‘His letter to you, did you read it?’
‘No.’
‘It spoke of him needing you, him unable to see a life without you in it. Claire, Killian is obsessed with you. And from what we discovered, he has been for a very long time. We suspect he did what he did to keep you close.’
I thought about it and it made sense, horrific as it was. Back when I was recovering from what had happened Kilian and I were close, perhaps too close. And for a while, in my desperate need, I wondered if there was something more between us. I felt like I owed him for his kindness when I was learning to cope. I guess I’d chosen to ignore his more erratic behaviour in recent years, until a few months ago, when I met Paul. And when I told Killian I had met someone, he sounded shocked, but he must have known, he knew everything else about me. And then, just as Paul and I start to get serious, a woman dies.
Did he kill Kath Brinck to bring us closer? Was I responsible for an innocent person being murdered?
I tried to thank Peter for calling but the words caught in my throat. Instead, Geoff said he was grateful to Peter for keeping us in his mind during what must be a very precarious time. Peter then promised that he would keep me updated as best he could, before hanging up the phone.
For a moment the three of us were motionless, all still staring at the phone which was now a dark screen. I was trying to process the information, working backwards to see the signs that had always been there about Killian, and the more I thought about it, the more I was sure it was him. The realisation made me feel sick. Because of me, an innocent woman had died.
Mum broke the trance we were all in and declared she would make a tea for us all, her go-to response when she was trying to process something. Geoff came and sat beside me. I rested my head on his shoulder and he rubbed my back as I focused on the carpet.
‘Are you OK, kid?’
‘Not really.’
‘Silly question, sorry.’
‘I’m struggling to process it all, I mean… it sort of makes sense. There has always been something weird about him. But… he’s the copycat?’
‘It seems he is. It will probably take a while to wrap your head around it.’
I nodded, knowing it would take a lifetime to understand.
‘Claire, look at me.’
I did, and his large brown eyes were focused intently on mine. He continued, and I believed every word he said. ‘You will wrap your head around this, and until then, focus on the fact it’s over. No more fear. No more looking over your shoulder. No more being stuck in the past you’ve battled so hard to escape. These past several weeks have been so hard on you… on all of us. But now you can get on with your life again.’
‘Yeah,’ was all I could say in reply, and sensing I needed time he kissed me on the head and walked into the kitchen to join Mum. At the doorway he paused, and I was sure he would turn back and say something, but he just tapped the wall twice and left. His last words echoed in my mind. No more looking over my shoulder. No more looking back. Once it was confirmed, once they had definitive proof, I would speak to the press and say my piece about how now he was caught, life would go on, and that was exactly what I would do. I would go on.
Chapter 40
28th September 2018
Wrexham, Wales
Standing in front of his hotel’s bathroom mirror, he appraised himself, liking what he saw. His body wet from the shower caught the evening light and his naked skin shimmered, like gold. A decade ago he was fat around the middle, his eyes heavy, his teeth crooked. But now, the man before him was perfect. Strong, athletic, beautiful. The caterpillar had become the butterfly. He flexed his chest muscles, and the gold shimmered just before the sun slipped behind a cloud, one of the few that had hung around for the day, and was gone. His body became mortal once more. He’d noticed that age was taking over – fine lines splintered from the corner of his eye, the hair on his chest greying. Even the scar that flicked like a whiplash across his chin, the one gifted to him by Claire Moore, looked faded, as if it would one day turn to dust with the rest of him. But it didn’t worry him, life was all just borrowed time.
Stepping into his bedroom, he turned on the TV and began thinking about the ninth. They had exchanged numbers in the same supermarket exactly a week after ‘bumping’ into one another, and she had messaged to ask if he was free this evening. He had lied, saying he was stuck at work. In reality, she would see him very soon. He was readying himself to visit her in her home. As the picture on the TV sprang to life, the news came into focus. He watched nothing else. They were talking of Killian Jones, a meek-looking man who they had arrested in connection with the eighth. He knew who he was; he was the friend of Claire Moore, and one they speculated was the copycat killer. Seeing them discuss their reasoning for suspecting Killian stopped him in his tracks. They were more stupid, more misguided than he thought.
Learning the wrong man had been arrested disappointed him. He expected more of the authorities, and someone else drawing attention for his work infuriated him. It had been the same with Tommy Kay, until he saw that with all eyes looking elsewhere, he’d been presented a wonderful opportunity to cement his legacy. Smiling to himself, he knew he could become even more infamous with his next kill. The nation’s press were so caught up in pointing fingers at the poor man who had been arrested, so sure he was the copycat killer, that when they knew for certain he wasn’t, and that, even worse, the killings were not a copycat at all, but the original come back to terrorise, he would become the stuff of legend. Fate had presented this opportunity, and he had to seize it. He almost felt sorry for the poor man, who was no doubt scared to death in some prison cell.
It was almost too perfect. The news of the arrest meant that he would delay his kill, and he could use that to confirm Lauren was the right choice. As he thought about it, he realised it would be to his benefit in more ways than one if Killian was charged. He hoped the speculation, the finger-pointing became their version of the facts. And when that happened, he would kill the ninth and pull the rug out from under everyone’s feet. But if they released Killian without charge and then he claimed his ninth, Killian would still be their prime suspect. And he didn’t want that to happen. On paper, it seemed too risky, but his instincts told him it was a risk he needed to take.
In the short time he had known Lauren, he had seen that her life of routine extended to her heavy-handed husband, also a creature of routine, his schedule easy to follow. On Mondays and Fridays he told his wife he worked late, but when he’d followed him the previous week, he’d watched as the husband checked into a hotel with a younger woman, who he was no doubt sleeping with. It was abhorrent, disgusting, but it gave him a window to kill his wife. It wouldn’t be tonight as he thought, but sometime very soon.
With more time before he killed her, he knew he should seize the moment and know for sure she was a perfect image for his grand design, so he messaged saying they had cancelled his meeting and was free, if she still wanted to do something. It didn’t take long for her to reply saying she was still available and would love to go for a drink.
Available. He thought it was an interesting choice of word.
Grabbing his towel, he dried his hair and body before dressing in a pair of dark blue jeans and a black shirt, and left to meet her, leaving his ready-packed rucksack at the foot of his bed, as he wouldn’t be needing it tonight
The drive to Wrexham took him, or as the ninth knew him, Jason, under fifteen minutes, and parking his car close to the town centre he walked in to meet her outside of the bar she had suggested. They had agreed to meet at eight and, checking his watch, he saw he was a few minutes early. He waited patiently outside for her to arrive, expecting her to be late. She wasn’t. He saw her coming down the main road before she saw him and that gave him an opportunity to watch her, to step inside her head, to read her thoughts. She was nervous. That was good, nerves forced the mind to focus on surroundings, on moods, but usually at the cost of clouding over words. It meant that
he could manipulate her and learn what he needed to. Once she spotted him, she smiled, and he watched as she straightened her back, fixed her expression and hid the emotions she was feeling, something she was used to from living with her disgusting husband. As they embraced and kissed on both cheeks, he wondered how much she had to hide. This evening he would find out.
‘You look lovely,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
She didn’t compliment him back, even though he knew he looked impressive. Her nerves were in charge, the words lost.
‘Shall we grab a drink?’
Opening the door, he let her step inside before him and finding a table, she sat while he ordered a white wine for her and an alcohol-free beer for him. Returning to the table he instigated small talk, asking about her day, discussing the warm weather that had lasted way into September. He told her about his work and talked about Charlotte starting pre-school. As he talked about his fake daughter, he noticed the ninth relax in her seat. The safety net of appearing to be a doting dad worked its charm; he would have to remember that, and use it again when grooming the tenth.
After an hour and another glass of wine, the conversation moved onto deeper, more personal things. She initiated the conversation, asking him if she should feel bad for enjoying his company, being married and all.
‘That depends?’ he said, his tone even, suggesting he wasn’t judging.
‘On what?’
‘On whether he is good to you. If he is, and treats you as you deserve, then yes, feel bad. If he doesn’t, then no. Besides, we aren’t doing anything wrong, we’re just two adults enjoying each other’s company.’
‘You’ve such a way with words, Jason. Thank you.’
‘So, do you feel bad?’
She looked at him and said five words which were all the proof he needed. Five words sealed her fate.
‘No. I don’t at all.’
Chapter 41
30th September 2018
St Ives, Cambridgeshire
Paul smiled at me sympathetically through the bedroom mirror as I adjusted my hair, trying to make it more presentable. For a moment I wondered what I would have done with it if I’d kept it long. The thought of longer hair stopped me preparing for the thing I was about to do. And I went back there, to that night in Ireland, in the dark, being dragged by it, dazed, drugged, about to see Owen’s arm hanging over the rim of a bath. Paul assumed my hesitation was because of what I was about to do.
‘Claire, you look lovely.’
His voice snapped me back from there. ‘I look frazzled, and my bloody hair…’
He cut me off, planting a kiss on my shoulder. ‘Honestly. You look amazing.’
‘Thanks. Sorry, I’m nervous.’
‘You’re allowed to be. It will all be over soon.
‘Really? When?’
‘After tonight you can begin to go back to the way things were.’
‘The way things were still feels a long way away.’
‘I know honey,’ he said, kneading a knot in my shoulder. ‘But it isn’t, it’s closer than you…’
‘Are you ready?’ Geoff shouted upstairs, interrupting Paul, his voice steady and calm, as it always was.
‘Almost,’ I called back.
‘OK, love. They’ll wait for you, so take as much time as you need.’
Looking at myself in the mirror again, I took my necklace and tucked it into my top, where it wouldn’t be seen. I took a deep breath. My expression was either courageous or terrified, or both. I couldn’t be sure either way.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Paul whispered, as I turned to him, my head resting onto his chest bone.
‘Yes, I do. And then it’s done, isn’t it? If I give them what they want, they will leave us alone.’
I waited for him to disagree, to say they wouldn’t and give me my get-out clause I desperately wanted. But he didn’t, he just stepped back, his hands on my shoulders and smiled, telling me I was right, and that meant I had to see it through.
‘Claire?’ This time it was Mum, sounding less controlled than Geoff. She was being badgered for me to come downstairs, step out of my front door to the lectern erected on my front lawn, to tell the world how I was feeling about Killian who, after three days of investigation, had been charged with the murder of Kath Brinck.
I made my way down the stairs fiddling with the chain around my neck through my top. Front, back, upstairs and down. With each step I tried to convince myself it would be all right. I would be all right. Paul came down behind me keeping a little distance, knowing I needed it. As I reached the bottom step Mum gave me a hug and Geoff nodded as our eyes met over her shoulder. Penny was also there, and though she smiled at me, I could see that she was just as nervous as I was.
‘You’ve got this, Claire.’
‘Thanks, Pen.’ I offered a smile, but it felt weak.
As I walked to the front door, Paul stopped me and handed me my notes.
‘You might need these.’
‘Oh God, I almost forgot. Thanks, Paul.’
‘It’s going to be fine.’
‘Paul, I know I said I wanted to do this alone. But will you come with me?’
I was expecting Paul to say yes, and he did, but there was a hesitation, a beat. Although it was only for a split second, it seemed to last longer and said so much.
‘You don’t have to, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘No really. I’ll be fine,’ I replied, my voice tight and breathless.
‘Claire, if you want me to come with you, I’ll come with you.’
He took my hand and wrapped it in his. And although he smiled, I could see he was tense, just as tense as I felt.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘No, but it’s happening anyway.’
He squeezed my hand a little harder and opened the front door to the flashes from cameras that blinded me. I felt myself wanting to retreat into the house. If it wasn’t for Paul, who with his spare hand in the small of my back gently guided me, I would never have made it to the lectern to speak. As I put my notes down, my front lawn fell silent, the flashes paused, and people waited. I hadn’t noticed that the press were talking until they stopped. In the silence I heard a bird calling and for a moment I focused on that, noting how strange it was to hear it when it was dark. It seemed to distract me enough to open my mouth. I took an intake of breath which was amplified through the five microphones in front of me, and my gasp bounced off the houses opposite and back into my ears. I let out the same breath, again amplified, and then spoke. Forgetting to take another breath in, the first thing I said sounded forced, and out of control.
‘Killian Jones was someone I knew.’
I inhaled sharply, my lungs out of air, and had to turn my head to cough. It was going wrong. I wanted to show that I was in control. The more control I had, the more likely I wouldn’t be a good story, and therefore the stronger the chance was, after tonight, I would be left alone. So far, I was presenting as a broken woman. As I coughed the flashes started up again, the media capturing me in my fragile state. I wanted to go back into the house, but didn’t. After the coughing had stopped, I stood as tall as I could. My fingers gripped the edge of the lectern until the tips went white. I continued. ‘He… he supported me in the months after I was nearly killed ten years ago, the same night my husband, Owen Moore, became the seventh victim of Tommy Kay.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mum leaning into Geoff with her eyes shut. He looked at me with such kind intensity that I felt myself gain some courage. Enough for me to look at the media before me; a sea of faces with Dictaphones and cameras acting as extensions of their bodies. Their faces were mostly in the shadow of lights that were focused on me. They became something unreal, something you couldn’t quite make out.
‘The killer himself died long ago, and although he never confessed to the killings, the authorities believed he was their man.
Since then, I have tried to survive, tried to live my day to day life as best I can.’
Another pause to breathe, another look at Geoff and Mum. Beside me, Paul placed a hand on my back again, and I knew he was telling me I was doing all right.
‘Learning of Kath Brinck’s killing shook me to my core, and my heart goes out to her friends and family. From experience, I understand what a difficult time you are going through. To learn that she died at the hands of Killian Jones breaks my heart, and I cannot help but shoulder some responsibility for her death. His terrible, terrible act, his act of evil, was one to attract my attention and so to her family, if you are listening, I am so, so sorry.’
I welled up, so I stepped back from the lectern and lowered my head. It was the first time I had said out loud the reason Killian killed that poor woman, and hearing myself say it made it even more real. She had died because I had lived. Paul wrapped his arm around me, and leant in. He whispered I should keep going and the cameras flashed again. I felt his body tense. I couldn’t help but think regardless of what I said and how I presented myself, they would make a story out of it. So, I steadied myself and pressed on. The sooner I said what I needed to say, the sooner I could go back inside. Turning over the notes that sat on the lectern I looked at Mum who looked back, sensing something had changed in me. I chose to ignore my cue cards, my prepared words and as I spoke, I made a point of looking at as many of the reporters as I could.
‘I have struggled over the past ten years to feel like I can be all right. I’m still afraid of the dark, I still need my mother nearby.’ I laughed sadly at myself, and Paul closed the gap between us. I would never say these things out loud again. So, I needed to finish it.
‘I still have bad dreams most nights. I still struggle to be out of the house on my own. But all those things were getting easier to manage, with time, with space. Recently, because of what happened to Kath Brinck, things have become just as tough as they were in the months after, the years after, that night in Ireland. And to know the man who killed her is someone I have spoken with, someone who I once confided in, is hard for me to swallow.’
Closer Than You Think Page 20