‘Well,’ he tapped the pile of notes, ‘these people think there is.’
‘I have a bunch of emails to answer, then I’ll make a start.’
‘No hurry, Eleanor is making tea for everyone.’
I shook my head. ‘Oh, to be an intern.’
Marcus was halfway to the door but he turned back. ‘Being an intern’s nothing to do with it. She makes the best brew in the place…’
Eleanor and I were on our third cup when we finally made it to the notes. She was an aspiring writer, it turned out, and she felt shock and awe at being touching distance from a best-selling author. ‘Have you any tips?’ she’d asked.
Be the witness to a violent crime, I thought. But instead I told her everything people always want to hear about these things: how important it is to practice your craft; attend writing groups; learn the rules before you break them. She’d nodded along eagerly, and when I wrapped everything up with a neat, ‘So that’s that, really,’ she took the hint well enough and offered to make another drink before we got started. I accepted eagerly because Marcus was right; Eleanor’s tea-making was far superior.
‘Do you mind me sorting emails while we do this?’ I asked, my fingers already poised over the keyboard.
Eleanor looked surprised.
‘I’m sorry, I’m expecting a lot of cranks, you know? You get a lot, with stuff like this.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t even. Absolutely.’
I deciphered that to mean that checking my emails was fine. ‘Fire away.’
‘I think it’s my next-door neighbour who–’
‘Pass. Next.’
‘Oh. Oh, I– okay.’ She set the first note down and continued with the second. The third, fourth and fifth. I was midway through replying to my seventh email of the afternoon when Eleanor said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want me just to go through these on my own?’
I closed the email I was drafting and shifted myself around to look head on at her. ‘Go on, let’s give the next one a go and then I’ll make the next tea.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t mind being the tea maid for everyone, you know?’
‘Marcus thinks you make the best cuppa in the office, you do know that?’
‘Oh – oh, well.’ She smiled in a bashful sort of way; I thought she must feel genuinely flattered, and I was glad for having told her. ‘Okay, well, either way I don’t mind.’
‘Go on, hit me with it.’ I nodded at the sheet she was already holding. ‘This looks like a lengthier one.’
Eleanor glanced over it. ‘I copied this one down. It was left on the office voicemail and I didn’t want you to miss it, or ignore it.’ She smirked and I nodded; it had been a fair guess on her part. ‘Ready? Dear Sarah…’
Like a knee-jerk reaction, my eyes stretched at the phrasing.
‘The woman in Coventry is a really sad state of affairs but people are barking up the wrong tree. You should know that – but maybe you don’t. The sincerely yours murders will keep happening, though–’
‘Exact phrasing?’ I interrupted.
‘To which part?’
‘Sincerely yours?’
‘That’s how I wrote it down. I listened to a few times over to make sure I hadn’t–’
‘Did you delete it?’ I was already reaching for the phone.
‘The phones only hold a certain amount of messages and,’ she fanned the rest of the Post-its, ‘there were a fair few left.’
‘Fuck,’ I said under my breath, but I saw Eleanor writhe and I knew she must have heard. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tried to laugh it off, ‘I’m being intense. Carry on, would you? I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘The murders will keep happening, though, promise. Anyway, Sarah, be seeing you.’
I rubbed hard at my temple. ‘That’s how it ends, right?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Can you set that to one side?’
She followed the instruction but asked, ‘Are you worried?’
‘Not at all, only curious.’ I flashed a smile and I hoped to God it looked realistic. ‘So, now you know the boss thinks you’re the best tea maker in the place, how about we get another round in before we tackle the rest of those?’
‘Well, who am I to ignore my natural calling?’ Eleanor’s face was friendly and open still. ‘I’ll go and ask the others if they want anything, though, as it’s nearing lunch.’
‘Christ, see you in half an hour to an hour then,’ I joked and faced back to my computer screen. ‘I’ll tackle a few more emails while you’re gone.’
When she’d left the room I reached across the table to read the scrawl of the phone message. I must have read it seven times over before I set it back where Eleanor had left it. In rapid thought, I went back and forth on where to go next – what to do, who to call. The victim in me thought the police; while the writer thought my publisher. But I ruled the second option out quickly enough. Although I’d been sorely tempted to stash the note away and hide it in the same place I’d kept the letters for all these years. But instead I grabbed my mobile from the corner of my desk and dialled.
‘How may I help you?’ the desk sergeant asked.
‘Hi there.’ I swallowed hard to steady my growing nerves. ‘I need to leave a message for DS Brooks…’
25
Eleanor’s handwritten note was stashed in my pocket. I’d kept it out of sight on the journey to the police station, and in the minutes I sat waiting for Brooks. In the hours since calling, I’d treated it like contraband: photocopying it in private and placating Marcus with a ‘women’s trouble’ excuse to get out of the office in good time to make the meeting.
Brooks had called back within minutes and asked for a face-to-face chat about things, and I’d felt as though I were in trouble without her even knowing the reason for the call. Maybe it was an educated guess on her part – and a fair one, to her credit. There was no way for me to explain the significance of the call, the message, without owning up to at least one letter. The walk from work to the station had given me enough time to think of one, but whether Brooks would buy it or not was another worry.
‘Sarah?’ She caught my attention, peering out from behind the door in front of me. ‘Do you want to come up? We’ll chat in my office.’
The fours year since Mum died had changed us all, and Brooks was a welcome reminder of that. She was authoritative, measured, members of her team stopped when we walked into the room. When they saw that there weren’t fresh instructions coming, they scurried off back to whatever tasks they’d been assigned. I took a good look around the space as she walked me through the beehive of criminal activity, making for the private room at the back. But on my way I saw fallen limbs and burst open bags of drugs, among other offensive items that had been photographed and tacked to the boards around the space. The crime reporter in me took her time; I was unhurried in comparison to Brooks. Until one cluster of images stopped me in my tracks. Not quite well-angled enough to face the right-hand wall of the room, there was an evidence board packed with faces I recognised. But it was Mum’s that caught me. Pulled along by a magnet in my stomach, I started to drift towards the corkboard. But Brooks anchored me with a hand on my shoulder.
‘Sarah,’ she spoke gently, ‘this way,’ and she angled me towards the office. I felt like a victim all over again. But I took two hard blinks and tried to remind myself why I was there.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I asked them to cover it.’ She flashed a tight smile. ‘Simple instructions are the hardest to follow around here. We’ve got a couple of good coffee-makers if you want a drink, though, or we can do tea?’
‘No, no I’m okay. Thank you, though.’
When we were in the office, she pressed the door closed with more care than the action called for, and I wondered whether she thought a loud noise might startle me. I made myself comfortable in the visitor’s chair while she circled and took the seat opposite. She checked her mobile phone, ignored the notifications that were listed on the home sc
reen, and then flipped it over.
‘You’ve moved up in the world,’ I said.
She lowered her head and laughed. I thought I saw the beginnings of a blush. ‘We’ve both done okay for ourselves, I think, haven’t we? Look at you.’ She lifted her head. ‘After everything. Sarah, it’s really admirable how you’ve picked yourself up, made something.’
The compliments made me shift awkwardly. I didn’t know whether it was because of the praise generally – or because I was about to lie to her.
‘Anyway,’ she carried on, ‘you called to have a chat about something.’
‘You asked to see me in person,’ I countered.
‘You first.’
I smiled, then took a deep breath. ‘After Mum died, the killer sent me a letter. I never reported it to the police. I was angry and, frankly, I thought you were all incompetent and incapable and even though it would have done me a favour to tell you, I wasn’t in a mindset of doing you favours after Mum had died and you didn’t catch the man responsible. I can’t even remember what I did with the letter.’ She opened her mouth to interrupt my lie, but I paused her with a raised hand. ‘I can’t undo that action. If I could, I would, because I certainly have a different perspective on matters now. Which is why I’m here.’ I pulled the note from my pocket, unfolded it and set it flat in front of her. ‘While I was out of the city on business, there was a flurry of messages left across numerous office phones. This was one of them.’
Her lips moved as she read the note. I tried to hear her whisper.
‘What makes you think this is significant?’ she asked, looking back at me. Her expression was blank; I couldn’t make out anger, disappointment, or surprise. I wondered whether she was a mother. My own had had that same knack for holding back feelings, when the offence called for it.
‘He calls them the Sincerely Yours murders.’
She scanned the note again to find the phrase while I spoke.
‘That’s how the killer signed the letter to me. Sincerely, comma, yours. Obviously, I can’t say where the comma fell in his speech, but–’
‘Do you have the original voicemail for this?’
I shook my head. ‘The work phones only save so many messages and this was one of the ones that was automatically cleared.’
‘Bollocks.’ She thought for a second and I held my breath, nervous a hard exhale might disturb her. ‘Definitely a man?’
‘So my intern tells me.’
‘Can we get her in here?’
‘If need be. I didn’t bring her with me because I didn’t know what this was worth. Without the voicemail, without the letter.’
She pulled the note closer to her, as though she was nervous I might snatch it back. ‘It’s worth something, Sarah, so thank you. We’ll keep this on file with the rest of our documents.’ She hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘How much of the letter do you remember, the one he sent after your mum?’
‘He told me to try to move on.’
She laughed, but then her face smoothed out. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘Anything else?’
Even though I’d expected the question, something about it still unnerved me. I made a conscious effort to steady my voice as I answered. ‘He told me that he was sorry, and that he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known I was there.’ I nearly smiled, but I didn’t know why. ‘He didn’t mean for me to see.’
‘Sarah, I…’
‘It’s okay, I know.’ I flashed a tight smile. ‘I’ve made my peace with it.’ Another lie, I thought. ‘I’m just sorry that I can’t be of more help.’
She folded the note over. ‘This helps, though, and that counts.’ When the note was stashed out of sight – hidden inside a cardboard folder to Brooks’ left – she looked me straight in the eyes. ‘We need to talk about the killings. You’ve heard about Coventry?’
‘Bits.’ Another lie. I hated how easily they were coming.
‘While the country was flocking to reports of the Coventry murder, which wasn’t our guy, there was a murder happening in Hereford. It’s around an hour and a half away by car,’ she added, answering a question I hadn’t asked. I wondered how much the distance from point A to point B mattered. ‘Woman in her mid-thirties, lived alone, no children, creature of habit in terms of her work and social life.’
I nodded along with each tick on the list. ‘You think it’s him?’
‘I think it’s him.’
‘What do you need from me?’
She nearly laughed. ‘I need for you to keep out of the way, firstly. Secondly, I need for you to be taking care of yourself. If this is him, it’s one of three, as we damn well know, and if he’s getting in touch with you about it then there’s a reason for it.’
I can’t do that. ‘Okay, I can do that.’
‘You can’t,’ she said, hearing the unsaid. ‘But I’ll– we’ll be keeping an eye on you, to make sure you’re safe and in the city.’
‘I can’t leave the city?’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘But, just so we’re clear, there’s no way of you stopping me? Or, I don’t know, reprimanding me, if I choose to?’
Brooks smiled. ‘If only. But no, there’s nothing I can do.’
I stood up and smoothed down my shirt front.
‘I don’t want to add your photograph to the board out there, though, if I can help it,’ she added.
‘It’s okay.’ I picked up my bag. ‘I’m not his type. But thanks for the warning and the openness. It goes without saying this is all off the record, in case you were wondering – or, I don’t know, worrying, maybe.’
‘I appreciate that. You take care now. Keep in touch, won’t you?’
‘Sure,’ I replied, although I wasn’t sure why I would.
I was halfway to the door when Brooks pulled me back in. ‘Hypothetically, just in case I was wondering or worrying. The note you’ve brought me today, you’ve made a copy of that for your own records?’
Brooks smiled and I reciprocated the gesture. I’d lied enough already, I decided. ‘Two copies, actually, just in case. But it’s off the record, for now.’
‘Until you need it for a book?’
I laughed off the accusation on my way out. But for the whole walk home I wondered what Brooks knew – or thought she knew – about my plans for a sequel.
26
Madison walked into the living room balancing a tray loaded full of what she’d assured me would be light snacks.
After a call from Brooks in the afternoon, forewarning me about a press conference planned for later in the day, I’d decided to land myself on Mad’s front doorstep and take refuge. I’d downplayed the trip as a sudden impulse – ‘It’s been ages since we spent time together at home.’ – and she’d gone along with it up to a point. But her over-willingness to prepare a full-blown meal, and have me pick out an accompanying romantic comedy, was a clear red flag that her carer instincts had kicked in.
‘I know you said not to go to any fuss–’
‘I think what I actually said was that I wasn’t hungry,’ I said, not looking up from the letter I was reading. There had been a pile of post sitting on the corner of my desk at work since day one, and it had felt like the perfect workload to bring to Madison’s. From the corner of my eye, though, I saw her shoulders slump, so I set the paper down. ‘But I can pick.’
‘Well,’ she set the tray on the coffee table, ‘that’s what I was thinking.’ She kissed my forehead before shuffling past and landing in the seat next to me. ‘Besides, you look like you’re losing weight, darling girl. Are you remembering to eat in amongst all this – whatever this is.’ She flicked a sheet of paper that I’d discarded on the To-Dump pile.
‘They’re just letters to the office.’
‘Fan mail?’ She picked one up and I snatched it back from her.
‘Some of it appears to be, yes.’
In the weeks before this, I’d managed to convince myself the
letters were all concerned locals hounding me for news coverage. But the further in I waded, the more it looked to be letters from delighted locals, voicing their happiness that an ‘expert’ was taking over the crime desk for the paper. I wondered what made me an expert, exactly: the history with violent crime, or the more recent history of writing about it. Either way, there had only been a handful of letters to throw away – nonsensical ramblings from people who were concerned about their neighbours, relatives, strangers, and what criminal activities they were up to – versus the few kind letters that would be scrapbooked. Any day now, I thought, when a few hours open up with nothing else at all to keep me busy. I had good intentions.
‘Darling girl,’ she bit into a vegetable spring roll and spoke around the cracks of pastry, ‘you’re welcome here always. But why are you here?’
I feigned outrage. ‘Well, if you don’t want my company…’
‘Funny. But come on.’
I dropped the letter I’d been trying to read. ‘Brooks called me earlier. She’s got a press conference arranged for this evening and she said I’d be interested in the content of it.’
‘Professionally?’
‘Personally.’
Madison coughed and flecks of food sprayed out of her mouth. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She rushed for a napkin, one of two wedged into the corner of the food tray. ‘Sorry, I’m not used to having company these days, you see.’ She was trying to lighten the mood, I guessed, so I forced a smile. ‘Darling, I’m glad you’re here for this. What time is it on?’ She leaned across me to get to the remote. ‘And, the more pressing question of it, when are you moving back in? I’m off work tomorrow.’
‘Mad…’
‘Sarah, just – please, think about it? That’s all I’m asking.’
‘Deal. Pass me a mini quiche.’
‘Cheese and onion or cheese and ham?’
I picked up the same letter for the third time. ‘Surprise me.’
There was still an hour to pass before the televised press conference. I’d told Madison I wanted to watch it, but I didn’t want to make a feature of it. If she had things to be doing, she should get on. ‘We need to keep going like normal,’ I’d said, with my head buried between pieces of paper. She agreed but still didn’t move from my side. She filed her nails, painted them, and then stripped the paint to start from scratch. When I side-eyed her she acted defensive and said she didn’t like the colour, but I’d seen her use the tactic before. During the days of us sharing a house, more than once I’d watched her kill time with manicures over cleaning; it had been one of my favourite differences between her and Mum.
Sincerely, Yours Page 11