Authors: Jane Casey
‘Mr Harries.’
‘DC Kerrigan.’ He grinned. ‘Why am I not surprised you’ve turned up here?’
‘I just thought we could have a coffee, if you had time. It was a little bit hectic at your chambers yesterday and I’d really appreciate a quiet word.’
‘You want the dirt on Philip.’
‘That’s a very negative way to put it. If there’s no dirt, there’s nothing to tell me.’ I grinned. ‘Mind you, if there
is
dirt, I’d like to hear it from someone I trust.’
‘And that’s me, is it?’ He laughed. ‘Flattery will get you a long way, Maeve, but I don’t think it would be very loyal of me to tell you all about Philip’s private life.’
‘Loyalty is something you earn, not an entitlement.’
‘Who’s to say Philip hasn’t earned it?’
‘Has he?’
Kit shook his head, looking amused.
‘This is all making me even more suspicious,’ I pointed out. ‘If there wasn’t anything to tell me, you’d have said so.’
‘Expertly done. If I don’t tell you what I know, I’ll be making things worse for him, but if I do tell you, I’ll be breaking his confidence.’
‘Did he ask you to keep secrets for him?’
‘Not specifically.’ He blew out a lungful of air. ‘You know, nothing I know is a secret really, but I can imagine he wouldn’t want me to talk to you about any of it.’
‘That’s sort of why I need you. If he was prepared to be more forthcoming, I’d feel a whole lot better about him. As it is, I have my concerns.’
‘I doubt they’re justified,’ Kit said instantly. ‘He’s not the most ethical of men when it comes to relationships, but that isn’t a crime.’
‘It might help me to understand why his wife and daughter ended up dead, all the same.’
‘I still can’t believe it.’ Kit went silent for a second, his eyes cast down as he considered whether or not he could trust me. The good humour had gone, and with it the impression he gave of being a lightweight; for once I could see the agile mind at work. By the time he looked up again, though, the mischievous expression was back. ‘If I did talk to you, it would have to be conditional on complete confidentiality. If he found out I’d been talking about him, I might end up like your colleague.’
‘Oh, he deserved it. It’s been a long time coming.’ He was coming round to the idea, but he wasn’t there yet. I would give it one more shot, I decided. ‘Look, I’m not asking you to give evidence against him. I just want to know the truth about him, because at the moment I’m going on rumour, prejudice and gut instinct. That’s just not good enough, so I need your help.’
Kit looked over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was close enough to hear us. He nodded to an older barrister who stumped past us, staring at me with open curiosity. I had deliberately cornered him in a very public part of the court building. Pretty much everyone who passed us knew who he was, and could guess what I was. And I wasn’t going anywhere until I got a definitive answer, yes or no.
‘Fine. I can’t talk to you now – I’ve got a bail app in a murder in ten minutes and then I’ve got to talk to the CPS about another case. But I should be free around half past eleven.’
‘Do you want to meet in the canteen?’
‘I’d only meet you there if I wanted the world to know about it.’ He thought for a second. ‘Do you know the New Bridge Café? It’s around the corner from Blackfriars station, by the bridge, unsurprisingly.’
‘I can find it.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
With that he was gone. I had an hour and a half to kill, so I went for a wander through the City. It wasn’t my sort of place – too many people making too much money for doing nothing more than shuffling paper. The Square Mile was crowded with businessmen and tourists and in spite of the ancient monuments and churches dotted about the place I couldn’t get any sense of the history of the area. There were just too many glossy office buildings jammed into too small a space.
It was another scorcher of a day and instinctively I headed for the water, crossing the river on the Millennium footbridge. The Thames oozed below my feet, the water level low. It smelt of brine and something unwholesome reeking from the mud at its edges. From the centre of the bridge I watched the shadows moving under the surface of the water, nameless things passing through the heart of London on their silent journey to the sea. It wasn’t unusual
for
the river police to find bodies in the river – accidental drownings or suicides or murder victims. And every time I heard of one, I couldn’t help thinking of the bodies and body parts they missed, the ones that slid down the vast estuary and into the North Sea without anyone knowing they’d been there at all.
A girl laughed near me and I jumped, brought back to myself. I had been staring at the water for too long, drawn further and further over the edge as I lost myself in dark thoughts. Dizzy, I leaned back from the railing, looking up at the flawless sky, then back at the water. There wasn’t a breath of air, even in the middle of the river, and the sun was cruelly hot on my head. Light sparkled on the surface of the Thames, glinting on the ripples that spread out from the small boats that motored up and down it. To my left, a group of teenagers were posing for pictures, the dome of St Paul’s behind them. To my right, a family had stopped to watch the boats. The youngest in the group, a boy of perhaps two, kicked his heels against his pushchair in delight. They were looking at a different city, a different world. I couldn’t see it that way any longer, if I ever had. Soberly, I slid out of my suit jacket and kept walking.
On the South Bank I followed the path to the Tate Modern where the Turbine Hall was dark and blessedly cool, home to a temporary exhibition of sculpture that I couldn’t quite bring myself to like. I wandered around some of the galleries wondering what made modern art good or bad. Vita had known, or thought she knew, but her husband and sister had both been scathing about her ability to spot talent. There was a room of tapestries that reminded me of the one in the Kennfords’ hall, the colours jarring to me, the textures strange. Kennford had been offhand about his wife’s art collection. He would probably sell it once he was able to take possession of his house again. Would he redecorate to suit his own more traditional taste? Would he bother? I suspected, meanly perhaps, that it depended on
how
the next Mrs Kennford felt about it. She was probably lined up already, solving his housekeeping and childcare problems in one fell swoop.
There was no getting away from it: I might have cheered him on when he tackled Derwent, but I wasn’t a fan of Philip Kennford. I couldn’t say for sure if he was a murderer, but the more I saw of him, and the more I heard about him, the more certain I felt that he was just not a good person.
‘He’s not a bad person.’
It was practically the first thing Kit Harries said to me when he’d negotiated his path through the crowded café to the table I had found at the back. The Bridge Café was a greasy spoon, I’d been delighted to discover, full of builders and scaffolders eating their third breakfast of the day. I’d ordered tea, which came in a thick white mug, already milked. It was the colour of teak and tasted like there were at least twelve teabags in the pot. I was turning into my mother, I mused, ordering tea on a hot day, but there was something refreshing about it – probably the overdose levels of caffeine and tannin.
Having made his pronouncement, Kit stowed his bag beside our table and sat down. He had changed out of his bands into an ordinary collar and tie, but he still looked out of place in the down-to-earth environment of the Bridge. The elderly Italian waitress looked ecstatic when he appeared, though, and from the greeting he got I guessed he was a regular.
‘Your usual, darling?’
‘Why not, Maria. Why not.’
His usual was a bacon sandwich on white bread, oozing ketchup, and a tea to match mine. It arrived in minutes and he laid into it as if he hadn’t seen food for a month.
‘No one else from chambers would come here.’ It was as if he’d read my mind. Between him and Rob, it looked as
if
I needed to work on my poker face. ‘This is strictly for the proles.’
I had to resist the urge to shush him, ducking my head down and taking a sip of tea instead. His voice was particularly carrying, an asset given his profession but not ideal in his current surroundings. I had already got a very expressive look from a workman at the table behind Kit before he returned to reading his paper.
Cheerfully unselfconscious, Kit carried on, clear as a bell. ‘They don’t know what they’re missing. This place is a gem. So much more character than the chain coffee shops, and the food is better too.’
‘I like it,’ I said truthfully. It hadn’t been redecorated since the early sixties, at a guess. The walls were pale green and hung with faded colour photographs of the Italian Riviera. If the ceiling lights were chipped and the tabletops stained, that didn’t take away from the character of the place, and it was perfectly clean. ‘How did you find it?’
‘I collect caffs, the bleaker the better. And this happens to be halfway between chambers and the Old Bailey, so it’s perfect.’ He leaned on the table. ‘Look, I don’t mind talking about PK, but it’s all strictly informal. You didn’t hear any of this from me.’
‘Kit who?’ I grinned at him.
‘Exactly.’ He hesitated. ‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘I’m not looking for evidence. I just want to get a better idea of who he is and what he does.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Between you and me, my inspector is convinced he’s the greatest shagger that ever walked the earth and everything he does is motivated by his cock. My impression of him is that he’s a cold, uncaring individual who should never have been allowed to breed. He seems to be a good lawyer, from what I can gather. And he doesn’t seem to be altogether keen on helping us to find out what happened to his family.’
‘He doesn’t trust the police. That’s the first thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘He did a couple of cases where the defence was police brutality, and won. If it was true, the coppers involved were thoroughly nasty pieces of work. If it wasn’t, every officer in the Met should be gunning for him for ruining their reputations.’
‘He’s not popular,’ I admitted, thinking of Derwent’s instant reaction to the news that we were in his house. ‘But he’s not thick. He must know that Godley isn’t like that. And he’s a victim, isn’t he?’
‘Just because he’s paranoid doesn’t mean you aren’t out to get him.’ Ketchup squirted out of the back of Kit’s sandwich and splattered on the plate, bright red droplets that he dabbed with a piece of bread. I was blindsided by the memory of the white carpet in Kennford’s house and looked away, glad I hadn’t ordered food. Kit’s forehead crinkled. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude about your boss, or you. He’s just wary.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind about Kennford’s opinion of us. What do you know about his private life?’
‘Now there’s a subject we could spend hours discussing. Do you want to know what I know or what I’ve heard?’
‘Both, obviously.’
‘He’s not the sort who likes to be tied down to one woman. He’s got a flat in Clerkenwell – did you know about that?’
I nodded.
‘He probably has a different girl there every night of the week. Keeps them from getting too serious, he says. Mind you, that only works if they’re prepared to share. If not …’ Kit whistled meaningfully.
‘Bitch fights in Middle Temple Lane?’
‘And worse. The trouble is, they all know about each other. He’s lazy about going to look for new talent. Currently, there are at least four junior members of
chambers
who can tell you all about Kennford’s sexual prowess.’
‘How junior?’
‘One pupil. The rest were qualified.’
I raised my eyebrows, surprised. ‘Isn’t that against the rules? Sleeping with a pupil?’
‘Massively.’ Kit shrugged. ‘Alan turned a blind eye and the heads of chambers aren’t very hands-on. I haven’t seen Pelham Griggs this year.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Her pupil master took him aside and had a word. Kennford didn’t care. He said she was old enough to know what she was doing and that she hadn’t seemed to have any complaints. She was older that the usual pupil, thank God. She’d already been a teacher for a few years, then decided on a career change.’ Kit folded the last bit of bread into his cheek and chewed for a moment. ‘Not the first time he’s done it, either. There’s a barrister at Lincoln’s Inn, Jodie Finlay. Stunning looks, very bright, very hardworking. Specialises in sex crimes these days and does very well at it too, when we all know it’s not an easy gig. Kennford slept with her when she was a pupil at Three Unicorn, about fifteen years ago. She
was
young, straight out of college, and no money whatsoever – she’s from the arse end of Cornwall and got where she is on scholarships. Kennford wanted her as soon as he saw her and spent a fortune on persuading her to sleep with him. He bombarded her with presents and kept taking her out to dinner until she felt obliged to give something back. That was how he described it to me, by the way – he wasn’t under any illusions about how she felt about him. It gave him a thrill to coax her into bed when she had turned him down so many times. He’s that sort of person – can’t resist a challenge. And Jodie was a challenge, because even though she was young and impoverished, she was still a feisty one. If you ask me, the whole thing was a power
struggle
and Kennford declared himself the winner once he’d slept with her, more or less against her will.’