warn us. He eased himself onto the corner of my desk and began to browse through my in-tray.

  Liv’s nose was wrinkled with disgust. ‘Is that what you think? The trafficked women don’t count as victims?’

  ‘That’s not what I think, no.’ He said it pleasantly – politely, even – which was how I knew he was blazingly angry.

  ‘Because they didn’t deserve to die that way. None of them did,’ Liv said.

  Derwent glanced up, as if he was surprised she was still talking to him. ‘Listen, I couldn’t give a shit about Armstrong but I’d go a long way to find whoever put those girls behind a locked door and left them to burn.’

  ‘I might be able to help you with that.’ Una Burt stumped across to us, holding a cardboard folder. ‘Today’s the day for test results. They’ve been busy at the labs over the weekend.’

  I sat up. ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘First things first.’ She opened the folder. ‘The blood in your car was not human in origin.’

  ‘What was it?’ I asked.

  ‘Pig’s blood.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Derwent said. ‘Pig’s blood because you’re a cop. Nicely done.’

  The memory of that smell in the car suddenly filled my nose, my mouth. I gagged, then turned it into a cough. Derwent shot me a look that was concern mingled with amusement.

  ‘All right, Kerrigan?’

  I nodded, coughing some more, gesturing to Una Burt to go on, for someone to say something, anything that might take the attention off me.

  ‘Did they get any DNA off the car or the Asp?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Nothing. No fingerprints either. He or she wore gloves.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’

  ‘The car was parked between two vans.’ Una shook her head at me. ‘Never park in a blind spot. You should know better.’

  ‘I didn’t know the car was going to be vandalised,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, you made it easy for them to do it unobserved.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I knew it was a joke but it still hurt, just a little. I believed with all my heart that it had been Chris Swain’s handiwork, and I hated being his victim. I hated being two steps behind him all the time. I hated falling into his traps, especially when I should have been more careful.

  ‘I’ve got to say I think it’s unlikely that we’ll find out who did it without DNA or CCTV.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case,’ I said. ‘What about Melissa Pell’s attacker?’

  ‘Not great news. Obviously it’s not a straightforward case of swabbing a weapon or something where you’d expect to find a very limited number of DNA profiles. This is a door that was in a public area of a very busy tower block and it’s been in use for days since the fire. They’ve recovered multiple DNA profiles from it so far and it’s taking time to separate out the one we want. They are working on cross-matching the profiles they’ve recovered against people with previous convictions. They’ve promised me it’s a priority.’ Una Burt’s lips thinned slightly. ‘I made it clear that it was our priority too.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Derwent said. He didn’t bother to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  ‘No. The pathologist has been in touch. She swabbed Geoff Armstrong to try to recover useful DNA. She also noticed his eyes were irritated so she asked the lab to check for chemical residue.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Capsaicin. Pepper spray,’ she added.

  ‘So Armstrong got pepper-sprayed, punched, strangled and then pushed out of a window.’ Derwent whistled. ‘What the hell did he do to deserve that?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like you to find out from his girlfriend.’ Una Burt licked her finger to leaf through the pages in the folder. ‘The DNA results are back.’

  ‘Did they get an ID?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, they did.’ She had a strange expression on her face. ‘They queried it, though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because they weren’t sure the DNA profile was the one we were looking for.’

  I frowned at her. ‘Why not?’

  Instead of answering me, she handed me the sheet of paper and let me look for myself. I read it through twice. ‘Oh. Oh.’ I looked up at Una Burt, who nodded.

  ‘It explains some things, doesn’t it?’

  ‘If you’ve quite finished making orgasm noises, maybe you could share the news with the rest of the class,’ Derwent said irritably.

  I handed him the sheet of paper and stood up. ‘Time to go and talk to Armstrong’s girlfriend, I think.’

  ‘But—’

  I shrugged my coat on. ‘Exactly.’

  Another identical hallway in another identical tower block and I had déjà vu all over again. Visiting the Maudling Estate was like a recurring nightmare I couldn’t shake off, the kind of nightmare where you try something different every time, and it works out just as badly as the time before and the time before that. But at least this time I wasn’t on my own.

  I just wasn’t sure yet if that was going to be
a help or if it was going to make things much, much worse.

  ‘Is this it?’

  I nodded and stood back as Derwent rang the doorbell.

  ‘Who is it?’ someone called from inside. A pleasant voice, I thought.

  ‘Police,’ Derwent shouted back.

  A long pause. Then there was the sound of locks being turned, a chain taken off the door, a bolt slid back. The door opened slowly and a dark-skinned woman blinked at us, her manner languid rather than nervous. She was tall and slender, elegant in a dark blue knitted dress that clung to her body, her hair long and straight and silky. She looked Derwent up and down first, then switched her attention to me for a brief moment. She lowered her long eyelashes to hide the expression in her eyes but I caught it anyway: loathing.

  ‘Justine Rickards?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘DI Derwent, DC Kerrigan. We’d just like to ask a few questions regarding the fire in Murchison House.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.’ She started to close the door.

  ‘Just a few questions.’ Derwent put out a hand and pushed the door back, hard, and for a second she resisted. She stared into his eyes, implacably hostile, and I felt a chill: there was murderous anger, if anyone wondered what it looked like. Then she shrugged and stood back.

  ‘I was going out. You’ll have to be quick.’

  Derwent didn’t say we would be quick. He didn’t say anything, but walked past her into the flat.

  ‘Are you coming in too?’ she asked me. I was hanging back. I didn’t want her behind me.

  ‘Please, go ahead. I’ll shut the door.’ If you didn’t know better, you’d think I was just being polite. Justine Rickards knew better. She narrowed her eyes at me again, then went ahead of me to the living room, her carriage as perfect as if she was walking down a catwalk.

  ‘You can sit down,’ she said to Derwent, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking around. The room was neat but not expensively furnished; if I had to guess, I’d say Justine spent her money on clothes and make-up, not her flat. ‘You’re making me nervous, standing there.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He sat on the small sofa and I decided not to sit beside him. I had too much experience of being squashed into a corner by Derwent and his long legs. I took a seat at a small table, leaving Justine to sit in an armchair in the corner. She sat like a Vogue model, her feet drawn back demurely to one side, an elbow propped on the arm of the chair.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We wanted to ask you about Geoff Armstrong.’

  She blinked twice, very fast. ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you know Mr Armstrong, Ms Rickards?’

  ‘By reputation.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I knew who he was. And I knew he wasn’t popular around here. He’s come up in conversation once or twice.’

  ‘Do you work with Claudine Cole on her campaign?’ I asked.

  She didn’t even look in my direction. ‘I know Claudine. I wish her all the best with her work.’

  ‘That’s not really an answer.’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t work with her in an official capacity, if that’s what you mean. I’m not volunteering to go into schools or campaign with her. But I help out if she needs me. I do a little secretarial work for her now and then.’

  ‘Do you have a job?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘I temp.’

  ‘For an agency?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She frowned. ‘What has this got to do with Geoff Armstrong?’

  ‘We’ve been looking for someone who was in a relationship with him. Someone who spent Thursday afternoons with him in a flat in Murchison House.’

  ‘And?’ She gave a one-shouldered shrug, irritated now. ‘You’re not looking at me, are you? He’s not exactly my usual type.’

  ‘The lady with him was described as an elegant black woman, about five foot ten, mid-thirties. That description fits you,’ Derwent said.

  ‘Why thank you.’ She swept the long eyelashes down on to her cheeks, flirting like a film star, Dorothy Dandridge resurrected on a north London estate.

  ‘Are you saying it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. I never met the man.’ She stood up. ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Do you know this man?’ Derwent handed her a printout of a custody photograph: an old picture of a young man with a line shaved through one eyebrow and a sneer on his face. ‘Dean Rickards.’

  She sat down again, staring at the page. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘My brother.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘Does he live here with you?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  She shrugged, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘No. Not really. He comes and goes.’ She looked from me to Derwent. ‘Why are you asking me about Dean?’

  ‘Dean’s DNA is on our system for some drug-related offences he committed in his teens.’

  ‘Stupid boy.’ She tried to smile. ‘He was an idiot when he was a teenager. But he put all that behind him.’

  ‘Does he have a job now?’ Derwent asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I help him out.’

  ‘Where does he live when he’s not with you?’

  ‘With friends,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t really know who. We lead separate lives.’ She pulled herself together with a visible effort. ‘Why are you asking about Dean, anyway?’

  ‘We found his DNA on Geoff Armstrong’s body,’ I said. ‘On his face. On his hands.’

  ‘Maybe he met him. Maybe he sneezed on him.’ She laughed. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re making something out of nothing. Dean didn’t know Geoff Armstrong.’

  ‘His saliva was found on Mr Armstrong’s genitalia,’ I said.

  She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. ‘I don’t – I don’t understand. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake. Geoff Armstrong was engaged in sexual activity with Dean Rickards on the day he died. We think Geoff was paying him for sex.’ Derwent’s words were brusque but his manner was matter-of-fact, direct, unsensational. This was what had happened and it shocked none of us, except possibly Justine.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘Dean, what were you doing?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’ I allowed myself to sound slightly puzzled.

  ‘I had no idea. None.’

  ‘I met Dean the other day,’ I said. ‘In Claudine Cole’s flat.’

  ‘He helps out sometimes. Like me.’

  ‘He was acting as a kind of bodyguard for her. He was pretty hostile towards me.’

  She looked at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes away. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Do you know what else I noticed about him?’

  ‘No, darling, I don’t.’

  ‘He didn’t have any eyelashes. None at all.’

  Another frown. ‘So?’

  ‘I used to police around Vauxhall when I was a street copper. I got to know a lot about two things: the security services and gay culture. You’ve got MI6 on one side of the road and a load of gay nightclubs on the other, which I’m sure is a coincidence.’

  ‘I’m sure too,’ Derwent chimed in, grinning.

  ‘I used to see the drag queens on their way into work at the Vauxhall Tavern. I got friendly with a few of them. They were nice guys. I could barely recognise them when they were dressed up, and not just because they looked different. They were different people in drag. I remember one of them telling me that he had no eyelashes left because he’d worn false eyelashes for so long and the glue had ripped his own out one by one. They hadn’t grown back. He said I should always look at men’s eyelashes, that it was more of a giveaway of who they were and what they did than long nails or feminine features.’

  ‘I’m sure that was ve
ry helpful for you.’ Justine’s voice was raw but she was still in command of herself.

  ‘You wear false eyelashes, don’t you, Justine?’

  She straightened. ‘Lots of people do.’

  ‘Yes, and lots of people wear wigs like yours.’

  She tucked her hair behind her ear, self-conscious. ‘I like to change my look.’

  ‘Do you know what we rely on when we’re trying to identify people from photographs? Not noses, not chins – those can change if you gain or lose weight or if you do your make-up differently or just because people get older. But ears don’t change.’ I leaned over and took the picture of Dean Rickards out of her hand. ‘Dean’s ears are just the same as yours, Justine. Exactly the same, down to the shape of the lobe.’

  ‘We’re siblings.’

  ‘No, you aren’t.’ I tapped the picture. ‘If I get a facial recognition expert to compare this image and a picture of you, you know what the answer will be. And if we test your DNA I can prove it to any jury’s satisfaction. You are Dean Rickards. It was you I saw in Claudine Cole’s flat, where you were dressed as a man. It was you who spent every Thursday afternoon with Geoff Armstrong. It was you he paid for sex. It was you who was with him last Thursday and it was you who punched him in the face hard enough to leave a bruise. You were the last person with him before he died.’

  She didn’t move for the longest moment – she didn’t even blink. Then she sighed. ‘I didn’t hurt him. He was fine when I left him.’

  Derwent leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘Tell us exactly what happened, Justine. Don’t leave anything out. We need to know how you met and what you did.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘All of it.’

  She put a hand over her eyes for a moment, struggling to keep her composure. Her fingers were trembling.

  ‘Can I get you something? Water?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t pretend to care,’ she spat. ‘You don’t care.’

  Derwent caught my eye and shook his head, very slightly. Don’t argue with her.

  ‘When did you meet Geoff Armstrong?’ he asked.