The Stranger You Know by Jane Casey

their own. They were heading to work, for the most part, striding in high heels or scuttling in flat shoes. It was cold, thanks to a stiff easterly wind that came straight off the North Sea, and their hair flew behind them like flags. What they wore and the way they wore it told me so much about them: the ones who dressed for themselves, but with care; the ones who wanted to be looked at; the ones who wanted to hide. What would I look for, if I was hunting? Who would I choose?
    Anne Melville had shared something with Maxine Willoughby and Kirsty Campbell, apart from the manner of their deaths. The killer had seen that something, and had known it, and had used it to destroy her. At the moment, he was a stranger to me, a black hole at the centre of the picture. But if I could see what he had seen, I might know enough about him to find him. Una Burt was right. It was far better to be on the team than left out, no matter why I was there in the first place. Every case was another chance to prove I deserved to be there because I was good at what I did – and I was good, and I could do it. I sat up a little bit straighter. My hangover slunk away, defeated. I had better things to do than feel sorry for myself.
    Like answer my phone. It hummed in my bag and I dug for it, knowing I had six and a half rings before it cut to voicemail. Two … Three … It came out wrapped in an old receipt and I had to waste a second untangling it. Four … Beside me, DCI Burt’s voice was cold.
    ‘Who is that?’
    ‘DI Derwent.’ Of course .
    ‘Don’t answer it.’
    I stopped with my thumb poised to accept the call, obedient to the tone of pure command without having the least idea why she’d forbidden it. The ringer cut off and I waited for the beep of a new voicemail. I wasn’t actually all that keen to listen to it. A disappointed Derwent was an angry Derwent, and an angry Derwent was even less charming than the usual kind.
    ‘Why can’t I speak to him?’
    ‘Because it’s not a good idea.’
    Which wasn’t actually an answer. ‘Okay, but he’ll be livid. He’ll be wondering where I am, for starters.’
    ‘He doesn’t own you.’ The road ahead was suddenly, miraculously clear – one of those freak moments in heavy traffic when the lights all go your way and no one else does. We were actually making some progress towards the crime scene.
    ‘Of course he doesn’t.’ He thinks he does, though … ‘Is he meeting us at the house? Or—’
    ‘DI Derwent will not be involved in this investigation.’
    I stared at her profile. ‘But he was asking about it yesterday. He was insistent.’
    ‘He will not be involved in this investigation,’ she repeated, and I didn’t know her well enough to be able to tell if she was pleased.
    I listened to half of the voicemail before I deleted it: Derwent, ranting about my absence from the office when there was work to be done on the Olesugwe case. It was certain to be the first of many messages. I couldn’t imagine why Derwent was shut out, but I knew it was going to be bad news for me.

Chapter 6
    When we arrived at the crime scene Godley was standing outside, a still point in the organised mayhem, impossibly glamorous as the low autumn sunlight struck a silver gleam off his hair. The SOCOs were at work already, sealing off the property, and the superintendent was watching from a safe distance. Something about him suggested he was impatient to get into the house, and that he had that impatience under control, but only barely. I felt the same pull myself. There was nothing like seeing a body as the killer had left it, in the place where the victim died. Photographs didn’t do the job. Every sense had to be engaged, I had learned. Where a normal person would shy away we leaned in, absorbing every detail. To understand what had happened, you had to allow yourself to relive it, and I was keen to get it over with in Anna Melville’s case. I had known what it was like to be afraid for my life,