Die With Me (4 page)

Getting to Streatham took longer than Donovan had imagined but she found the Kramers’ address without trouble and pulled up on a yellow line outside. The house was modern, semi-detached with a neat strip of lawn to one side and a straight, paved path leading between two tidy flowerbeds to the front door. A black taxicab, which she assumed belonged to Gemma’s father, was parked in the driveway in front of the garage, and she could see lights on behind the drawn curtains.

Thank goodness she wasn’t there to break the news to the family. That was the part of the job she’d always hated most, particularly when a child was concerned. But it was bad enough having to talk to the parents now, knowing that Gemma’s death hadn’t been either a suicide or a simple accident. Unlike several of her colleagues, she found it difficult to cut herself off, found it impossible not to empathise with those affected by the death of a loved one. She had often asked herself why she had ever joined Clarke’s murder team, and could only suppose that it was for the satisfaction of catching the person responsible, justice and retribution the only compensation for all the pain.

She took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The man who answered the chimes was wearing combats, trainers and a T-shirt, with a gold Star of David hanging from a heavy chain around his neck. His head was shaved, which emphasised the roundness of his face, and he looked to be in his early forties. Short, squat and barrel-chested, with the beginnings of a beer gut, he reminded her of a bulldog as he stood planted in the middle of the doorway as if he were guarding it.

‘Mr Kramer? I’m DS Donovan.’ She held out her ID. ‘I’m with the team looking into Gemma’s death.’

He stuffed his hands into his pockets as if he didn’t know what to do with them and gazed vaguely at the warrant card before moving aside, almost grudgingly, to let her pass.

‘I’m Dennis Kramer, her stepdad. You’d better come in.’ His voice was a deep, throaty growl, his accent instantly recognisable as south London.

The DI at Ealing had said nothing about a stepfather. Stepfathers were prime suspect material in such a case. But whatever the relationship, if Mrs Brooke’s description was accurate, Kramer could be ruled out immediately on physical grounds. Although he could have shaved off his hair in the last couple of days, he was still nothing like the man the old lady had described.

‘Is Gemma’s mother at home?’

‘Mary’s lying down upstairs. Seeing Gemma’s body at the…’ he struggled for the word then grunted. ‘I said I’d do it but she insisted on going. It more or less finished her off.’

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve some questions I need to ask. Is the family liaison officer here?’

He shook his head. ‘She was getting on my nerves so I sent her off. No point in her hanging around all day and night like a spare penny. The doctor’s pumped Mary full of stuff and she’s out for the count now so she can’t talk to anyone. If you want to ask questions, you’ll have to make do with me. I’ve just put the kettle on. Fancy a cup of tea?’

‘Please. White, no sugar,’ she said, suddenly aware of the familiar ache in the pit of her stomach. What with being tied up with Ealing CID all morning and then with Tartaglia, she had completely forgotten about lunch. Thank goodness she’d managed a proper breakfast, although it was now a distant memory. It was always like this with a new investigation. Adrenalin and coffee were the main things keeping you going and you had to make a conscious effort to remember to eat, grab a sandwich or a takeaway somewhere on the run if you were lucky. It was going to be a battle keeping off the fags.

‘The lounge is just there, on your left,’ Kramer said, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be with you in a sec.’

She pushed open the door and walked into a small, cream-coloured room, with thick wall-to-wall carpet and a dark leather three-piece suite. She assumed that Gemma’s mother had chosen the decor, as she couldn’t picture Kramer selecting the fawn and maroon striped curtains with their neat tiebacks, let alone the line of reproduction botanical prints, which hung on one of the walls. An expensive-looking TV on a glass and chrome stand took pride of place opposite the sofa, next to it a tall shelf unit with a couple of limp-looking pot plants, a collection of DVDs and a series of gilt-framed photographs.

She walked over, her eye drawn by a photo of a pretty young girl with long, glossy brown hair. It was a school photograph, the girl dressed in a navy blue cardigan over a blue and white checked blouse, her hair held back by an Alice band. The photo bore the title ‘Convent of the Sacred Heart’ at the bottom with the previous year’s date. Gemma, she assumed. She looked no more than twelve, her smile innocent and open like a child’s, with nothing of the self-consciousness of a teenager. Donovan remembered how she herself had hidden from the camera from puberty onwards, pulling faces to disguise her embarrassment whenever she was caught, knowing that she would hate the end result.

She had just turned her attention to a photo of a pair of cheeky-looking little boys, when Kramer came into the room with a mug of tea in each hand.

‘That’s Patrick and Liam,’ he said, passing her a mug and taking his own over to the sofa, where he sank down heavily, crossing his feet under the small glass coffee table. ‘They’re my kids, Gemma’s half-brothers. I’ve had to ship them off to their nan’s until Mary’s better. She can’t cope with anything at the moment.’

Donovan settled herself in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs and took a notebook and pen out of her bag. ‘Just for formality’s sake, could you tell me where you were on Wednesday afternoon?’

He looked instantly affronted. ‘What, me? What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Just a routine question, Mr Kramer. You know how it is. We have to dot the “i”s and cross the “t”s.’ She took a sip of tea. It was good, strong stuff and she instantly felt better.

He nodded slowly, grudgingly appearing to accept the explanation. ‘I was at Gatwick till about five. Had to pick up a regular, but his flight was delayed coming in.’

He gave her the client’s name and phone number, which she noted down.

‘Perhaps you can start by giving me a little background info. You said you’re Gemma’s stepfather.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you Irish?’ she asked, hoping to ease him into things.

‘Do I bloody sound it?’

‘It’s just that Patrick and Liam…’ she said, wondering why he was being so prickly.

He shook his head, interrupting. ‘That’s down to Mary. She’s from Cork but she come to London when she was ten. I was born and brought up in Elephant and Castle.’

‘What about Gemma’s father? Her biological father, I mean.’

‘Mick? Yeah, he’s bloody Irish. Him and Mary were childhood sweethearts but he didn’t stop long once she got pregnant. Mary was just eighteen and he run off a couple of months before Gemma was born.’

‘Do you know how we can contact him?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea where the bugger is. Turns up like a bad penny from time to time when he wants money, when he knows I’m out at work. Mary’s always a soft touch where he’s concerned. Caught him nosing round here about a year ago. I’d come home early and we had a right punch-up. He’ll think twice about stopping by again, I can tell you.’

The bitterness was unmistakable and Donovan suspected that behind the protectiveness for his wife, he was jealous. She wondered how Gemma fitted into the triangle. ‘What about Gemma? Did she have any contact with him?’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t interested. From what I hear, he’s fathered a whole litter of kids with various women, in between being in and out of the nick, that is.’

‘He’s in prison?’

‘Well, we haven’t heard from him in a while. It’s either that, or the chinning I give him last time he come round.’ A flicker of pleasure crossed his face. ‘His full name’s Mick Byrne, if you want to check him out. That’s B-Y-R-N-E. He’s bound to be on one of your computers, given his record.’

Donovan made a note. It would be easy to find out if the father was in prison. ‘What’s his form?’

‘Got sticky fingers. Can’t keep his hands off other people’s things. He’s a bit of a conman, but nothing violent, if you know what I mean.’

‘Is it possible that Gemma might have seen him secretly, given how you felt about him?’

Kramer’s eyes bulged angrily and he clenched his lips. ‘No way. She never kept anything from us. Gemma was a good girl. I’ve brought her up from the age of five.’ He paused, swallowing hard. ‘I was her dad, as far as she was concerned. Her only dad. Why are you interested in Mick?’

‘Gemma was seen with a man shortly before she died. He looked to be in his thirties or forties, tall with dark hair. We need to find him.’

He grimaced. ‘Well, that can’t be Mick. Last time I saw him, he was nearly as bald as me and not ’coz of a Number One. All his hair dropped out last time he was inside. Alopecia, I think they call it. Serves him bloody right for all the trouble he’s caused.’

‘Gemma was with some man. As I said, we need to find out who it is. That’s the main reason I’m here.’

He stared at her for a moment, looking puzzled. ‘What do you mean “with some man”?’

Donovan took a deep breath. ‘Gemma was seen kissing this man outside the church where she died. She must have known him pretty well.’

‘Kissing?’ The word shot out of his mouth like a bullet. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Gemma wasn’t interested in boys.’

‘This was a man, not a boy, Mr Kramer.’

‘Gemma didn’t know any men,’ he said emphatically. He bit his lip and looked away, his eyes fixing on one of the flower prints that hung over the TV. ‘Course, she was pretty. Takes after her mum. But she wasn’t a slag, like a lot of girls her age.’ For a moment, his thoughts seemed to drift elsewhere.

‘I’m only telling you what the witness saw. It’s very important that we find this man. He may be able to shed some light on how Gemma died.’

He put his mug down and leaned forwards towards her, hands flat on his knees. ‘Gemma couldn’t have been with a man. She was a good girl, Sergeant. A really good girl.’ He jerked a stubby finger at the photo on the shelf. ‘See that? It was only taken last autumn. You wouldn’t know she was fourteen, would you? She looks so young.’

Wondering why he was trying so hard to convince her, she wanted to say that youth had never stopped a young girl from pursuing her dreams or doing something stupid. And parents, however good and caring, were often the last to know. If he wanted to ignore reality, that was his business but she needed to confront him with the facts. It was easily possible that he knew the man in some capacity.

‘Mr Kramer, Gemma was seen by a witness kissing a man much older than herself. We’re talking proper kissing, not a peck on the cheek. They then went into the church together.’

He was shaking his head. ‘Not Gemma. Like I said, you got it wrong.’

‘The pathologist found traces of the drug GHB in her system. We come across it sometimes in cases of date-rape.’

He frowned. ‘She wasn’t…’ His voice trailed off.

‘No. She wasn’t sexually assaulted. But it’s pretty clear that she knew the man she was with. Maybe she got the drug from him. We’ve got to find him and I was hoping maybe you could help.’

The words seemed to wash over him and he bent forward and put his face in his hands, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. He seemed more shocked by the presence of the man than by the fact that Gemma had been drugged, still failing to understand or acknowledge Gemma’s death as suspicious. But if he didn’t want to join up the dots, it wasn’t for her to do it for him. ‘What about relatives or family friends?’

He looked up and slammed his fist on the table, making the mugs rattle. ‘What are you saying? You think one of my friends has been messing around with Gemma behind my back?’

‘She must have met the man somewhere, Mr Kramer. I’m going to need a list of everyone you know who Gemma’s been in contact with recently.’

He sighed and sank back in the sofa, staring hard up at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You didn’t know Gemma. She wasn’t that way.’ His scalp was shiny with sweat, small beads starting to run down his cheeks. ‘She should’ve been at school,’ he said, closing his eyes again and pinching the bridge of his thick nose with his fingers, his face red.

‘I’ll need that list as soon as possible. In the meantime, who are her close friends? Maybe they would know who she was seeing.’

He took a crumpled handkerchief out of the pocket of his combats, dabbed at his head and face and blew his nose. ‘She didn’t have any close friends. She’s only been at the convent since last Easter. Before that, she was at the local comprehensive.’

‘There must be someone she’s close to, someone her own age who she would confide in.’

He shook his head and blew his nose again.

‘Why did she change schools?’

‘They was bullying Gemma. She was a bright girl, really sensitive. Had a heart of gold, used to work at the local animal shelter in the holidays.’

‘What happened?’

He gave her a weary look. ‘The usual stuff. The school wasn’t on top of things. They give the kids a good talking-to a few times but it didn’t change nothing. They just went out and picked on her again. We had to get her out of there. It’s lucky I earn a decent living and we could do something about it. I pity the poor kids who are stuck in a place like that.’

‘Why did you choose the convent?’

‘Mary’s Catholic. As I said, Gemma was a bright girl and we thought she’d do well there. Also, we didn’t want her growing up too fast.’

That was the real reason, Donovan thought, wondering why they were so protective of Gemma. Had she given them cause for concern before? The innocent picture he presented didn’t square with what had happened at St Sebastian’s, or what she knew of other young girls of Gemma’s age. Either he was hiding something, or Gemma had led a secret life.

‘Had she made any friends since moving schools?’

‘She’s come home a few times with a girl called Rosie. Spent the night at her place once or twice, I think.’

‘Do you have her number?’