The Stranger You Know by Jane Casey Page B

anyone other than Josh Derwent, I might even have said so.
    ‘I spoke to the uniforms. They’ll be around later if you want to ask them anything,’ Godley said. ‘We shouldn’t have too long to wait now.’
    On cue Kev Cox appeared at his elbow, a small balding man with a pot belly his boiler suit did nothing to hide and a sweet nature that survived routine exposure to the worst things people could do to one another.
    ‘Two more minutes, folks. Thanks for the patience. You might like to get ready.’
    ‘Gloves and shoe covers?’ Godley checked.
    ‘Suits too, please. Got to be careful here.’ Kev knew as well as any of us that there would be ferocious interest in Anna Melville’s murder. No one wanted to get it wrong.
    ‘Glenn’s just been in touch. He’s stuck in traffic, but he’s on his way.’ Godley set off towards the house. Over his shoulder, he threw, ‘Keep it in mind, you two. He won’t want anyone to touch the body before he sees it.’
    I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. I went out of my way to avoid it, usually. The loose, yielding feel of dead flesh, especially through rubber gloves, was developing into a phobia. Never a great cook, I had abandoned cooking meat altogether since I’d started working on murders. The rawmeat aisle at the supermarket was the stuff of nightmares, even if it was sanitised in cling-film.
    They had set up a tent in front of the door and it functioned as an airlock between the real world and the crime scene. I hurried to get dressed in the protective gear Kev had specified. Beside me, Godley was doing the same. Burt had been about to get changed when her phone rang and she stepped back out to answer it. I wondered if Derwent had started calling her instead. Then I wondered what she didn’t want to say in front of me. Then I decided that was pure paranoia, and self-absorbed to boot.
    ‘Where’s Harry Maitland?’
    ‘Coordinating the house-to-house. I’ve got plenty of uniformed officers at my disposal to cover the area but I want them asking the right questions. Maitland’s putting the fear of God in them for me.’
    I found myself hiding a smile at the unconscious pun. Godley was nicknamed ‘God’ in the Met not just for his name but also because of his looks and his perfect, untouchable record. It wasn’t something he encouraged, and it was used mainly by people who hadn’t worked with him. There was nothing grand about the way he did his job – nothing showy – and he had time for the youngest, the least experienced, sometimes the least promising officers he encountered. In turn, he got undying respect and dedication, and very often results no one else would have. And yet he was as dirty as they came. The thought wiped the smile off my face, and when I looked up Godley was watching me. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what I had been thinking.
    ‘Do you want to wait for DCI Burt?’ I asked.
    ‘She knows where we’re going.’ Courteously he held the door open for me, letting me walk into the flat first, and I scanned the hall as I passed through it, starting to form an opinion of Anna Melville from the things she had chosen to keep around her. The hall was painted a faded green and a collection of twelve vintage mirrors hung on one wall, spaced out exactly in rows of four. The floor was polished wood and the cream runner that lay on it was pristine. It wasn’t even rumpled. I looked for – and found – the shoe rack by the door. No one was allowed across the threshold without taking their shoes off. If she had let him in, the killer had been in his socks or barefoot, so we wouldn’t get shoe treads or soil fragments to match against an eventual suspect. The rack was neatly arranged with shoes that were predominantly pretty rather than functional – delicate, spindly high heels on everyday court shoes, embellished ballet flats for casual wear. Even her wellies were pale pink with silver stars. A girly girl.
    ‘No blood,’ I