The Last Girl (6 page)

I caught Derwent’s eye. We really hadn’t made a good first impression.

‘They are very able officers, experienced in handling difficult cases, and I have total faith in them. I can assure you they will receive ample support from their colleagues, and from me. I can further assure you that I am capable of running this investigation at the same time as the other investigations on my team’s workload. That’s why I do the job I do. And it would help a lot if you’d let my officers do their job, and answer their questions honestly, no matter how personal they may be. You know better than to think it’s for no reason, Mr Kennford, so stop pissing about.’

I had been right about the strain beginning to tell on
Godley;
nine times out of ten he would have ignored a jibe like Kennford’s, and I couldn’t recall the last time he’d lost his temper with a grieving partner. Not that Kennford was distraught – far from it. In fact, he seemed to be pleased to have got a reaction.

‘I’m not surprised that this is the approach you’re taking, but it’s still disappointing. Just promise me you won’t let your investigation be sidetracked by chasing after rumours and spite that have nothing to do with the death of my wife and child.’

‘You have my word. We will find whoever did this and bring them to justice.’ Godley waited for a beat. ‘Whoever they are.’

‘Even me?’ Kennford gave a humourless laugh. ‘Point taken. But you won’t be knocking on my door, I assure you. Now if you don’t mind wrapping this up, I’ve got a thumping headache and I’ve got to sort out somewhere to stay. Then I have to pack, if I’m allowed to take things out of my bedroom. I think it’s time to draw this delightful conversation to a close.’

‘I agree.’ Godley looked slightly awkward. ‘We’ll have to have someone with you when you pack, just so we know what’s left the house.’

‘Afraid I’ll smuggle the knife out in my suitcase?’

‘I have to avoid any suggestion that the crime scenes were compromised, Mr Kennford. You understand how important it is to preserve the evidence as much as we can – so we don’t have to answer any difficult questions when the case comes to trial.’

‘The sort of thing I’d make into grounds for immediate acquittal, you mean?’ He rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted. ‘You do whatever you need to. I’m not going to kick up a fuss about any of it. I’ll follow your lead, if that’s what you want.’

‘That will help,’ Godley said evenly. ‘Answering our questions will also be useful.’

‘That’s what I’ve been doing.’

‘One last one, then. You must have been thinking about this, so it should be easy to answer. Who do you think murdered your wife and your daughter?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think of anyone.’ Kennford held Godley’s gaze as he replied. He sounded completely sincere. ‘If I had any suspicions about anyone, you would be the first to know.’

I couldn’t have said why, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

Chapter Three

‘JUST AS A
matter of interest, what would it take to get you to be sympathetic?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I suppose it’s not as if his entire family was wiped out. Just most of it. So if they’d all been killed, or maybe if the house had burned down too … or – no, this would definitely do it – if they’d stabbed the dog. Then Kennford might have got a “Sorry for your loss”.’

Derwent spread his hands wide, mock-apologetic. ‘What can I say? I have no time for people who make their living off getting criminals out of trouble. And I can’t stand people who play favourites with their kids. Twins, too. How much worse would you feel if it was your twin who was the chosen one and you were out in the cold?’

‘Seems like it hit a nerve. Remind me, do you have any siblings?’

‘None I still speak to.’ He walked away and I didn’t have to be particularly intuitive to know he didn’t want to say anything more about it. He was reflected almost perfectly in the black marble tiles of the kitchen floor. I didn’t think it was the right time to point out he was leaving smudgy footprints all over it.

‘Look at this. How much do you think it set them back?’

‘The kitchen? Tens of thousands, I should think.’

‘I mean the whole thing.’

‘Millions. No expense spared.’ I played with the folding door that ran across the back of the room. It slid back into
position
with a nudge, the engineering flawless. ‘Do you buy his line about not earning anything from his work?’

‘Everything’s relative, isn’t it? He’d probably think what we earn is pocket money.’

‘We’re not overpaid though, are we?’

‘That’s because they know we’re stupid enough to do this job for nothing.’

‘Is that how you feel about it?’

He looked around quickly. ‘Isn’t that how you feel?’

‘More or less,’ I admitted. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought you were in love with the job.’

‘I don’t know about being in love. But I’m good at it, and there’s always something important to do. Something that matters. I don’t know how people do jobs that just make money. I couldn’t bring myself to care about working in a bank or an insurance company.’

‘You’d get fired before your probation period was up for being rude to the customers.’

‘Fuck, yes. I’d be dead meat.’

He was opening and closing drawers and cupboards, looking for nothing in particular. I knew better than to ask what he was doing. The SOCOs had gone through the cutlery and checked the murder weapon wasn’t sitting in a drawer or the dishwasher; it had happened before. They were gone now, as were Kennford and his daughter, in separate cars. Godley had gone too, about half an hour before, with instructions to us to be in the office at eight for a team briefing about the case. He wasn’t going home, despite the late hour. Kennford had been right about the gang murders: they were Godley’s main headache. While it was nice to know he thought we could handle the Kennford case, I was uneasily aware that Derwent and I were on our own in more senses than one.

The house was ours for as long as we wanted to snoop around and Derwent was taking his time about it. I checked my watch surreptitiously. It was getting on for
two.
No chance of slipping off to call Rob. At least he understood about late nights; he had worked enough murder enquiries in his time. And he did long enough hours on his new job on the Flying Squad. I barely saw him most of the time.

Derwent peered into the fridge. ‘They don’t eat much, do they? A bit of lettuce, some tomatoes, leftover salmon and a packet of smoked mackerel.’ He pulled a face. ‘Where’s the real food?’

‘What – cheese and steak and potatoes? You sound like my dad. It’s not a proper meal unless there’s meat and potatoes on the plate.’

‘What about the vegetables?’

‘Those he can take or leave.’

‘Old school.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ And I wasn’t going to start telling him. I had a feeling Derwent’s interest in my family extended only to what he could mock.

‘I’d be the same about my greens if I didn’t have to watch what I eat.’

‘Worried about your spare tyre?’

‘I don’t have a fucking spare tyre.’ He fingered his stomach. ‘I run, remember? It’s part of my training to keep an eye on my nutritional intake.’

‘Right. It’s just that I’ve heard your metabolism changes as you reach middle age. That’s why I thought you might be on a diet.’

I left him fizzing with inarticulate rage and slid out into the garden. It was landscaped with immaculately trimmed shrubs and tall trees that blocked the neighbours’ view. No flowers. Not much space besides the pool, which was ice-blue and well maintained. Lights shone under the water, answering a question I hadn’t voiced about how Kennford and his daughter were able to swim late into the night. I skirted the pool and crossed the grass to a wooden bench under a beech tree. It took me a few minutes to scan the
ground
with my Maglite but I found the spot where Kennford hid his cigarette butts behind a piece of sculpture that reminded me of a melted snail shell. It didn’t prove he’d been there earlier that evening, but at least I’d confirmed he was telling the truth about something. I sat on the bench and checked the view of the house. The kitchen stuck out, blocking the line of sight to the sitting-room windows. Even if the attack had taken place while he was outside, he wouldn’t have seen anything.

‘Having a rest?’ Derwent was silhouetted against the light from the kitchen. I crossed the garden towards him.

‘Seeing what Mr Kennford could see from here.’

‘And?’

‘He couldn’t.’

‘Let’s put one tick in the truth column, then. What’s next?’

‘Follow his route into the house, I suppose.’

He stood back. ‘Lead on.’

I was glad I got to go first. It meant I was able to pick a path that avoided the worst of the bloody footprints. The SOCOs had measured and photographed them so there was no pressing reason to tread carefully, but I was superstitious about it. Death had walked through those hallways not long before and I wasn’t all that keen to match him stride for stride. If Derwent noticed, he didn’t say anything about it. He might even have felt the same way, but there was no point in asking him. He’d never admit it.

The footprints had all but disappeared by the time we reached the upper hallway, absorbed by the thick carpet pile, but there were still traces. Enough that you could see the killer had gone to each room in turn.

‘He didn’t know the house,’ I said softly. ‘He didn’t know which room to try.’

‘We don’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t kill Kennford when he had the chance, did he? God knows, I’d
have
had a crack at it if I’d had the time and the tools to hand.’

‘Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was worried about Lydia interrupting him.’

‘Doing what? A spot of burglary? Kennford said there was nothing missing as far as he could see.’ Derwent pulled open the nearest door and looked in, flicking on the light. ‘It all looks neat.’

‘Especially for a teenager’s room.’ I moved past him to stand beside the bed. There was nothing on the walls except for a full-length mirror and none of the usual clutter of make-up, clothes and jewellery that I would have expected. The desk by the window was strictly for books and papers with an Apple laptop in the centre, a top-of-the-range MacBook Pro. The room felt sparse, somehow, and not quite permanent – as if the person who slept there was only using the space for a day or two. ‘Do you think this is Laura’s or Lydia’s?’

‘Lydia’s.’ Derwent was checking the books on the desk and turned one around to show me her name inside the front cover, written in tiny, neat letters.

I bent to look under the bed. ‘She seems like a cheery soul. Maybe she just keeps the fun hidden.’ There was a stack of fashion magazines under the bed and I hooked them out to flick through the pages, looking for nothing in particular and finding just that.

‘Working hard to get Daddy’s approval. No frivolity here. Just hard work and exercise. She’s fifteen, for God’s sake. She should be trying to get served in pubs and staying out late.’

‘And he’d probably respect that more.’

‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

‘So you said earlier.’ I shook my head at him. ‘That was just troublemaking.’

‘Shake the tree – see what falls out. Sometimes you get the coconut. Sometimes you get the monkey.’

‘And sometimes you get damn all.’

‘True.’ He opened a door to reveal a bathroom. ‘Oh, perfect. Of course the teenager needs an en-suite room.’

Every surface in the bathroom bristled with bottles and cosmetics, and the cabinet on the wall hung open. It didn’t seem in keeping with the sterile order in the room behind me.

‘There’s another door on the other side. Maybe it’s shared with her sister.’

I was right, as it turned out, and Laura’s room more than made up for the lack of mess in the other bedroom. Clothes spilled out of her wardrobe and chest of drawers so doors and drawers couldn’t shut, and more were piled high on her chair. It was the first place I’d seen photographs – formal, framed ones on the top of the bookcase, candid shots tucked into the corners of the mirror, family and friends framed in montages on the wall, a selection marching across the windowsill, clipped to tiny wire stalks. Most of the pictures had Laura herself in them – fair hair like her mother, blue eyes like her father, extraordinary prettiness that she had made the most of with make-up, but she was equally stunning without. She looked popular and outgoing, the sun to her twin sister’s shadow. Lydia appeared in a few but only just, often with her head half-turned away or her hair hanging down around her face.

‘Identical,’ Derwent observed, looking over my shoulder. ‘But only one of them got the looks, even so.’

‘It’s all about attitude, isn’t it? Maybe Lydia has the brains.’

‘You’d hope she got something.’

Laura had a profusion of electronic equipment – music decks, a Bang & Olufsen iPod dock, an iPad and a laptop that was open on her bed, on standby.

‘If you wanted to burgle somewhere, you’d start here,’ Derwent commented. ‘Lots of disposable consumer goods.’ He poked the computer and it whirred, then came
on.
‘Log-out screen for her Gmail account. Shame she hadn’t left herself connected. We could have had a snoop.’