The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  "You told my colleague you didn't want a lawyer?" asked Sanderson.

  "Not under arrest, am I?"

  "No."

  "Well, then. I'm going to tell you what I know. I see no reason to deviate from the line of events, so I can't imagine what use legal counsel would be."

  Sanderson nodded but smartly offered no comment on what he thought of this idea. Even a couple of words might have suggested whether or not he believed Abbie guilty.

  After another short pause, he asked, "Do you know what Eddie has told me?"

  "I can guess."

  "Care to?"

  "Okay. Most of the facts Eddie gave you would be true. He would have told you I appeared while he was having a fight with his brother and intervened. That I deduced his brother was in some danger after overhearing Eddie beg him to leave town. I offered my hotel room to Danny after Eddie decided it was too dangerous for Danny to go to his own home, and I suggested it was not wise for Danny to stay with Eddie and his pregnant wife. All right so far?"

  Abbie didn't expect Sanderson to answer. She wasn't disappointed.

  "Carry on."

  So she did.

  "He'll tell you he was suspicious of my motives. I offered to sleep in my car while Danny slept in my hotel room, but Eddie feared I worked for the people with whom Danny was in trouble. He was afraid I would sneak into the hotel late at night and murder his brother. So, we decided I would stay in Eddie's spare room. He said he would hear me if I tried to leave. Given the proximity of his room and the spare, and the creakiness of the sofa bed on which I slept, I would have to agree with that hypothesis. That decided, we took Danny to the hotel and Eddie and I returned to his home. I had a short conversation with Jess, Eddie's wife, then went to sleep. In the morning, Eddie drove me back to the hotel, where we found Danny in a far deader state than he had been left by his brother the previous night. I called the police, Eddie accused me of murder, and that about brings us up to date. That what he said?"

  She wondered if Sanderson would hold out on her again. This time, he played it straight.

  "Pretty much word for word."

  "Great," said Abbie. "Now for where we diverge. As specified already, Eddie was worried I worked for those who wished his brother ill. I don't. This suspicion was renewed with gusto when we found the dead Danny. Like I said, Ed accused me of killing his brother. I’m sure he repeated the accusation to you on the record. Still, neither you nor he really believes I’m the assassin.”

  Sanderson raised his eyebrows. “Do we not?”

  “No. You don’t. I’m sure when you questioned Eddie, he confessed it would have been almost impossible for me to have got out of bed without him knowing, let alone to have snuck out of the house, stolen his car, driven to the hotel, killed Danny, returned, parked the car, snuck back into the house, and back into bed all without him having a clue. That right?"

  Sanderson made no comment.

  “If I had done,” Abbie continued. “Would I not also have pinched the hotel key? I know Eddie left that with the house keys, which I would have needed to get back in after committing the murder, so why would I take one and not the other?”

  This piqued Sanderson’s interest.

  “What makes you think the killer didn’t have a key?” he asked. “There was no sign of a break in.”

  Abbie hesitated. Maybe she had said too much. But she had been sitting in the cell examining the evidence, and she always was a showoff. Anyway, now she had hinted at her suspicions, she had to follow through.”

  “Firstly,” she said. “If the killer had a key, they would have listened at the door to ensure Danny was asleep, then snuck in and killed him while he slept.”

  “Maybe they did,” said Sanderson. “Maybe when the killer stabbed Danny, he rolled off the bed down the side?”

  “You know that isn’t the case.”

  “How?”

  “No blood on the sheets. No blood on the duvet. Plus, the covers were ruffled on the right side of the bed, not the left. If Danny had been forced off the bed, down the left side, you’d see signs of the struggle in the duvet.”

  “Unless the killer remade the bed.”

  “And washed the sheets? Bit of a risk with a dead body a couple of feet away, don’t you think?”

  “I do think,” said Sanderson. “So if the killer didn’t sneak or break-in, you believe—“

  “The same as you,” said Abbie. “The killer knocked. Danny let them in.”

  “So how did he end up on the left side of the bed? Pretty much as far from the front door as he could get?”

  Abbie put her hands on the table, drummed her fingers. “You know all this. Why do you need me to repeat it?”

  “I’m interested to see if we have the same opinion.”

  Abbie took a breath. It was probably not wise to continue, but she had to go on now.

  “There was a spot of blood on the carpet right through the front door,” said Abbie. “A couple more by the chair at the desk and another by the curtains towards the side of the bed where Danny had died.”

  “Which indicates?”

  “When he opened the door, the killer stabbed him but didn’t remove the knife. The killer shoved Danny back across the room with the knife still inside him. Probably in the belly. The knife would have kept a lot of the blood in the body, the T-shirt and jeans would have soaked up most of the rest. That would explain why only a couple of drops ended up on the floor by the door, the chair, the wall. Once they reached the wall, however, the killer would have turned Danny, shoved him to the ground, lifted the knife, and repeatedly stabbed him. Hence, that’s where you find most of the blood, while there’s none on the sheets.”

  Sanderson smiled. Abbie couldn’t tell if the smile said he was impressed with her reasoning and observation skills or if he believed she was giving him evidence that she was the guilty party. Abbie could only hope that the creaking sofa bed saved the day.

  “If the killer knocked on the door,” said Sanderson, “then stabbed Danny the moment he opened, that might have been you, no?”

  “Possibly,” said Abbie. “But Danny was agitated and afraid. I think much more likely he would have gone to the door and asked who was there. He didn’t like me. My guess would be he would only open the door for someone he wanted to see.”

  “They’d also have to know where he was.”

  Abbie finally managed to hold her tongue on some of her acquired knowledge. She didn’t mind Sanderson knowing she had lifted Danny’s jacket and thrown it on the bed. It would be far too suspicious to tell him she had had the presence of mind to pat it down and note there was no phone in the pocket.

  “I would suggest,” she said, “either someone was following Danny or, more likely, he trusted someone he shouldn’t have. After Eddie and I left, he got in touch with them, told them where he was, and opened the door when they arrived. Regretting that decision was probably the last thing he did.”

  The police would have searched Danny. If they hadn’t found a phone on his person or elsewhere in the room, they would have had to draw the same conclusion as Abbie: that Danny had contacted his killer, and his killer had pilfered his phone before fleeing the scene of the crime.

  If this was the case, that was information Sanderson didn’t intend to divulge to Abbie.

  “There is another way Danny’s killer might have known where he was,” said Sanderson.

  Abbie had been expecting this. After all, Eddie had raised the possibility back in the hotel room.

  “That I told the killer,” said Abbie.

  Sanderson nodded.

  “It would still need to be someone he trusted that I told,” she said.

  “Not necessarily. You are merely hypothesising that Danny would only open the door to someone he was expecting or someone he wanted to see.”

  This was true. Abbie decided not to say anything further. Not until Sanderson spoke again. She leaned back. Tried to relax.

  “Eddie said he got up several time
s during the night and peeked into your room."

  This was frustrating. It meant Sanderson had known from the beginning Abbie couldn’t have killed Danny. Her vanity had encouraged her to spill a lot of information she could have kept close to the chest.

  Holding her emotions, she said, “How creepy."

  "Creepy," Sanderson agreed, "but fortuitous. Eddie is confident there was no window of opportunity long enough for you to get to the hotel and back without him having known. You're right. That theory was quickly discarded, though he did want it on the record."

  "In case I teleported?"

  "Or had some other method of super-fast transportation. You must remember the grief-stricken often do not think clearly."

  Abbie’s mind was dragged back to dark days. To the smooth skin of her still sister. To a blazing row between Abbie and her mother, ending only when the older woman, mad with grief and fury, took up her sharpest kitchen knife and came at her remaining daughter…

  "No," she agreed. "They don't."

  “But you could have text someone an address without him knowing. Easy."

  “Easy,” she agreed again. “Didn't happen, though."

  Sanderson drummed his fingers on the table. Considered.

  "You allowed my colleague to see your phone."

  "Yep. Unlocked it and everything."

  "But you wouldn't let her see inside your bag."

  "Is that a question?"

  "No, but this is: if you have nothing to hide, why would you refuse to let my colleague take a look at the contents of your bag?"

  Abbie smiled. "Who said I have nothing to hide?"

  Sanderson raised his eyebrows. The glimmer was back.

  "Don't get excited," Abbie said. "I've nothing to hide within the confines of this case. But my bag is private. Not only private but, once you accept I cannot have committed the murder, irrelevant."

  "Not necessarily. You might have a second phone."

  "I might," she said. "But I don't."

  "I can't know that without taking a look."

  “And you'll never know without obtaining a warrant."

  Sanderson smiled, paused. Abbie tried her hardest not to reach down and touch the bag, which sat at her ankle. If they acquired a warrant, they would find no weapon nor evidence of wrongdoing with regards to the Danny case in her bag. It was unlikely they would link her to any criminal case, hot or cold, with the contents. Still, Abbie hoped Sanderson would not obtain the warrant. For one thing, her battered copy of The Stand would, ironically, likely not stand up to the rough, uncaring hands of one or more police officers. If the cover fell off or any of the pages fell out, Abbie would be devastated. And someone would have to pay.

  Best not to go down that road.

  Having allowed the pause to drag on to his desired length, Sanderson said, "Let's talk a little more about you."

  "Must we?"

  "No, but indulge me."

  "Go on then."

  "Your phone had only one call in its log, outgoing or incoming. That was to the hotel where you booked your room in the early hours of the morning. Is that correct?"

  "Yes. It's a new phone."

  "You don't have any contacts, either."

  "I don't have any friends," said Abbie. "And I've never needed a plumber."

  "But you have a permanent address?"

  "Yes. As well as my phone, I showed your colleague my driving licence."

  "You did."

  Another pause. Pointless. Abbie knew what he was going to ask. This was such a waste of time. She could walk out; had considered it numerous times over the last hour and change. She wasn't under arrest. Departure was her right.

  But curious police officers were annoying police officers. Best to try and ride this out.

  "Your home address is a three-hour drive from here," said Sanderson. "What time did you arrive in our humble town?"

  Such facts could be checked. Abbie said, "Just after two in the morning."

  "So you must have left home around eleven?"

  Abbie hadn't come from home but a hotel. Seeing no reason to mention this, she shrugged. "Something like that."

  "So the obvious question is: why?"

  This was always the problem with police interviews. In the same way that she could never explain satisfactorily to Eddie why she had intervened in the fight between him and his brother, she had no rational explanation for the police officer as to why she had turned up in town at a bizarre time. She wasn't going to mention prophetic dreams. She wasn't stupid. So she had to find another way to get around the highly suspicious circumstances of her turning up in the early hours and almost immediately entangling herself in the lives of two brothers, one of whom was dead before the sun rose that same day.

  Luckily, this wasn't her first rodeo.

  "I suffer from nightmares," said Abbie. "Horrible nightmares. I wake, and they remain. They're like a debilitating headache, and they get worse the longer I stay in bed. I've found staying home after such a nightmare is not an option. I have to get out. If I don't, the nightmare will continue to cling to me, drag me down, drown me. Dramatic, I know. But I've no other way to describe it."

  Sanderson passed no comment. He rolled a hand: Go on.

  "As I mentioned, I've no friends to whom I can turn. I work for myself, so there's no colleagues. My family are all dead or estranged. I'm on my own, and on nights like these, I can't be on my own. So I drive, and I drive, and I search for people. Luckily these nightmares only afflict me a few times a year, and each time I try to travel somewhere new. When I arrive, I seek out people. I look for something to take my mind off the nightmares. In this case, I went into a place called Perfect Chicken and bought a drink. I paid for a hotel, then I met the Dean brothers. It was a random encounter. That's all."

  Having delivered this speech, Abbie leaned back without breaking eye contact with the good police officer. On the face of it, the story was ridiculous. But it was well-rehearsed. And the nightmares were real. Those involving people like Eddie were fine. The others were the problem. Often she would wake in tears or panting. It was true she had to leave her home to deal with them. She didn't go looking for people. She would drive far too fast. She needed to be alone. She needed to find somewhere far away from people. Then she needed to scream.

  Sanderson considered her story. It was a massive coincidence that Abbie might suffer one of these nightmares, travel to a random town, and meet the Dean brothers right before one of them ended up dead, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. People who said they didn't believe in coincidences were idiots. Life was nothing but a string of random events. You turn right instead of left to dodge temporary traffic lights and end up in a car accident. You return home from work hours early because you forgot your phone and discover an affair. You roll into a random town, get involved with two fighting brothers, and end up as part of a murder investigation.

  That was life.

  Okay, so in Abbie's case, it wasn't coincidence. But that wasn't the point. And Sanderson didn't know it wasn't coincidence. That mattered.

  "Expensive way to deal with nightmares," he said, at last. "Petrol. Hotel rooms. Not to mention time off work.”

  Abbie had a prepared response to this. "I'm a freelance company growth and lead generation consultant. It pays silly money, and I choose my hours to a degree. Not to mention, I have no dependents. I live alone. Trust me, money is no issue."

  "How nice that must be."

  Without declaring it, Abbie chose no comment. She had made her point. He might not like her responses, but there was nothing he could do about them. If he decided to run a background check, he would learn she was telling the truth about the home, the job, the dependants. Her clients, if contacted, would supply glowing references. And why not? Abbie was a wonderful person.

  "You've been very helpful," Sanderson said at last.

  Abbie doubted he meant that. She knew he was frustrated. There was something off about her; he couldn't trust everything she said. But he
didn't have enough to arrest her, nor was he sure she deserved arresting. She had divulged almost all she was going to. His best bet was to start investigating and hope he picked up more information about Abbie, any involvement she might have had with Danny's murder, along the way.

  But first, there was one more question he wanted to ask.

  Sanderson leaned forward. "There is just one more thing I wanted to ask."

  "His name is Francis Roberts."

  This time, the mouth couldn't hold the straight line. The shock was there, evident for anyone to see—even someone without Abbie's talent for reading expressions.

  "How did you know what would be my question?"

  "Easy. I've been in this town only a few hours, and it's clear the shadow of Francis looms large. From what Eddie told me, I guessed he'd be too afraid to tell you with whom Danny was in trouble, however hard you pressed."

  "Maybe you should have kept tight-lipped," said Sanderson. "Maybe you should be afraid."

  Abbie shrugged. "Not my thing."

  Sanderson leaned back and released a breath. Francis Roberts was the last name he wanted to hear. It took him a few moments to realise he'd allowed the professional front to drop, and he sat up straight in a hurry, putting his hands on the table.

  "I don't suppose you have any evidence Francis was involved in this, do you?"

  Abbie shook her head. "None."

  Sanderson considered. Looked at his file, which he had never opened, then fished in his pocket and pulled out a card.

  "How long were you planning to stay in town?"

  "Into Tomorrow," said Abbie. "Maybe the day after. Probably not."

  Definitely not. Whatever happened, by the end of tomorrow, Abbie would have no business left in town. The only question was: would Eddie have business left full stop?

  Sanderson placed the card on the table and slid it to Abbie. "I need you to stay, at least for the time being. We might need to ask you further questions."

  Abbie nodded, collected the card. "Okay."

  "That's my number," said Sanderson. "We have yours. You think of anything else you suspect might be relevant, you'll give me a call, yes?"

  "Sure."

  "And if I have further questions, well, maybe I'll be your first incoming call."