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

tyre?’
    ‘I don’t have a fucking spare tyre.’ He fingered his stomach. ‘I run, remember? It’s part of my training to keep an eye on my nutritional intake.’
    ‘Right. It’s just that I’ve heard your metabolism changes as you reach middle age. That’s why I thought you might be on a diet.’
    I left him fizzing with inarticulate rage and slid out into the garden. It was landscaped with immaculately trimmed shrubs and tall trees that blocked the neighbours’ view. No flowers. Not much space besides the pool, which was ice-blue and well maintained. Lights shone under the water, answering a question I hadn’t voiced about how Kennford and his daughter were able to swim late into the night. I skirted the pool and crossed the grass to a wooden bench under a beech tree. It took me a few minutes to scan the ground with my Maglite but I found the spot where Kennford hid his cigarette butts behind a piece of sculpture that reminded me of a melted snail shell. It didn’t prove he’d been there earlier that evening, but at least I’d confirmed he was telling the truth about something. I sat on the bench and checked the view of the house. The kitchen stuck out, blocking the line of sight to the sitting-room windows. Even if the attack had taken place while he was outside, he wouldn’t have seen anything.
    ‘Having a rest?’ Derwent was silhouetted against the light from the kitchen. I crossed the garden towards him.
    ‘Seeing what Mr Kennford could see from here.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘He couldn’t.’
    ‘Let’s put one tick in the truth column, then. What’s next?’
    ‘Follow his route into the house, I suppose.’
    He stood back. ‘Lead on.’
    I was glad I got to go first. It meant I was able to pick a path that avoided the worst of the bloody footprints. The SOCOs had measured and photographed them so there was no pressing reason to tread carefully, but I was superstitious about it. Death had walked through those hallways not long before and I wasn’t all that keen to match him stride for stride. If Derwent noticed, he didn’t say anything about it. He might even have felt the same way, but there was no point in asking him. He’d never admit it.
    The footprints had all but disappeared by the time we reached the upper hallway, absorbed by the thick carpet pile, but there were still traces. Enough that you could see the killer had gone to each room in turn.
    ‘He didn’t know the house,’ I said softly. ‘He didn’t know which room to try.’
    ‘We don’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t kill Kennford when he had the chance, did he? God knows, I’d have had a crack at it if I’d had the time and the tools to hand.’
    ‘Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was worried about Lydia interrupting him.’
    ‘Doing what? A spot of burglary? Kennford said there was nothing missing as far as he could see.’ Derwent pulled open the nearest door and looked in, flicking on the light. ‘It all looks neat.’
    ‘Especially for a teenager’s room.’ I moved past him to stand beside the bed. There was nothing on the walls except for a full-length mirror and none of the usual clutter of make-up, clothes and jewellery that I would have expected. The desk by the window was strictly for books and papers with an Apple laptop in the centre, a top-of-the-range MacBook Pro. The room felt sparse, somehow, and not quite permanent – as if the person who slept there was only using the space for a day or two. ‘Do you think this is Laura’s or Lydia’s?’
    ‘Lydia’s.’ Derwent was checking the books on the desk and turned one around to show me her name inside the front cover, written in tiny, neat letters.
    I bent to look under the bed. ‘She seems like a cheery soul. Maybe she just keeps the fun hidden.’ There was a stack of fashion magazines under the bed and I hooked them out to flick through the pages, looking for nothing in particular and finding just that.
    ‘Working hard to get Daddy’s