The Last Girl by Jane Casey Read Free Book Online Page A

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