Sincerely, Yours

by Charlotte Barnes

  Canonical grew from a late night and too much gin; the circumstances under which all good creative plans are hatched. Landon and I were watching a serial killer documentary – we called it research, but in truth we were drunk and sad and it seemed a good idea – and midway through I slurred, ‘Why is it always the killers, Landon?’ From the opposite side of our cushion fort he looked at me, glass-eyed in a way that made me wonder whether he might cry at the question. ‘I mean, why is it the killers? Why doesn’t anyone remember the victims?’ I pushed my heavy form from the floor and crossed to the other side of my living room to grab a picture of Mum. She was young in the image – it had been taken by Madison before I was even born – and her happiness glowed. ‘No one even remembers her name.’

  It was another two hours later when Landon, loaded on pizza crusts and slightly more sober, picked up the same picture. ‘Why don’t we make them remember?’

  Canonical was into its second year. We were regularly approached by advertisers, too, because our 8,000 downloads a month made us a good investment. From one month to the next we had everything from alcohol brands through to escape room experiences.

  Landon held out a brochure. ‘We’ve been invited to this.’

  ‘Deathfest?’ I looked at the front cover. The title was deliberately bloodied, with the font dripping into the description underneath. ‘A weekend full of panels, workshops and film showings to showcase the best and worst of serial killers.’ I dropped it on his desk. ‘I don’t want to feature that on the show.’

  ‘We’re not featuring it,’ he said through a mouthful of crisps, ‘they’ve invited us along as speakers. We’re kind of a big deal.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knew?’

  I looked over the leaflet again. ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Not especially. But I’m free that weekend and I’ll do anything for money.’

  ‘Good money?’

  ‘Jury’s out. I’ve emailed them to see what the offer actually is.’ He dropped into the seat at the opposite end of the desk. Landon’s boss was kind enough to let us record each episode in an unused part of the radio studio once a month – on the condition that every show started with Landon’s dulcet tones announcing our location. ‘Are you in town that weekend?’ Landon was one of the few people who had noticed my disappearing acts.

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘Still not going to tell me who the mystery lover is?’ But he hadn’t quite guessed the right reason for the absences.

  ‘Cute try. But no.’

  ‘As long as he isn’t too much competition for me.’

  ‘Oh, Lan,’ I pulled on my headphones, ‘as though anyone could be.’

  ‘Right answer.’ He held up three fingers to count us in: One, two… ‘Good evening and welcome to another episode of Canonical. You’re here with your hosts, Landon Hughes.’

  ‘And Sarah Wainwright.’

  We talked about Amelia Brown. She was a young woman who was murdered by a serial killer in the 1950s, somewhere just outside of London. Her killer was an urban legend; a monster never caught for his crimes. When we’d picked her Landon had asked whether it was too close to home and I laughed it off: ‘Why do you think I chose her?’ The reason for choosing Amelia was that she was the killer’s final victim before he dropped off the grid. That should have been reason enough for people to remember her name, and yet most news reports insisted on calling her ‘the final victim’, as though that had become her official moniker in death. Throughout the research for the episode I’d become so angry that I’d had to take regular breaks and the recording itself prompted a similar reaction.

  ‘Smoke?’ Landon asked.

  I pulled a cigarette from the packet with my teeth and talked around it. ‘I’m trying to quit.’

  ‘Try tomorrow. We need a break.’

  Outside, I lit cigarettes for us both and exhaled hard as I handed Landon’s to him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘You’re coming across as pretty angry.’

  I laughed and smoke tumbled from me. ‘I am angry, Landon. Aren’t you?’

  He kissed my temple. ‘You have more reason than I do to be angry.’

  We didn’t talk about Mum as often as we used to. But Landon often reminded me that I had the option of talking about her.

  When I didn’t say anything, he opted for idle chit-chat. ‘Where are you heading on your next work-slash-sex party weekend?’

  ‘It isn’t a sex party.’ I inhaled hard and pushed the smoke out with my speech. ‘It’s just a work thing and I’m meeting some friends while I’m there.’ After so many monthly trips and unexplained absences, the lies came easily. ‘I’m going up north for the weekend. I shouldn’t be gone longer than four days or so. It’s partly a research trip as well.’

  ‘For the show?’

  I shook my head. ‘For the book.’

  ‘Ah, but of course.’ He dubbed his cigarette out and threw it in the nearest bin. ‘So,’ he started, using an enquiring tone that I recognised too well, ‘it was Cardiff last time, wasn’t it? When you left the city for the weekend, I mean.’

  I didn’t mind them knowing where I’d been. But I never wanted them to know where I was going. Friends and family have too many worries and I’d never wanted to pack their concerns in my overnight bag. It had been easier to pass it off as a cloak and dagger work trip. Easier, that is, until Landon slipped into interviewer mode.

  ‘Yes.’ I offered him another cigarette and he accepted. ‘Why?’

  He waited until he’d sparked up before he answered. ‘There was a murder there.’

  Something pulled at my insides. ‘I’m sure there have been a lot over the years.’

  ‘Nice try. But I mean the weekend you were there, there was a murder.’

  I’d seen reports about the murder when I’d arrived home from the weekend. I was never sure whether I was relieved or disappointed to see these things though; to be so close, and yet…

  ‘I think I might have seen something about that. Did you want to cover it?’

  ‘Hardly worth covering.’ His tone was antagonistic. ‘It was just a one-off, wasn’t it?’

  The question wasn’t a question; it was a trap.

  I made a show of shivering and moved away from the wall. ‘I’m going to head back in.’ I pulled my hoodie tighter around me. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Mhmm.’ He avoided eye contact and took a long drag of his cigarette.

  When I was back inside, I knew I had a good two minutes for Landon to finish his cigarette and climb the stairs. In the privacy of the recording studio, I landed hard in my seat and pulled my bag up from the floor. There was a small compartment on the inside that I unzipped and felt around in. The well-worn envelope came out and when I unfolded the lips, the first of the innards was a scored map, its centre loosened from months of being opened and closed. He – whoever he was – had sent me a roadmap of his targets, months and all, like a boastful plan. The map had that frayed feel that paper gets when you spend too much time with it. But if I was lucky, I reminded myself, I wouldn’t need it for that much longer…

  33

  2016

  Sarah,

  I know it’s been no time at all. But it hadn’t occurred to me before that I might miss it all this much. You’re the only person I can talk to about it, Sarah, and I’m sorry for that. There isn’t anyone closer to home, though, and I do have to talk to someone. I thought skipping a year was okay. I thought it was safe, even, because you were so close, Sarah, so much closer than you knew. I think of that sometimes – when I’m missing it all. Do you even know when you saw me, Sarah? Have you gone back over those days to see whether you can pick out a new face – one that might look like a monster?

  You were there for work, I think. There’d been an incident that you thought was worth covering for our local paper even though it wasn’t a local problem at all. Then, Sarah, when I think of it that way, I find it all so uncomfortab
ly coincidental that I wonder whether you were there for work at all or whether you really did know that I might be there. Oh, I tie myself in riddles with it.

  This is what time away from things does to me. I’ve always wondered what it would be like if I were to stop and go about my business like anyone else – like all the other un-special people. But if you’re special then there’s no escaping it, no matter how hard you try. I wonder if that’s how you feel, Sarah, whether you feel special because of what happened to you. Although it didn’t happen to you at all, really, did it; it happened to her. They were the best, those first women. It’s almost worth coming home for – to try to recapture the magic of it all. But then there’s even more chance of bumping into you.

  When I get like this, Sarah, I wonder whether I might quite like to bump into you. Then, there’s the intricacies of that possibility: whether I’d want you to know that it was me; whether we’d bump into each other at all or whether it would be a carefully constructed series of events that led to us knocking heads at last. The latter sounds more like us. We’re both too conscientious to let it be an accident, aren’t we?

  Your work looks to be keeping you busy. Although you must be wondering what I’m up to. Do you think about me a lot, Sarah? As much as you think about your mother, I wonder. It would be terrible if you thought about me more. But I’ve heard your latest project; your little offering to the likes of the people who follow me. From that, it sounds like you’re more interested in the victim than the killer. If that were completely true, though, then you wouldn’t still be looking for me. You’ll have to forgive the assumptions, the presuppositions, but I’d bet good money on them being right. Maybe you’ll prove me wrong. Maybe this letter will go with all the others, straight into the rubbish. Or maybe they’ll go into a safe place where you’ll revisit them and look for clues, to make a Nancy Drew of yourself. But, of course, if you plan on being a Nancy Drew, then you’ll need more clues…

  Take care, Sarah. Be seeing you.

  Sincerely, yours –

  34

  2017

  The overnight bag I threw into the back, while the box of cardboard folders took pride of place in the passenger seat – as though I might crack the case through osmosis. I liked to have everything close to hand when I was leaving the city. My out-of-office was switched on and anyone calling my landline at home would get a generic ‘I’m out of town for a few days’ voicemail, too. I liked to be as transparent as possible when I was going somewhere, in case he decided to up his game from letters to emails to – however else he might contact me. Of course, he knew that I’d be travelling to him; he’d rigged it that way.

  I pulled out of the underground car park from my building and exited into the harsh light of the day. The world was turning into a new season and even though we hadn’t quite knocked on the doors of autumn, yet, the trees looked as though they were thinking about it. On the journey out of Birmingham I tried to take as many scenic routes as I could, to give my lungs the chance of breathing something fresh – foreign. It was going to take me nearly two hours to drive to Oxford – thanks to traffic – so I wound the window down and tried to enjoy the trip. If I took in enough cold air, I could clear myself of the realities behind the adventure. But a glance at the passenger seat always brought me back.

  Somewhere just outside of Banbury the traffic rolled to a complete stop and my thoughts slowly accelerated. I wondered whether he was already there, or whether he was stuck in traffic somewhere, too, cruising in from a different direction. I was no closer to working out what his starting point was from one trip to the next. But his frequent references to ‘home’, ‘our local…’ and other intimacies in his letters left me guessing that we might hail from the same starting point. It was one of the things I’d focused on most in the letters: where he came from; where he was going. Away from the letters, I tried to decipher details of our accidental meeting; the one that scared him away. I went through re-runs of the weeks surrounding it all – when the killings should have taken place, that is – and I tried out different cities, different stories I was covering. But I couldn’t work out where I’d seen him; or, more accurately, where he’d seen me. But something about nearly coming face to face had been too much for him at the time. Although the tones in his letters since had suggested otherwise, and there had been plenty of letters to choose from.

  In the months since his missed kill, he’d written to me at work on twelve different occasions. Whenever a letter was delivered there would be a flurry of phone calls, too, anonymous numbers that held on for a second or two – long enough for me to huff my irritation – and then the line would fall dead. I had no way of knowing whether it was him. But I’d stopped believing in coincidences.

  The car crawled forward for a third of mile, rolling steady at eight miles per hour, then we all slowed. I pulled the handbrake up and reached across to my glove compartment where the emergency cigarettes were stashed. On my way back to an upright position I rested my hand on the box of documents, only for a second, as though checking their security. They were safely wedged with the seat belt awkwardly strapped around them, too. Since all this started I’d found it difficult to draw a clear line between being safe and being paranoid. I rolled the window down and sparked up. I decided about three months ago that I didn’t mind being paranoid, though, as long as I was alive. As we inched forward I took in greedy mouthfuls of smoke and let them pour out of the open window.

  ‘That’ll kill you one day, you know?’

  I looked to my right where the holler had come from. There was a man, slightly older than me, with his passenger window open. He was leaning across to shout his warning which, from his playful expression, I assumed had been said in jest. He wasn’t unattractive; from this distance I could see a greying around the sides of his hair, but he had the smooth features of a man in his mid-thirties, and silver suited him well.

  He laughed. ‘I said, that’ll kill you,’ he repeated, as though I hadn’t heard him the first time. I had, though, loud and clear. But I couldn’t find the line between safe and paranoid; I couldn’t stop thinking, It could be you.

  The hotel was a nice enough place. I didn’t treat myself like a queen on these trips, but I didn’t make myself uncomfortable either. I pulled my overnight bag out of the back seat and left the box strapped into the front. Until I was checked in – where I could unpack it properly – I wanted it left somewhere safe.

  There was a squat queue of couples in front of me at the check-in desk, so I took a safe-paranoid look around the foyer while I waited. The exits were clear enough, and there were cameras in very visible places; it was obviously secure, which I took comfort in.

  ‘Miss?’ the receptionist called my attention around. He looked late teens – the age I was when this started, maybe – and I wondered whether this was his weekend job.

  ‘Sorry, miles away.’ I smiled.

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘The cameras,’ I gestured to the small black cups that were suckered to the ceiling around us, ‘they’re on constantly, I assume, hooked up to cloud storage of some kind?’

  His eyebrow arched at the question. ‘I can’t say that I know, miss, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not a bother. Is it something you can find out?’

  He looked unnerved. ‘Are you staying here, miss?’

  I laughed. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I am.’ I dropped my bag on the floor between my legs, as though marking a settlement. ‘I’m a crime writer, up here for a conference for the weekend. It makes you hyper-secure, this business.’

  The young man reciprocated my amusement, but his laugh was tinged with relief. ‘I can imagine. You must have heard some real horror stories in that job.’

  I’m starring in one, I thought as I fumbled through my bag to find my purse. ‘I’ve got a room reserved for three nights but I only paid the deposit over the phone. Can I pay the rest now?’ I placed a credit card on the counter between us. ‘I’m afraid my card is under a differ
ent name to the one the room is booked in. Is that going to be a problem?’

  His eyes stretched. I saw a flicker of excitement in him. ‘Like an alias?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No problem at all, miss.’ He slid the card the rest of the way towards him.

  In the trips before this one I’d tried to track him down the old-fashioned way, as though I could swap professions long enough to crack a case so long-standing. But I’d overheard enough of Brooks’ work calls to know how unlikely that was. He liked women of a certain age, though, with a certain physical appearance; I hadn’t needed the letters to work that out. I’d studied them, though, looking for hints and moments of weakness. He’d talked to me about the women in the months since his last attack, too. I knew a little more of what he liked – and of course I already knew what he didn’t like. He still hadn’t attacked another mother, so I knew mine must have been a weak spot – or, although I couldn’t fully get my head around the idea, maybe she was even a regret.

  ‘So, S. Wainwright for the credit card,’ he said, punching in my details and pulling me back into the room. ‘And what name is the room booked under, miss?’

  ‘E,’ I said with a forced smile. ‘Evelyn Wainwright.’

  35

  Like all men, he had a type. He didn’t talk much about physical attributes in the letters. But from the news reports of previous victims – from my intimate knowledge of my own mother, too – I knew there was a certain type of appearance he was drawn to.

  I wouldn’t say that I wore too much make-up, but certainly too much make-up for him. A genetic throwback, Mum’s deep brown hair had skipped over me entirely, leaving me instead with a blonde that could have come from a bottle – something I’d spent most of my teenager years vehemently denying. But I’d grown into the colour throughout my teens, and it had darkened by a shade or two in the years since. I wore clothes for comfort – jeans, T-shirts, over-sized jumpers – unless I was going out for a special occasion: dinner with friends; a book launch; an awards ceremony (I had a high bar for what constituted a special occasion, or rather, an occasion worth wearing a dress for).