Sincerely, Yours

by Charlotte Barnes

  There was dead air for so long after I’d finished reading that I wondered whether Landon was expecting more. I chanced a glance at him and noticed he was staring at nothing at all, his eyes fixed at a random spot on the desk. I cleared my throat to catch his attention and he looked up, then.

  ‘I hit the pause button,’ he explained. ‘I thought you might need a minute.’

  Or you might need a minute. ‘Are you okay, Lan?’

  He smiled. ‘She was just a bloody brilliant woman, wasn’t she? Like, Jesus.’ He ran a finger under each eye as though clearing away tears. ‘She was always the fun one, from all of our parents. I remember rocking up at yours once when I was – Christ, maybe no older than fifteen. Mum and Dad had argued like buggery, and I’d necked more vodka than I knew what to do with, and not once did she mention grassing me in for that. She welcomed me in, sobered me up, told me to stay the night and packed us both off to school the next morning like it had been any other sleepover.’

  I half-laughed. I could remember that night, too. ‘She was good like that.’

  ‘Do you need a break?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied. But these readings required a good game face, even around the likes of Landon. ‘Do you need a break?’

  ‘I’m best just to power through. I can get myself good and drunk after.’ He tried to laugh but the sound cracked in his throat. ‘So, the good thing about pre-recorded shows is that we can patch all this together. The first reading will open the show, then the interview, then the second reading.’

  ‘And that’ll air tonight?’

  He nodded. ‘It has to be, because of the content. But we’ll be uploading the readings to the website and rolling them out across the podcast platform, too.’ I raised an eyebrow at the organisation; it looked strange on Landon, who had once somehow managed to forget his own birthday. ‘I’m trying to impress my boss,’ he admitted. ‘My ratings haven’t been great, and I want to get bumped to a daytime show.’

  I readjusted the over-sized headphones I was wearing. ‘So, let’s do this.’

  He held three raised fingers to count us back into the recording and we picked up as though the first reading had only just happened. Landon asked about the missing mother in life events, how you learn to manage that reality – assuming you ever do. For the first five minutes of the interview he managed to tread across relatively safe topics. He steered talk towards the policing of the case and I huffed into the microphone.

  ‘I know it may not sound like it from some of the tones in the book,’ I started, ‘but I do genuinely believe the police have done their utmost to catch this man.’ I thought back to my talk with Brooks; how good it would be to have her on side for whatever might happen next. ‘They’re treading unfamiliar waters, like everyone else involved in this situation, and catching a killer isn’t a daily event for any police department.’

  ‘Of course. But we’re four years on now, Sarah.’

  I smiled. ‘That isn’t a question. But yes, we’re four years on. I don’t think anyone has forgotten that, or overlooked it. The police are still trying their best, though, regardless of the timeline they’re working with.’

  ‘Speaking of time,’ he said, already sounding too pleased, ‘can we talk a little more about the time of year?’

  ‘Mum’s anniversary?’ I asked, and I could see it had thrown him. ‘The anniversary of the killings, that is. I realise it isn’t just Mum’s death that happened around this time.’

  ‘Well, that’s where I’m leaning here. We’re fast approaching the two-year mark. Three murders in year one; three murders two years later. We’re another two years on and no closer to knowing who this man is, or where he’s likely to hit next. Do you have any theories?’

  ‘On the location, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. Should we expect him to make a comeback in Birmingham, for instance?’

  ‘I don’t think we have any reason to expect that,’ I answered, but quickly added, ‘although no one expected for a serial killer to cut his teeth here the first time around. So, our expectations of this man are a little out of sync with his behaviours already.’

  ‘Colour me an optimist, but is there a possibility that there won’t be an attack at all?’

  I scrunched my face up. ‘What do you think, Landon? Is he likely to give up?’

  ‘Quit while he’s ahead?’

  I’d spent the lonely hours of insomnia wondering similar things. A sane person couldn’t rationalise the actions of the insane. But I couldn’t think of a good reason why he’d give up the game when he was so far ahead. ‘Only if he wants to be chased,’ I eventually answered. ‘If he wants to be chased then he likely feels quite unfulfilled by the fact that no one has found him, or is even close to finding him.’ I thought back to the letters, then; how he’d asked me, both times, not to share them with the police. ‘If being caught was something that bothered him that much, though, then he would have made it easier for the police.’

  Landon half-laughed. ‘Is that how serial killers work?’

  ‘Some of them.’ During my months of writing and researching I’d stumbled across records for serial killers in all shapes and flavours. Some of them desperately wanted to be caught. ‘Some of them do sincerely want to be left alone to go about their business. They’re happy with no one noticing them, and they’re certainly happy with no one tracking them.’

  ‘Which brings us back to the possibility of more murders.’

  ‘Landon, look,’ I took on a firmer tone, ‘if I knew where this guy was going to hit next then I’d be at the police station now putting pins on a map. The fact is – well, the sad fact that is, none of us know when or if he’ll hit next, and that’s why we need to stay vigilant. Sometimes killers get cocksure, they branch out, they try on different areas; sometimes they don’t.’ I took a deep inhale to steady myself. ‘Sometimes they come home.’

  ‘And that sounds like a good time for a break to me, folks. We’ll be right back with more from Sarah Wainwright after this short interval.’ He held up three fingers again to count us out and then pushed away his headset, leaving it to hang around his neck. ‘Sometimes they come home?’ he asked. ‘Is that a serious worry you’ve got?’

  ‘Lan, come on. Up until five years ago Mum being murdered wasn’t a serious worry.’ I sometimes forgot that the honesty you feel comfortable sharing post-trauma isn’t always the honesty people are comfortable hearing. ‘What the hell do I know anyway?’ I added, to try to undercut my own authority. ‘This guy could have fallen off the face of the earth months ago, two years ago. Maybe six is his lucky number and he’ll stop there.’

  ‘Sure.’ Landon picked up his headphones and set them level on each ear. He held up three fingers again and on the count of two said, ‘I’m just hoping his lucky number isn’t nine.’

  21

  It was my first time sharing Mum’s anniversary with an office full of people. Marcus asked if I was okay once every three hours, while everyone else seemed determined to avoid me entirely. There were hushed whispers at the coffee machine, and tentative offers of letting me pass through doorways ahead of people, as though the slightest misfortune in an average day might send me spiralling. But I’d been preparing for this event since it had happened the year before. It never exactly came as a surprise. What came as a surprise was how quiet the surrounding cities were. I’d had a handful of emails about memorial pieces; things that other journalists wanted me to go on the record for.

  Though I kept an ear to the ground, there didn’t look to be anything in the way of new incidents. And the closer we got to Mum’s anniversary, the more my stomach shifted at the thought that he really might not come back for another spate – even though I knew that should be a source of comfort rather than loss.

  I was looking out over the bustle of the office when the knock at the door came. ‘Got a minute?’ Connor asked. He was, I’d guessed, at least ten years my senior and still in a job well beneath my rank. But there wasn’t a hint of a
wkwardness about him, and I was thankful for that.

  ‘Pull up a pew. What’s the news?’ I nodded to the seat opposite mine. ‘Something exciting happening in the human-interest archives?’ Connor was one of many journalists who seemed to catch the easier goings-on around the city. This was the first time he’d had anything to do with the crime office, and I was intrigued. But it didn’t take a genius…

  ‘I’m just going to come out and say it.’ He avoided eye contact. ‘It would be remiss of us not to run an anniversary piece. We do one every year, our competitors in and around the city are running pieces, and you’re tied to the crimes. If we don’t do one, then–’

  ‘It looks as though you’re changing habits for me,’ I finished.

  ‘Am I an arsehole?’

  I laughed. ‘For this? No. But I don’t know what you’re like out of work.’ He looked taken aback by the joke. ‘That wasn’t a proposition.’

  ‘I’m not offended, if it was.’ His tone was more playful, less worried. ‘Seriously, though, the memorial piece. It completely falls within our remit; no one is expecting you to write this thing yourself. I more just wanted to check you didn’t have any strong feelings against us covering it?’

  I rolled the idea around in my mind. ‘It would give us an edge if I wrote it.’

  ‘I– ah – okay, sure. That isn’t why I came in here.’

  I put my hands up in a show of surrender. ‘You’re welcome to take the piece, especially if it’s something you usually do. But, if anyone is going to commodify tragedy, I feel like morally I’m allowed to.’ The suggestion had clearly caught him off guard. In my experience, people were always surprised when you looked to gain something from a shitty thing happening to you. But if anyone had the right to gains, I firmly believed it was me. ‘Talk to Marcus? Sit on the idea for a bit. It won’t take me long to write, so just let me know before the day is out.’

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I’ll double check with Marcus.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I replied, as though it was his original thought. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only…’ he drifted out. ‘If you ever want to know what a nice guy I am outside of work, give my extension a dial?’

  I laughed so he knew what a funny suggestion it was. Before I could think of a half-decent put-down, though, my desk phone rang and I was grateful for it. ‘I’m sorry, I should take this,’ I gestured to the handset, ‘thanks for checking in with me about this, though, Connor.’ He scooted out of the office with a soundless goodbye as I snatched up the phone. ‘Sarah Wainwright’s office.’ Static crunched through the speaker. There had been three non-phone calls in the days before, with nothing more than static and heavy breathing, and I wondered whether this might be number four. I cleared my throat. ‘Sarah Wainwright speaking. Can I help you with something?’

  ‘Sarah…’ a voice crackled out. ‘Sarah, can you hear me okay?’

  ‘Who’s calling, please?’ I pushed.

  ‘Sarah, it’s Therese Brewer from The Chronicle.’ A newspaper two cities across the country from mine, Therese had been the first female crime reporter to comment on The Herald’s social media update announcing my arrival. She and I had instantly bonded over Facebook and shared misogynistic tales in real-time as we encountered them. In other words, she was a friend. ‘Can you hear me okay?’ I could hear the hiss and spit of action unfolding in the background. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘I can hear you, just about. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Sarah, they’ve found a body.’

  The newspaper hadn’t run an advertisement about my deep-rooted interest in deaths around the area. But I’d confided in Therese more than once that I was looking for leads on a new wave of killings. I’d told her in confidence, but I reasoned it wasn’t the worst information to have floating around either.

  ‘Is it him?’

  She hesitated. ‘It really is too soon to tell. The police are being very guarded about it.’

  ‘When did they find her?’

  ‘About four hours ago. I called as soon as I could. There’s still a lot of action happening at the scene itself. I’m still here. I– I didn’t know whether to call.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’ I glanced at the bottom corner of my computer monitor. Not quite clockwork, I thought, but the date’s a near enough match. ‘I know this is your patch,’ I said, feigning apology in my tone, ‘but is there any chance at all I could pop over?’

  She let out a half-laugh, something closer to a sigh. ‘Why do you think I called?’

  Therese handed over the details and I scribbled each one across a series of Post-its. There were four stapled together by the time we got off the phone. I told her I’d power down at work and hit the road as early as I could; she said to call when I got there. It would be our first time meeting in person and somehow the circumstances didn’t seem surprising.

  While my computer blinked into sleep, I threw everything marginally important into my bag and made for the door. Connor – as though he’d been outside, waiting – was the first body I collided with.

  ‘Shit, sorry, Sarah.’

  ‘Were you– did you listen?’ I asked, gesturing behind me.

  ‘No, God no. I was on my way back into you. About the memorial piece–’

  ‘Take it,’ I interrupted. ‘Honestly, it’s yours.’ I side-stepped him and headed for the door, but over my shoulder I added, ‘Thanks for the opportunity, and for – you know, at least mentioning it to me.’ I didn’t wait for a response, only pushed hard against the swing door to the office and rushed to the stairs. I really was grateful for the opportunity to write about Mum, always. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to write about the next one.

  22

  ‘Madison, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll make it home for dinner.’ I called her from the traffic jam between cities.

  ‘What’s the story?’

  I told her I wasn’t ready to say. ‘It’ll jinx my chickens if I talk about it.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the saying but okay. Text me when you’re home?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, though I had no idea when I’d make it back.

  I’d been stuck in traffic for twenty-eight minutes when I realised I’d been sitting in silence, stewing. I turned on the radio but it didn’t offer much respite, with one channel talking about a spate of thefts in the local area – wherever that was, off the motorway – and the next cut in with the best and worst of the 1980s, although I opted for the latter when the rest of the channels gave out nothing but static. When ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ was cut through with the sound of my mobile ringing through the car system, I let out a huff of air that I hadn’t known I was holding.

  ‘Sarah Wainwright,’ I answered because I was technically on the clock.

  ‘Hi, Sarah. Marcus here from The Herald. I’ve got a story for you.’ The huff of air was back in my chest but it was nerves this time; I knew what was coming. ‘It might be something or nothing, but I’ve got a missing crime reporter. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

  It was hard to gauge his tone, so I went straight in on the defence. ‘Boss, I’m so so–’

  ‘Sorry, yeah, I guessed that much. Seriously, though, Sarah, where the hell are you?’

  ‘I got a tip about a new story and I got carried away with myself.’ The traffic edged forward another couple of metres. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have stuck my head in to say. I got carried away with Connor and then this call came in.’

  ‘Wait, is Connor with– no, ignore me. I can see him through my office window. Have you got Connor working on something?’

  ‘The memorial piece for the city murders.’

  There was a long pause and I guessed Marcus didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Was that his idea or…’

  ‘The story was his idea. He offered it to me initially, but then this call came in.’ I checked my watch. ‘I might not be back before the office shuts today but I’ll be there br
ight and early tomorrow morning, and I can fill you in on everything then.’ I had no idea whether I was even telling the truth, but I needed to give him something.

  Marcus fidgeted about on the other end of the phone. I imagined him slumping himself down at his desk, tallying up the different ways he could reprimand me. ‘Is this anything to do with the body they just found over in Coventry?’

  ‘You’ve heard.’

  ‘The editor for The Chronicle called me.’

  I hadn’t worked in the industry for long. But I was fast learning you couldn’t swing a stick in journalism without taking someone’s knees out. ‘Therese from The Chronicle called me. She and I have been swapping emails for a bit about the crime desk and–’

  ‘Look, Sarah, it’s good that you’re making connections, and I think it says a lot that someone from a city over would throw you a tip like this.’

  But… I thought, waiting for the catch.

  ‘But, firstly, you can’t go off half-cocked without telling someone where you’re going. Leave a Post-it on my office door next time as a courtesy at least, would you?’

  ‘I will, I definitely will and–’

  ‘I’m not done,’ he cut across me. Marcus hadn’t struck me as the stern kind. I wondered whether he was rushing through the reprimand, then, to try to get it over with as quickly as possible – for both our sakes. ‘You also can’t go off half-cocked on a story that doesn’t concern us yet. It isn’t inner city, and we haven’t even had confirmation of whether this is part of the city murders string or not.’