Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller. Jane Casey

a slow, husky drawl that I thought he’d probably practised. ‘That depends. Who’s asking?’

      I held up my warrant card and he stepped down from the doorway to inspect it, moving with feline grace.

      ‘Maeve Kerrigan,’ he read.

      ‘Detective Sergeant Maeve Kerrigan,’ I said. ‘I’m part of the team investigating what happened up the road.’

      ‘Yeah, what did happen? I saw all the excitement. Everyone coming and going. Very intriguing. Nothing much ever happens here.’ He flicked the butt of his cigarette away then folded his arms across his chest, pushing his biceps with his fists to make himself look bigger.

      ‘Do you know the residents of number twenty-seven?’

      ‘A little. I know what they look like.’ He had stepped back a bit and found some high ground on a loose brick that was by the gate so he could stare into my eyes. His irises were light brown, almost gold, like a lion. Like a predator. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Humans were still animals when all was said and done.

      ‘But to speak to?’

      ‘No. You know what London is like. No one knows their neighbours.’

      ‘Depends on the area.’

      ‘And the neighbours.’ He laughed softly. ‘No one wants to know us so we don’t know them. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because someone told you to come and talk to me. Because I’m the local scum so if something’s happened in the street it must have been me.’

      ‘It’s my job to talk to potential witnesses. You live in this street and I’m told you spend a lot of time out here watching people come and go.’

      ‘You’re told that.’ A slow smile spread across his face. One of his front teeth was crooked, overlapping the other by a couple of millimetres, and it was strangely charming. ‘Let me guess. Who could have told you? So many suspects. This is like doing your job, isn’t it? I can see why you like it. It could have been Narinder across the way, but I think she likes to see me out here. She’s always watching.’ He lifted a hand and waved. I turned in time to see a curtain fall back into place in the house opposite. ‘It could have been the bitch next door but she was away for the weekend. Anyway, she’s too snobby to talk about me. She likes to pretend we don’t exist. So who hates the fact that I dare to show my face in public?’ Turner stroked his chin, pretending to ponder it. He had a few days’ worth of stubble but it was sparse and fine. ‘Who doesn’t like me talking to his daughter?’

      ‘Mr Turner—’

      ‘Got it, haven’t I?’ He leaned out so he could look down the street, towards Oliver Norris’s house. ‘I’ve tried to explain it to him. It’s not me making the running. Bethany’s the one who talks to me. It’s not as if I’m all that keen on hanging around with a fifteen-year-old. That’s the kind of thing that could get me in trouble.’ He took a tin out of his back pocket and set it on top of the gatepost. The sweet raw smell of tobacco floated out of it when he popped it open and picked out a cigarette paper. His hands were shaking very slightly as he made the roll-up. It was thin, with no filter, and the back of my throat ached at the thought of smoking it.

      ‘Mr Turner, I do need to talk to you. I wonder if we could go inside.’

      ‘We could go inside.’ He ran his tongue slowly along the edge of the paper to glue it together. ‘But you’ll have to put up with my mother if you do that. There’s a reason why I spend a lot of time out here and if you go in there you’ll find out what it is.’

      ‘I can cope.’

      ‘I’m not sure I can.’ He lit the cigarette and drew on it, coughing as he exhaled. ‘What a terrible rollie. It’s an embarrassment. I usually do much better than that.’

      ‘It’s bad for you, you know.’

      ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ He picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. ‘I like to live dangerously.’

      ‘I spoke to DCI Gordon,’ I said softly.

      Turner went very still. ‘That was quick.’

      ‘I’m investigating a serious incident.’

      ‘You didn’t say what it was.’

      ‘No, I didn’t.’

      ‘Is it murder?’ He pulled at his lower lip again, nervously this time.

      ‘Why would you think that?’

      ‘Because. Because of the fuss. Because of the guys in white suits going in and out. I didn’t see a body bag.’ He over-balanced and almost fell off the brick.

      ‘There wasn’t one.’

      ‘So what happened?’

      ‘We don’t know yet.’

      ‘You don’t know?’ His eyebrows went up, sky-high. ‘Doesn’t usually stop the cops from talking to the press, does it?’

      ‘In your experience.’

      ‘In my very unpleasant experience.’ It was warm in the sunshine but I could see goosebumps on Turner’s arms and he shivered. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to talk about this out here. Come in.’

      At his invitation, when he was good and ready. I recognised it for a power play and tried not to feel irritated. Derwent would have found some reason for saying no but I followed Turner to the door, where he stopped.

      ‘Just so you know, my mum is upstairs and I’d like her to stay there.’

      ‘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.