The Kill (2 page)

‘Sh—sugar.’

He was concentrating on watching where he was going when Megan exclaimed, ‘Look.’

‘What is it?’

‘Another car.’

Hugh was crouching before she’d finished saying the second word. ‘It’s a trap. It must be. An ambush. They pretended they were leaving so we’d show ourselves.’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it again, with the same result. Twisting around to look at her, he snapped, ‘For God’s sake, Meg, get low and stay low.’

‘This one is parked,’ Megan pointed out.

It was parked in an odd place, though. There was a small service road that branched off the main one. It wasn’t open to the public – Megan had noticed the signs earlier, on her way past. The car was parked under the trees, pointing into the darkness, and from the road it would have been more or less invisible. From where Megan was standing she could see the back windows and the boot, but that was only because her eyes were used to the lack of light. She couldn’t have said why but she was drawn towards it.

‘Where are you going? Come back!’

Megan was getting used to ignoring Hugh’s hissed orders. She kept going, bending to peer inside the car, but the darkness was total. She was within twenty yards of it when she stopped.

‘What is it?’ Hugh had followed, staying well back.

‘The windscreen is shattered.’

‘Maybe they crashed.’

‘I don’t think so.’ She took a few more steps, getting closer. ‘I think—’

It was like one of those pictures that plays with perception, where a flock of birds turns into a crowd of people. One minute there was a car, familiar and unthreatening despite the broken glass. Then she looked again. Once she’d seen the blood, she couldn’t see anything else.

‘What? Meg, what’s wrong?’

The Megan who had agreed, giggling, to go badger-watching with Hugh would have whirled around to bury her face in his chest. That Megan would have let him take charge. That Megan would have sobbed out her horror and upset and would have been glad to be comforted.

That Megan was gone, maybe for ever. The new Megan turned to Hugh. Her voice was calm, when she spoke. Cold, even. The distress was there, somewhere, but hidden by a strange kind of composure.

‘We do need to call the police. We should hurry.’

‘What is it?’

‘I think what we heard
were
shots.’ She paused for a second. ‘I think we heard a murder.’

Chapter 1

Afterwards, everyone agreed on one thing: she was a beautiful bride. Christine Bell was always pretty, but on her wedding day she glowed with happiness. A cynic might have said the glow was something to do with the small bump under the forgiving folds of her empire-line wedding dress.
I
might have said it, but I was having a day off from cynicism. Even though I was allergic to public displays of affection, I let Rob hold my hand as Christine walked past us up the aisle. She beamed as she clung to her father’s arm, taking her time about getting to the altar although the organist was thundering through ‘Here Comes the Bride’ as if it was a race to the finish.

Leaning out, I could see Ben Dornton as he turned around to watch her walking towards him and the mixture of love, awe and hope on his face jolted me out of my usual composure. Ben was a detective sergeant on my team. Balding and thin, he was not my idea of a romantic hero, even in a pearl-grey morning suit, but there was something unguarded and honest in his expression that brought tears to my eyes. I squeezed Rob’s hand as I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked furiously, afraid to rub my eyes in case I smudged my mascara. He didn’t look at me but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching and knew why: a five-pound bet outside the church that I would cry before Christine made it to the altar.

Which reminded me about the other party to that particular bet. I leaned forward to see across the aisle, to the box pew where DI Josh Derwent was standing on his own, order of service in hand, glowering at me. He shook his head slowly, disgusted. He’d thought I could hang on until the vows before I wept. Not for the first time, I’d let him down.

And since I’d bet both of them I wouldn’t cry at all, I’d let myself down too.

I didn’t care. I shrugged at Derwent and went digging in my bag for a tissue. There were plenty of other people in the congregation who were sobbing happily too: most of Christine’s family, including her father, and lots of my colleagues’ girlfriends who were obviously imagining the day it would be their turn. The two bridesmaids, still pink from their walk to the altar, were dabbing at their eyes. And why not cry? It was a beautiful day, and Christine was a beautiful bride, and the two of them couldn’t have been happier to be getting married. There was a baby on the way, it was true, but this wasn’t a shotgun wedding. They had got engaged months before the bride got pregnant. Christine was a civilian analyst in our office, and liked to confide in me for no reason that I could see, so I had been party to the long, tearful discussions in the ladies’ loo about whether it was better to postpone the wedding until after the baby had arrived or whether she should just get on with it. My vote had been firmly for getting on with it. There was a limit to how many times I could feign interest in swatches of material for bridesmaids’ dresses or wedding favours or accent colours for decorating the chairs at the reception.

Besides, I was looking forward to the wedding. I had a dress I wanted to wear that would just about do for a September wedding. Midnight-blue, narrow and strapless, it was a world away from my usual work clothes. Rob had booked time off work so we could go together, and I’d never been to the part of Somerset where the bride’s family lived. The wedding was in a tiny thirteenth-century church in the middle of a postcard-perfect village. The church was currently crammed with rather a lot of the Met’s finest, but you could still admire the rood screen if that was your thing, and the carving on the pulpit, and the marble monuments to local worthies from centuries ago. Afterwards the reception would be across the road, in a marquee in the garden of the bride’s aunt’s house. We were staying in one of the local pubs, where they had romantic rooms with low beams and wide, soft beds and a roll-top bath by the window. I had booked to stay an extra night, so Rob and I could be alone together. In almost two years we’d never gone away anywhere on holidays. A trip to the country, even if it was just for the weekend, made a nice change.

The only problem was that I couldn’t drink any of the French wine that Ben had travelled across the Channel to buy – cases and cases of it, since he knew his colleagues well enough to cater for a big night. Derwent had driven some of it down from London in his car, and Rob had gone to help him unload it while we hung around before the wedding.

‘Not that there’s much point since I won’t be able to have any.’ Derwent dumped a box by the marquee and went back to get another one.

‘Are you on call? So’s Maeve.’ Rob was moving much more slowly than Derwent, not being in the least bothered about the inspector’s compulsion to prove himself quicker and stronger than any other man. Tall and broad-shouldered, Rob looked extremely handsome in his best suit. As if he knew what I was thinking, he winked at me before he disappeared inside the marquee. I guessed he was going to put the case behind the bar, where it was needed, rather than leaving it outside. Derwent was on his third case by now, piling them up. I sat on the wall and watched the two of them, amused.

‘It’s typical.’ Derwent glared at me. ‘And I’ll be watching you, Kerrigan. No sneaking a glass of fizz.’

‘Just to toast the happy couple.’

He pointed at me. ‘Not a drop.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ I protested. ‘I know the rules. Besides, the boss is going to be there. I wouldn’t dare.’ The boss was Superintendent Charles Godley, one of the Met’s stars, who was handsome and talented and expected the best from his team. We investigated murders. The most complex and sensitive ones came to us, which was flattering, but it meant that we couldn’t shut down for the weekend. Everyone was invited to the wedding but some of us had to stay sober, ready to rush back to London if we were needed. Rob had been one of us, once upon a time. He knew the score. Given the choice, he would have been happy to be on call too, I felt.

But we wouldn’t be needed. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up so the sunshine could warm it. The weather was perfect. Everything would be perfect.

Derwent nudged my foot with the toe of his shoe. ‘Wake up.’

‘I’m not asleep,’ I said, not opening my eyes. ‘Why are you bothering me?’

‘There’s no one else to talk to.’

‘Why didn’t you bring a date? Couldn’t you find anyone?’

‘Of course I could have found someone. I wanted to come on my own.’

‘Why?’

‘I have my reasons.’

Something in his voice made me open my eyes. I shaded them with my hand so I could look at him. ‘Do I want to know what those reasons are?’

A grin. ‘Probably not.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Maybe later.’ He looked past me and raised a hand. ‘There’s Ben. Poor fucker. He looks as if he’s going to spew.’

‘He’s probably nervous.’

‘Nervous that Christine won’t turn up. It’s a good thing he got her pregnant. She’s a long way out of his league.’

‘She’s completely in love with him,’ I said, my voice sharp. ‘She’ll be there because she wants to marry Dornton.’

A slow headshake. ‘That was quality minge.’

I shuddered. ‘Congratulations. That is absolutely the most offensive way you could have said you found Christine attractive.’

‘Do you reckon?’ Derwent leaned back, hands in his pockets, thinking. ‘I bet I can come up with something more offensive than that.’

‘Please don’t bother.’ I stood up.

‘Aw. I was enjoying the view.’

‘What view?’

The grin again. ‘You should always wear skirts like that. With a slit, I mean.’

I had forgotten about the slit. It ran up as far as my thigh, and when I sat down, most of my left leg was on display. I blushed, which was annoying. ‘Not exactly ideal for work.’

‘No. Not with stockings, anyway.’ The grin had got wider. ‘Lace tops, too. Nice.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ Rob had finished moving the boxes from Derwent’s car, as well as the ones Derwent had abandoned outside the marquee. Now he strolled across the grass to stand beside me. He slung an arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards him so he could drop a kiss on my cheek. I knew my face was hot.

‘I was just saying what a lucky man you are,’ Derwent said smoothly.

‘You won’t get any arguments from me.’ Rob’s arm tightened around me for just a second and I didn’t duck away. Having him there was like emotional body armour, which I badly needed when Derwent was around.

I twisted to see the church, where there was a growing crowd centred on Dornton. ‘Let’s go and talk to the others.’

Derwent had come with us, but diluted by lots of other people he wasn’t as bad. The conversation had been distinctly less personal, at least until Rob and he had started placing bets on whether I’d cry or not.

I looked across the aisle again, to where Derwent was sitting, sombre in dark-grey. He looked more like he was at a funeral than a wedding, I thought. Coming into autumn he was at his leanest, with two marathons done for the year and another lined up before winter. His jawline was sharply cut, his cheeks slightly hollow, and to me he looked hungry, but possibly not for food. He was sitting quite still, his attention directed somewhere other than the couple standing at the front of the church, exchanging their vows with tremulous sincerity. I followed the line of his gaze to see where he was looking and I was not in the least surprised to find that he was staring at the prettier of the two bridesmaids. Nor was I all that surprised that she was staring back. He looked all right, from a distance. It was only when you got talking to him that you realised he was the last man on earth you should tangle with.

I just hoped she’d have the sense to run away.

It was after the dinner (excellent), the speeches (long) and the bride and groom’s first dance (awkward but tender) that Derwent came for me. I was sitting beside Rob, my back to the rolled-up side of the marquee. I was enjoying myself in a mild way but I hadn’t said much all evening. I was missing Liv, my friend and colleague, who was recovering from a nasty injury and had been off work for almost a year. She was travelling with her girlfriend, and had sent good wishes. I would have preferred to have her there. A light breeze from the garden sighed across my skin, but it was hot in the marquee and I didn’t need or want my jacket. Rob had taken off his too, and his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. His hair was a little bit rumpled and I watched him laughing at one of Chris Pettifer’s jokes, the lines lengthening around his eyes in a way that made my heart turn over. True to my word, I hadn’t had a drop to drink but I felt not quite sober, all the same, when I looked at Rob. I wanted to lean against him and whisper in his ear. I wanted to tangle my fingers in his hair and kiss him. I wanted to press my body against him. I wanted to draw him into the dark garden and be alone with him. I settled for dropping a hand on his long, lean thigh, feeling the muscles move under my palm as he registered the contact and knew just what it meant.

Derwent’s voice shattered my reverie. ‘Can I borrow your bird?’

‘Depends,’ Rob said. ‘Why do you want her?’

‘Just a dance.’

I looked up at Derwent, unsmiling in his suit. He was as immaculate as he’d been eight hours earlier. So much for the party mood.

‘I’m not dancing,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘I hate dancing when I’m sober.’ It was true. I felt too self-conscious. I was too tall to be inconspicuous on a dance floor.

‘I’ll look after you.’ Derwent held out a hand to me. ‘Come on.’

‘Go on.’ Rob nudged me, as if I wanted his encouragement. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘I do,’ I said.

‘Don’t be such a misery-guts,’ Derwent snapped. ‘Just come and dance with me. It won’t take long.’

Something in the way he said it made me suspicious. ‘Why? What’s your game?’