Jane Casey - Let the Dead Speak

‘I might need to speak to her.’

‘No. No, you don’t.’ He swallowed. ‘She won’t be able to help you, anyway. She’s not – she doesn’t notice things. She doesn’t go out. She doesn’t look out the window. She doesn’t even know anything’s happened.’

‘I still might need to speak to her.’

He bit his lip, then went into the house. It was cooler inside, the air still. A fly buzzed somewhere, the sound swinging from loud to soft and back again. There was an all-pervading smell of vinegar and lemon and the place was absolutely spotless.

‘You need to take your shoes off,’ he threw over his shoulder and padded into the sitting room. I did as I was told and followed him, blinking against the sunlight that streamed into the room. It was neatly furnished with a leather sofa and armchair, and a couple of small tables. What was mainly remarkable, though, was what I couldn’t see when I looked around. No ornaments. No books. No cushions. No rugs on the wooden floor.

Turner coughed again, his chest heaving. The hollow at the base of his throat deepened as he fought for air. ‘Sorry. Need my—’

He dug in his back pocket and pulled out an inhaler, handling it with the practised skill born of long usage. He turned away from me before he used it and I took the hint: this was private. I was intruding on a personal battle. I sat down, acutely aware of the wheezing, terrified in case it stopped. I knew, in theory, how to resuscitate someone, but that didn’t mean I wanted to do it.

‘Sorry,’ he managed.

‘It’s all right. Take your time.’

‘It happens now and then.’ Five words and three breaths to say them. I winced and took my radio out of my bag, holding it on my knee in case I needed to call for help in a hurry, for him rather than me. Suddenly the room made sense to me: hard surfaces. Wipe-clean leather upholstery. No dust. Vinegar and lemon because someone used homemade cleaning products instead of mass-produced chemicals. Nothing left to chance.

He stood with his back to me, his shoulders hunched, his head hanging down. The wheezing lessened, the breaths coming more regularly. Between his shoulder blades, the fabric of his T-shirt had darkened where he’d sweated through it.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said for the third time.

‘You don’t need to apologise.’ He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, I realised. There was something sly about it that put me on my guard; it was as if he was assessing the impact of the attack on me. ‘What triggered that? Do you know?’

‘I’m not very good at taking my medicine. I forget.’

Maybe you should try a bit harder, since it could actually kill you.

‘Was that a particularly bad one?’

‘Normal.’ He leaned against the chimney breast and ran a hand over his head. ‘Happens all the time. Anything can trigger it. Perfume. Chemicals. Dust. Change in temperature. I’ve got shit lungs.’

‘All the more reason not to smoke.’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘But you keep smoking.’

‘I’d give up if I wanted to live.’ His eyes were fixed on mine, hungry for a reaction. I shrugged.

‘Most people do.’

‘I thought you’d know by now I’m not like most people.’

I laughed. ‘What are you, twenty? Twenty-one?’

‘Twenty.’ His voice was flat.

‘I’ve never met a twenty-year-old who didn’t think they were exceptional. You saying that tells me you’re just like everybody else.’

‘Hey,’ he said, affronted.

‘Hey yourself.’ I leaned forward. ‘Look, I appreciate the effort you’re putting into this but you’re not going to impress me or shock me or whatever it is you’re trying to do. Drop the attitude and I’ll make this as quick as I can.’

He dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘OK.’

‘I’m here because your name came up when we made enquiries with the neighbours. I am not accusing you of anything.’

Turner’s mouth tightened but he stayed silent.

‘I know you know Chloe Emery. How would you describe your relationship?’

‘I only know her to speak to.’

‘Have you ever visited her house?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember,’ I repeated.

‘No, then.’ The amber eyes flicked away from me, darting around the room for inspiration. ‘When we were younger, maybe.’

I sat back in my chair. ‘For someone who managed to avoid being charged with attempted murder, you’re a terrible liar.’

The smile spread over his face. ‘I wasn’t charged with attempted murder because I didn’t do it.’

‘Remember, I’ve spoken to DCI Gordon.’

Turner sat down slowly on the arm of the sofa. ‘What did he tell you?’

‘Everything he found out about you and Ben Christie. Which wasn’t much. Why wouldn’t Ben give evidence against you, William?’

‘Because I didn’t do it.’

‘The incident happened in an alley behind some shops. You were there and Ben Christie was there and Ben ended up with a stab wound in his stomach. It doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to guess what happened.’

‘You could guess, but you’d be wrong.’ Turner’s breathing was still a little fast but his eyes were bright; he was enjoying this.

‘What about the text messages on his phone?’

‘What about them?’

I opened my notebook to read out the exact words. ‘“u know wot u did” “Time 2 make it right” “u can’t back out now” – what was that about?’

‘I don’t remember. Nothing much. Teenage shit. Maybe he spilled my drink or borrowed a quid and didn’t pay it back.’ He yawned. ‘You know you’re talking about something that happened four years ago. I can’t be expected to recall all the details.’

‘He was your friend and he almost died. Of course you remember it,’ I snapped.

Turner lifted his hands and looked at them, turning them over to examine the palms. ‘I was covered in his blood. Did you know that?’

‘I’m not surprised. He was very badly injured.’

‘It was so hot, his blood. It got everywhere. Under my nails. On my shoes. I dream about it sometimes.’ He looked up at me again. ‘I saved his life. I called the ambulance.’

‘You stabbed him.’

‘Not me. I found him. I helped him.’

‘You met him in the alley near your school and you stabbed him.’

‘Did DCI Gordon tell you about the forensics?’ Turner asked, his eyes intent. ‘Did he tell you about the knife?’

‘Yes. He did.’

‘Whose knife was it?’

It was a kitchen knife, an ordinary one with a serrated blade, the kind you might use for cutting up vegetables. Mrs Christie had identified it as one from her house, and cried as she did so.

‘It belonged to the Christies, but—’

‘And whose fingerprints were on it?’ Turner asked.

‘Ben Christie’s.’

‘Not mine.’

‘No. But there are ways of staging that.’

‘I didn’t have to. I never touched it. Did they find my DNA on it?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve read up on DNA. They can do amazing things these days, can’t they? A skin cell or two, that’s all they need to identify someone beyond doubt. And every contact leaves a trace.’

Edmond Locard’s maxim. It was the basic principle of all forensic investigation – that criminals left traces of themselves at crime scenes and crime scenes left traces on the criminals themselves. I wasn’t used to having a suspect quote it at me.

‘So they say. But—’

‘There was no trace of me on the knife. I never touched it. I never held it. I didn’t stab him.’

‘You said yourself you were covered in his blood.’

‘That was after he stabbed himself,’ Turner said dismissively. ‘That proves nothing.’