Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller

‘Which reminds me.’ He took out his tin of tobacco again, opening it on his knee this time. ‘Almost time for another coffin nail.’

‘Will-i-am. I wish you wouldn’t call them that.’ The voice came from behind me and I jumped; I hadn’t heard anyone approach. A thin, withered woman stood in the doorway holding a cloth with gloved hands.

‘Mrs Turner?’ I stood up. ‘I’m DS Maeve Kerrigan. I’m here to ask some questions about what happened up the road.’

‘I don’t know anything.’ Her eyes were fixed on her son who was concentrating on his cigarette. ‘Don’t do that in here, William. You’ll drop bits of it everywhere.’

‘Then you can sweep them up.’ He winked at me. ‘Got to give her a reason to live, don’t I?’

Mrs Turner sighed. ‘You’re terrible.’

‘You love it.’

She squeezed the cloth in her hands, still watching him. It was as if I didn’t exist. I could see what William had meant when he said she didn’t notice anything that happened outside their home. DCI Gordon had been forthright about her. ‘She can’t imagine her boy doing anything wrong. She thought I was a bully and a liar. Little Willy never did anything to hurt anyone.’ A snort. In his opinion, Mr Turner had been fully justified in doing a runner before William was born. ‘She had money because her parents were very well off – they bought the house, for instance – but money isn’t everything, is it?’

I had agreed that no, it was not and Gordon had laughed. ‘It helps though.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Well, Turner didn’t stick around to see his son. Maybe the boy would have turned out better if he’d been around. He had too much attention, that was the problem. He thought he was the centre of the universe because, for his mum, he is.’

‘Do you know Kate Emery, Mrs Turner?’ I asked.

‘Who?’

‘The lady who lives at number twenty-seven. She has a daughter, Chloe, who’s almost the same age as William.’

‘Oh. I know her a bit. Not properly.’ She was folding the cloth over and over, mindlessly. ‘She used to be a nurse.’

‘Once upon a time.’

‘She helped me with William once, when he was younger. He had a bad attack and I ran out into the street in a panic. She helped me before the ambulance came. She was nice then. But I don’t know her.’ She blinked. Her eyelids and the end of her nose were pink and looked raw, as if she’d been crying. She had none of her son’s looks, and I couldn’t imagine that she’d ever been attractive. Mr Turner had to have been a stunner.

‘You still haven’t said what happened,’ William Turner said. ‘Is Chloe OK?’

‘Physically.’

‘So that leaves her mum.’ A muscle tightened in his jaw. ‘Let me guess. She was stabbed.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because you’re asking me about something that happened four years ago, that was thoroughly investigated at the time, as if it’s suddenly important.’

‘Well, it might be.’ I stood up. ‘I can’t tell you what happened at number twenty-seven yet. At the moment we’re still investigating. But I can tell you that we’ll need a sample of your DNA and your fingerprints.’ And while they were at it, I was going to apply for a warrant to search his house.

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘You said yourself you couldn’t remember if you’d been in the house. We need to rule you out.’ Or in. ‘That’s why we need your prints and your DNA.’

Turner nodded. ‘Then come back and get them. I have nothing to hide.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said, and left.

8 (#ulink_b54795be-7853-5eda-b826-4e5d749a254a)

I stepped out of the house with a profound feeling of relief that evaporated instantly. Derwent was leaning against the bonnet of my car, his legs crossed at the ankle, his hands in his pockets.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded.

‘Waiting for you.’

‘For any particular reason? Or because you missed me?’

‘Funny.’ His mood was like a black cloud hanging in the air around him. ‘I recognised the car. Who were you talking to?’

I came closer so I could speak more quietly. ‘William Turner. And his mother.’

‘And did he ping your freak-o-meter?’

‘I’m not sure. He was trying hard to impress me, so there was a lot of showing off.’

‘I bet he was,’ Derwent said softly. ‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty.’

‘And he still lives at home.’

‘He has bad asthma. I doubt it would be safe for him to live alone. Plus, I imagine he’s on benefits. He doesn’t work.’

‘What a prize.’

‘You wouldn’t have liked him.’ But then you don’t like anyone. I tried again. ‘Why are you waiting for me?’

‘Harold Lowe has given us permission to look around his house.’ Derwent held up a set of keys and shook them at me. His expression, if anything, had darkened.

‘I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.’

‘He said that he knew Kate Emery well. She used to bring him cakes, cook him meals, that kind of thing.’ Derwent’s mouth tightened. ‘Guess how she used to come round?’

My spirits sank. ‘Through the back garden?’

‘Got it in one. And get this: she used to use it as a shortcut to get to the shops. She had a key to the side gate and everything.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘So what the dog told us doesn’t mean much, does it? Back to square one. No body, no suspects and no ideas.’

‘Still no sign of the body.’

‘They’re looking. They’ve been out on the river, checking the places the bodies usually wash up. But if she went in the water, she’ll be long gone. All that rain.’

I shuddered, thinking of the cold grey waters of the Thames. Countless bodies had disappeared into it, never to resurface. ‘Risky, throwing a body into the water, though. There’s always someone watching in a city like this.’