Jane Casey - Let the Dead Speak

‘Have you spoken with Chloe?’ I asked.

‘No. I mean, I asked if she wanted anything to eat or drink.’ Eleanor Norris squeezed her thin hands together as if they were cold. ‘My husband told me about the house. About what they saw.’

‘Very unpleasant,’ I said blandly.

‘Do you think you’re going to be finished across the road soon?’ Eleanor’s voice dropped so it was whispery low. ‘Only, I think it would be good for Chloe to know when she can go home.’

‘Not soon,’ I said.

‘Even if she wanted to,’ Georgia added. ‘I wouldn’t want to, would you?’

‘She can stay here for a few days, but …’ Eleanor shrugged helplessly. But I can’t accommodate a neighbour in my house indefinitely . Her cheeks were flushed.

‘We’ll know a lot more in the morning,’ I said soothingly. It was true, but probably not relevant to Chloe’s plans. Eleanor Norris didn’t need to know that though. ‘Has Chloe spoken to her father?’

‘No. She won’t call him.’

He’d been informed, I knew. Una Burt had asked Thames Valley Police to speak to him, to get the measure of the man at the same time as breaking the bad news. I hoped for his sake he’d reacted with the requisite shock and horror, and for our sake that he hadn’t, that he had no alibi, that he had been nursing a grievance, that there was a murder weapon conveniently located in his car along with a few telling bloodstains … Ex-husbands made good suspects in murder investigations.

‘Do they get on? Chloe was visiting him, wasn’t she?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ Eleanor looked past us to where the police helicopter was hovering. It was shining its searchlight into the garden behind number 27, the beam piercing the unnatural gloom. ‘What are they looking for?’

‘It’s just part of the investigation,’ I said quickly, before Georgia could say anything about the body, or rather the lack of one. ‘When was the last time you saw Kate Emery, Mrs Norris?’

‘Oh – I don’t know.’ She bit her lip. ‘Wednesday night, I think. We were putting out the bins at the same time.’

I made a note. ‘Did you speak?’

‘No. I waved at her. I had no idea – I mean, I couldn’t know.’

‘Of course. Do you know her well?’

‘Not really.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘My daughter is friendly with Chloe.’ It came out in a rush, as if she didn’t want to say anything about it but knew we’d find out anyway.

‘What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Bethany.’

‘How old is she?’

‘She’s fifteen. Just turned fifteen, actually.’

‘Younger than Chloe,’ I observed.

‘Yes, but Bethany’s very mature and Chloe—’ she broke off and gave me an embarrassed smile. ‘You’d probably like to speak to her.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘It’s the door straight ahead of you at the top of the stairs.’

I was aware of her watching us as we went up. I didn’t look back at her, even though I was wondering about a couple of things, like her choice of clothes and whether that was why she had sweated through our conversation, and why she had been so concerned about her daughter’s relationship with Chloe. And yet people did behave weirdly around the police, especially on the periphery of a murder investigation, and parents did worry about protecting their children even if they had nothing to hide, and the shock of being close to a violent crime could send your body’s thermostat out of whack. Trust no one … It was a reasonable enough approach, all things considered.

I knocked on the door at the end of the hall and a suspicious face appeared. ‘Yes?’

I showed her my badge. ‘Can we speak to Chloe?’

She was short and middle-aged with close-cropped hair and kind eyes, and I wouldn’t have dared to try and persuade her to do anything against her orders. She peered at me, and then at Georgia behind me, before she nodded.

‘Come in.’

‘Has she said anything?’ I asked in a whisper as I passed the officer, and got a shake of her head in response.

Chloe Emery was curled up on a chair, staring at the rain that was sluicing down the window. She didn’t look round when we walked in. I took a moment to scan the room, more out of habit than anything else, noting amateurishly painted white walls, a crammed bookcase, a single bed, a bedside table with nothing on it but a lamp. Then I shifted my attention to Chloe. She was tall, with slender limbs and long dark hair.

‘Chloe?’

She turned to look at me. Her face was beautiful but somehow blank, with heavy dark eyebrows over blue eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Maeve Kerrigan. I’m a detective sergeant with the Metropolitan Police. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

She shook her head but she drew her legs up to her chest. She looked nothing short of terrified.

I sat down on the bed opposite her. Start with an easy question . ‘How old are you, Chloe?’

‘Eighteen.’

She seemed younger to me, like a child. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed an appropriate adult to be with her.

‘I know you’ve had a difficult day, Chloe, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I need to ask you some questions. Is that OK?’

She nodded, but warily.

‘Can you state your address for me?’

‘Twenty-seven Valerian Road, Putney, SW15.’

‘And that’s where you live most of the time, is that right?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was toneless and her eyes wandered around the room as she spoke. I felt she was working hard to stop herself from fidgeting.

‘Who else lives there?’

‘My mum.’

‘And what’s her name?’

She thought for a second. ‘Kate.’

‘Kate Emery.’

‘Yes, Kate Emery.’

‘Do you have the same last name, Chloe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that the same name as your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘But your parents are divorced.’

‘Yes.’ Her answers were getting softer. I felt I was wandering onto dangerous ground without knowing why.

‘You were away for the weekend, is that right?’

Another nod.

‘Where were you?’

‘With my dad.’

‘Were the two of you alone?’

‘No.’

I waited but she didn’t say anything else. ‘Who else was there, Chloe?’

‘My stepmother.’ There was a pause and I was about to ask another question when she added, ‘And Nathan. And N— his brother.’

‘Who’s Nathan?’

‘My stepbrother.’

‘And his brother,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

She stared at the corner of the room, pressing her lips together. No answer. It wasn’t a question that was designed to trip her up – quite the opposite. These were the easy, factual questions, the ones that gave people confidence, that settled them into an interview. But I was hitting a wall I hadn’t even known I’d find.

‘Do you have any other brothers and sisters?’

‘No.’

‘So you live with your mum. Does anyone else live in the house?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me when you left home for your weekend with your dad?’

‘Wednesday. In the afternoon.’

‘Did you see your mother before you left?’

A nod. ‘She was at home.’

‘Did she say anything unusual? Anything that concerned you?’

Another helpless shake of the girl’s head. ‘I don’t remember anything.’

‘Did she seem worried or preoccupied?’

‘N-no.’ She wasn’t sure, though.

‘What did she say, Chloe?’

‘She was talking about work. She was busy with work and she – she wanted me to go. She was afraid I’d be late. She had lots of work to do, she said.’

‘What work does she do?’