After the Fire (4 page)

‘Kerrigan.’

‘Have you been watching the news?’ Una Burt’s voice filled my head and I winced, holding the phone a little bit further from my ear than I would usually.

‘No.’ I glanced at the television and its fine layer of dust. I had no idea where the remote control was. I hadn’t used it for weeks. ‘What’s up?’

‘A fire on the Maudling Estate.’

It felt as if I’d run head first into a wall. I took a second to respond. ‘Fatalities?’

‘Three, so far. It took out the top two floors of one of the blocks. Gutted them completely. The floors below aren’t all that much better.’

‘Arson?’

‘Possibly. There’s a fire investigator floating around here somewhere. He can tell us more.’

I held back a sigh. Una Burt was a Chief Inspector, but she was acting up, running the team in place of my real boss, Superintendent Charles Godley, who was on indefinite leave. That meant DCI Burt was in charge. You queried her actions at your peril, as I had found out before. Still, it was worth asking why she was calling me at that hour of the night on my day off.

Delicately.

‘Is there a particular reason for us to be involved with the investigation?’

‘Of course, or I wouldn’t be calling you.’ Offence taken. Great.

‘Sorry. It’s just that we’re not the closest Homicide team.’
And we’re already trying to cope with the extra work you’ve insisted we can handle because
you
can’t say no to anyone
. Godley’s team usually handled the most complex and sensitive investigations that came to the Met. Since Una Burt had started running the team, we’d taken on a lot more work than usual, and much of it was run-of-the-mill. It was as if she couldn’t bring herself to say no when our help was requested. She liked feeling important and we were close to being overwhelmed.

‘It’s not likely to be a straightforward investigation. Not when one of the fatalities is very well known. Not when it isn’t clear how he died.’

‘Who?’

Una’s voice was muffled, as if she was covering her mouth so no one around her could lip-read what she was saying. ‘Geoff Armstrong.’

‘The MP?’ The far-right, immigrant-hating, welfare-criticising MP, to be specific.

‘Exactly.’

Which meant that the investigation was likely to be both sensitive and complex, I conceded, and felt the first twinge of interest. ‘But what was he doing there? It’s hardly his natural habitat. Not much point in him canvassing for support on an estate that’s largely social housing. There aren’t all that many high-earning conservatives on the Maudling Estate, I’m willing to bet.’

‘Yes, these and other questions need answers – which is why I would like you to come straight here. I’ve already contacted DI Derwent. He says he’ll pick you up.’

‘Really?’ I stared into space. ‘There’s no need. I can get there myself.’

‘I don’t care if you take a flying carpet to get here,’ Una Burt snapped. ‘Just hurry up.’

She was gone. I weighed the phone in my hand.
Worth a try
.

No need to collect me. I’ll see you there.

I sent the message, put the phone down on the coffee table and stood up. It vibrated.

Already here. Buzz me in.

Great
.

Against my better judgement I let him into the building. I had about thirty seconds before he arrived at the door, I thought, and tried to decide where to start. I looked around, feeling helpless. There was so much to do, and no time to do it. I drifted into the bathroom, where the mirror confirmed my worst fears. I stopped looking at myself in it and concentrated on squirting toothpaste on the brush. If I was brushing my teeth, at least I wouldn’t have to talk to him.

Unfortunately, nothing would stop him talking to me.

A volley of knocking on the door. I went and opened it, but I checked the view through the peephole first. These were the rules I lived by. Never open a door without knowing who’s on the other side of it. Never park somewhere dark and deserted. Never get into the car without checking the back seat and the boot. Know who’s walking behind you. Know who’s driving behind you. Know where you’re going. Never relax. Never forget there’s someone watching you.

They were rules that had kept me alive, so far, but they made me feel as if I was dying a little more every day. I couldn’t ever allow myself to forget I was a target for someone else’s obsession. A creep named Chris Swain had been hunting me for years and he wouldn’t give up until I gave in to him.

And that was never, ever going to happen.

‘What happened to you?’ Derwent demanded, shouldering his way in with all the finesse of someone on a dawn raid. ‘You look like hell.’

‘Mmph,’ I said.
I missed you too
.

He closed the door. We both looked down at the mountain of junk mail that had built up over the two months I’d been living alone.

‘God almighty, Kerrigan, you could tidy up occasionally.’

‘I’m busy,’ I said through the toothpaste. ‘I have better things to do.’

‘Like what?’ He strode past me to the sitting room, where he whistled. ‘I hadn’t realised Rob was the tidy one. This place is a pigsty.’

I took the toothbrush out of my mouth. ‘Shut up.’

‘Didn’t catch that.’

I raised a middle finger, and my eyebrows. Derwent grinned. There wasn’t much he enjoyed more than getting a reaction from me. He stood in the middle of the living room and turned, taking in far more than I would have liked him to. The bin, overflowing. Untouched saucepans hanging in a neat row. Crumbs on the counter. Takeaway cartons stacked by the sink. Papers everywhere. My laptop, open on the sofa. The room said, more loudly than I could:
I can’t be bothered
. His eyes came back to me.

‘Nice outfit.’

I looked down at myself and shrugged. Leggings and an old t-shirt of Rob’s. It wasn’t haute couture, but they were real clothes, not just pyjamas. I counted that as a victory.

‘Did you even leave the flat today?’

I nodded vigorously. A trip to the corner shop counted as leaving the flat. I must have been out for all of five minutes.

‘Did you eat anything?’

Another nod. I was sure I had. I couldn’t quite remember what.

‘For God’s sake, Kerrigan, I can’t talk to you like this.’

I shrugged again.
That was basically my plan
.

Derwent’s expression darkened. ‘Okay. Try this. You have ten minutes to get ready. If you’re not ready, you’re coming with me anyway. You can explain to DCI Burt why you’re inappropriately dressed at a crime scene.’

I rolled my eyes but headed back to the bathroom.

‘And do something about your hair,’ Derwent yelled after me.

In nine minutes and 59 seconds precisely I walked into the living room, suited, booted and with my hair tamed into a bun. Derwent was leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands in his pockets.

‘That’s better.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘You need make-up.’

‘No one
needs
make-up,’ I snapped. ‘Especially not at a crime scene.’

‘
You
need make-up. Assuming you want to look human.’

‘Oh, great, thank you.’

‘Halloween was last month.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘So the zombie look isn’t really appropriate.’

I opened my mouth to answer him and then shut it again. I held myself very still.
Do not throw up. Do
NOT
throw up.

‘Kerrigan.’

I ignored him, staring at the floor until the wave of nausea receded. When I looked back at Derwent, the mocking smirk had disappeared. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, trying to sound as if I meant it. Then I frowned. Something was different. ‘Did you tidy up?’

‘A bit.’

‘You emptied the bin,’ I said slowly. ‘And you did the washing-up.’

‘And got rid of the junk mail in the hall, and threw out the food in the fridge that was actually rotting, and plugged in your computer.’

If it had been anyone other than Derwent who tidied up, I’d have been grateful. But Derwent was the king of ulterior motives.

‘My computer,’ I said. ‘Why did you even touch my computer?’

‘You only had five per cent of your battery life left.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘I know you like living on the edge but that’s just unnecessary.’

‘You must have been looking at it,’ I said, fighting to stay calm. ‘Why were you looking at it?’

He levered himself off the counter and came towards me, crowding me, getting into my face. I’d seen him do it hundreds of times. It wasn’t even the first time he’d done it to me. It was one of Derwent’s favourite interrogation techniques. ‘What’s wrong, Kerrigan? Something to hide?’

‘Nothing to hide. I’m entitled to my privacy, though. Sir.’

A minute narrowing of his eyes told me he’d registered the last word and its implications.
You are my boss. You are in my home. Your behaviour is, as usual, inappropriate and I have had enough of it for the time being
. I held his gaze, my expression stony.

‘I’m just looking out for you.’ His voice was soft, which meant precisely nothing. Derwent’s temper was volcanic, legendarily so, but he had enough control over it, and himself, to shout only when he needed to. And since we were inches apart, shouting would have been excessive.

‘You don’t need to look out for me.’

‘Someone should.’

‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘I
am
managing. So stop patronising me.’

He didn’t move for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, at least to me. Then, to my enormous relief, he turned away. ‘I was going to carry the bin bag down for you. But if that’s too patronising you can carry it yourself.’

I rolled my eyes at his back. ‘Thanks.’

He wouldn’t have missed the sarcasm in my voice, but he didn’t look back. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go.’

IT DIDN’T TAKE
long to get to the Maudling Estate – at least, not the way Derwent drove. It wasn’t the first time we’d been there in the middle of the night and I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the memory of another visit, a couple of months earlier.

‘All too familiar,’ Derwent said, echoing my thoughts. He was trying to find a place to leave the car on the street nearby. There was no point in trying to get into the car park at the centre of the estate. The blue lights from police cars, ambulances and fire engines flared on the buildings, reflecting on the windows. Countless people milled about, apparently aimlessly, evacuees from the buildings or just curious onlookers. Inevitably the media were there, TV reporters clutching microphones, caught in a halo of white light from their cameras. Derwent pulled in at the end of a row of vans with satellite dishes mounted on the top.

‘As if they have a right to be here,’ he growled. ‘You know they think they’re important. All they’re doing is getting in the way.’

‘They’re reporting the news.’

‘They don’t know any news. They haven’t been told anything yet.’

‘They still need to cover the story.’

‘A bloody great building caught fire and no one knows why yet. That’s the story.’

‘And when they hear about Armstrong?’

Derwent grimaced. ‘Then life won’t be worth living. Come on. At least this time we’re not going to a van full of dead coppers.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ I got out of the car and looked up at the flats, to identify the tower that had burned. It was easy to see where the fire had been – black shadows clouded around the windows on the top floors and smoke was still seeping out, dark against the orange-tinted clouds that passed for a night sky. Most of the windows were open or broken, holes in the building that reminded me of wounds. The remains of curtains fluttered inside and out, caught by the breeze that was stronger the higher you went. The movement was eerie. I couldn’t stop myself from seeing it as people waving, crying for help, but I knew the fire brigade would have rescued anyone up there by now. Water stained the concrete all the way down the outside of the tower. The whole building was glowing eerily, the emergency lighting shining with a greyish glare. It was a long way from the top of the tower to the ground. The remarkable thing wasn’t that three people had died. It was incredible that
only
three people had died.

When Derwent spoke, I jumped. I hadn’t realised he was standing right beside me.

‘All right, Kerrigan?’

‘Fine.’

‘It’s just – well, this isn’t your favourite place, is it? Not after what happened here.’

‘I haven’t even thought about it,’ I lied. It was on the Maudling Estate that I’d been trapped for ten minutes in a stairwell with four teenage boys who wanted to hurt me, at the very least. Only ten minutes – but it had changed the course of my life. It had crossed my mind, once or twice.

Derwent nodded. ‘Well, I have been thinking about it. And if you see any of the little shitbags who scared you, I want to know about it.’

‘Forget it,’ I said lightly. ‘I have.’

He shook his head. ‘Not convincing.’

‘I’ll have to try harder.’

‘You do that.’ He stepped back and let me walk ahead of him. ‘Don’t worry, Kerrigan. I’ll be right behind you.’

It was typical of Derwent that it sounded more like a threat than reassurance. I hunched my shoulders against the prickling unease that made me want to run away and stalked into the Maudling Estate ahead of him, hoping I looked as if I didn’t know what fear was.

The first person I saw was Una Burt, deep in conversation with two men. One wore the black and yellow London Fire Brigade uniform. He carried a yellow helmet in one hand and sweat had plastered his hair to his head. He was middle-aged, obviously senior and just as obviously fed up to be talking to Una Burt. I could imagine he had more important things to do with his time, like managing the teams of firefighters who were swarming through the building. The other man was in a blue boiler suit with Fire Investigation written across the back and had a white hard hat on his head. Burt was nodding as he spoke. She glanced over his shoulder and noticed us. To say she looked pleased would be an exaggeration but she beckoned us over. The senior firefighter took the opportunity to disappear while Burt was distracted.