Free The Kill by Jane Casey

you make decisions about what’s best for him. He’s sixteen. When he’s eighteen, he’ll be finished at school. Done. Ready to go out into the world. Except that he hasn’t learned anything in school, as far as I know. He doesn’t talk. Can’t write. He’s not going to get a job, or a girlfriend. He’s not going to move out. He’s not going to lead anything like a normal life, and neither am I. And there’s no one to help any more. There’s no one who understands what it’s like. There’s no one who’s in exactly the same position as me.’
    ‘I’m sure there are support groups,’ West offered. I saw Godley flinch, but it was too late.
    ‘Support groups,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, well, that makes everything all right then.’
    ‘Obviously not, but—’
    ‘You have no idea what my life is like and you have no idea what it will be like. You come to my house to tell me my husband is dead and then you patronise me? How dare you?’
    There was no easy answer to that. Her words hung in the air until Godley spoke again. ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your husband, Mrs Hammond?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Was he worried about anything recently? Did he seem distracted or unhappy?’
    ‘He was just the same as usual.’
    ‘Was it normal for him to be late back from work?’ Godley was sailing close to the wind.
    ‘He came and went, you know. He worked shifts all the time, so some weeks he’d be here and other weeks I wouldn’t see him at all. I didn’t really keep track. I was busy. I work, as I said, and I look after Ben and Vanessa. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for Terry.’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘I mean it didn’t leave a lot of time.’
    Happy families. I caught Godley’s eye and slid out of the room. Now, on my own in the kitchen, I thought about the Hammonds and wondered if the marriage had been over in all but name. Maybe Mrs Hammond knew about her husband’s affair. Maybe not. It would take a braver police officer than me to raise it with her when she was in such a combative mood.
    And that was something else worth noting. We’d been in the house for forty minutes and she hadn’t shed a tear.
    I’d been keeping in touch with the conversation in the living room as the senior officers stuttered through their script. Now the noise of the kettle drowned out everything else. I stood in the centre of the room and stretched my arms over my head, fingers linked, arching my back to try to loosen out the kinks in my spine. Left to my own devices, I could feel fatigue creeping up on me. My eyes felt sore, my head heavy. I couldn’t let myself relax yet, but I allowed myself a yawn that almost cracked my jaw.
    The kettle clicked off and I swung my arms back down, sighing. Then I jumped about a mile in the air as someone spoke behind me.
    ‘What are you doing? Who are you?’
    I turned to see a girl who had to be Terence Hammond’s daughter, a slight figure in oversized pyjamas. She looked younger than fourteen. The button nose that had looked out of place on her father’s face made sense here, giving her an elfin prettiness. Her hair was long and dark. It hung down over the left side of her face, shadowing one of her eyes. The one I could see was a striking shade of grey-green, as clear as well-water. I’d had a look through the noticeboard in the kitchen and knew more about her than her name and age. Vanessa played netball. Vanessa had a dentist’s appointment on Thursday. Vanessa was going to Bordeaux on a school trip at half-term.
    Vanessa was standing in the doorway to her kitchen, wearing pyjamas and a huge woolly cardigan. It was ten to six on a Sunday morning and she had every right to look truculent.
    ‘I’m Detective Constable Maeve Kerrigan.’
    ‘Do you work with my dad?’ Her voice wasn’t loud but it was clear, every word enunciated.
    ‘I’m a Metropolitan police officer too.’
    ‘In Isleworth.’
    ‘In central London.’
    ‘Why are you in my