by Alex Lake
She looked at him, head tilted, her expression quizzical.
‘Sit with me,’ she said. ‘Why’ve you moved?’
‘I prefer it here,’ he said, the real reason not something he felt he could pass on. ‘This is my favourite chair.’
She put the wineglass on the table and folded her arms.
‘Is everything OK, Phil?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I just like sitting here.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Of course you do. Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you don’t want to be with me then at least do me the courtesy of telling me. I’m a big girl. I’ll survive.’
‘It’s not that. It’s …’ Phil paused. ‘… I’m sorry. I had a difficult break-up with my last girlfriend.’
My last girlfriend. It made it sound like he’d had a lot of others. And it made it sound so final.
‘I get it,’ Michelle said. ‘You’re on the rebound and you’re not sure how you feel about me.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’ve been there, Phil. A few years back I had my heart broken. I felt so lonely, like there was a cold space inside me, and when I met a guy – I was drunk, of course, my sorrows needed some drowning – I went home with him. The next day I knew that I didn’t want to see him again, but then, a day or two later, the loneliness set in and I gave him a call. And then I saw him, and I realized that I didn’t want to be with him after all, because I was still in love with my ex, but I felt guilty for leading him on. I ended up seeing him five or six more times, and it was awful. Joyless, awkward, depressing. Eventually, I told him it wasn’t working, and that was that. My one regret is that I didn’t do it earlier.’
She stood up, and reached for her coat.
‘It was nothing to do with him,’ she said. ‘It was all to do with me. And so don’t worry that I’ll take it personally. I won’t. But this is not going to work out, so let me make it easy for you and call it a day.’
Phil looked at her, nodding. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks. And I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘What you’re feeling now is one of the worst things you can go through. But it gets better, Phil. It takes time, but it gets better. And I don’t blame you. You’re a good man, and I like you. I enjoyed spending time together. It’s a shame we didn’t meet in a year or two.’
‘Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime?’ he said.
‘Don’t. It wouldn’t work.’ She put on her coat. ‘Bye, Phil.’
He got to his feet and followed her to the door of the flat. ‘You want me to call you a cab?’
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I could use the walk.’
‘I’ll come with you. Make sure you get home safely.’
She shook her head, firmly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘No,’ Phil said. ‘There’s – you know. There’ve been the—’
‘The murders? I know. But I can take care of myself. And honestly – I don’t feel all that great right now, and it’s kind of thanks to you. So you’ll forgive me for saying that I don’t want to spend any more time with you than is strictly necessary.
‘OK,’ Phil said. ‘I get it. Be safe.’
‘Thanks, Phil. And goodbye.’
He closed the door behind her and stood there, waiting. After about twenty seconds had passed, he grabbed his keys, put on an old baseball cap and followed her out of the apartment.
20
Kate poured a coffee from the fresh pot she had made. Mornings were impossible without coffee; often, she went to bed looking forward to waking up refreshed and relaxed and having a quiet mug of milky coffee before the chaos of the day began. It was an addiction, for sure, if an addition was defined as something you believed you couldn’t do without and which caused physical symptoms of withdrawal if you didn’t get it. And if she didn’t get coffee in the morning, she’d end up with a headache that would increase in intensity until she satisfied her craving.
This morning’s headache, however, was not the result of coffee non-consumption; this one was the result of red wine and gin and tonic consumption. She took an ibuprofen, then curled up on the couch.
Her iPad was on the table in front of her. She picked it up. She had new emails; a few from colleagues who didn’t know when to stop working, one from May, and two from Dating Harmony.
She was about to send them to her junk mail folder when she remembered.
Under Gemma’s supervision, she’d set up a profile on a dating website the night before.
The first email was to welcome her to the site and thank her for joining. It was time-stamped at eleven minutes past midnight, which must have been when they set up her account. The second was to tell her she had a message from a user called Tony_Adcock17.
This one was time-stamped at seven minutes past two a.m., which in itself put her off. Who was up at that time, looking on dating websites? Tony_Adcock17, apparently.
She clicked on the link. Tony_Adcock17 was forty-two, liked football and eating out, golf, going to the gym.
She deleted the message. Forty-two? She was twenty-eight, for God’s sake. She opened her profile. She was, it seemed, looking for people in the age range twenty-five to forty-four. Well, that could change. She adjusted the upper limit to thirty-four. Even that felt a bit older than she wanted, but it would do for now.
She read her profile. They’d taken a photo in the living room. It was a shot of her face, turned slightly to the left, looking away from the camera and smiling. Gemma had experimented with different lighting levels, and, in the end had taken a photo of her that didn’t really look like her. It made her a little uncomfortable, as though she was engaged somehow in false advertising, although no doubt everyone did the same.
She’d selected an age range – twenty-five to twenty-nine – rather than putting her actual age. She liked theatre, the outdoors, good food and wine, and reading – which was true, sort of. She didn’t actually do all that much of those things – although she liked the idea of them – but then what were you supposed to put? That you liked sitting around in your pyjamas drinking tea, watching crap films, going to the pub with your friends, and checking Facebook on your phone? That was the reality of what 99 per cent of the people out there were doing, but look on a dating website and you’d think that the UK was crawling with super-fit rock-climbing enthusiasts who spent the little time they had left over after their Highland expeditions in Stratford watching the latest offering from the Royal Shakespeare Company, after which they went out home to clarify a consommé, prepare a duck quenelle, then bake the perfect soufflé.
She closed the browser. She’d check it later, maybe. She wasn’t sure about this whole enterprise. She had nothing against Internet dating, but she wasn’t sure she had the energy for it, especially not when she had a hangover on a Sunday morning. What she needed now was more coffee and some toast with butter and Marmite.
She went into the kitchen and put two slices of white bread – it had to be white bread when your stomach was feeling delicate – into the toaster. As she poured another mug of coffee, her phone rang.
It was May.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good,’ May said. ‘Did you and Gem have a good night?’
‘Great. Nothing extraordinary, but fun.’ Kate paused. ‘I tell you what did happen, though. I ran into that guy, Mike.’
‘From holiday?’
‘From holiday.’
‘Oh my God. Was it weird?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Only sort of? Did you talk to him?’
‘A bit. He was on his way out.’
‘Well,’ May said. ‘Changing gears for a second. Have you seen the news?’
‘What news?’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ There was a long pause. ‘They found a body this morning. Woman, late twenties. There’s been another.’
It took a few seconds for her meaning to sink in.
‘Another murder?’ Kate said.
‘Another murder.’
‘Who?’
‘They don’t know yet. Or if they do, they’re not saying.’
‘Jesus,’ Kate said. ‘This is fucking unbelievable. Are they saying it’s a serial killer?’
‘Not yet,’ May said. ‘But that conclusion seems inescapable.’
That conclusion seems inescapable.
May’s words echoed in Kate’s head as she clicked through to the website of the local newspaper.
BREAKING: THIRD BODY FOUND IN STOCKTON HEATH
Reports are emerging that the body of a woman found this morning near Ackers Pond may be the third case of murder in the village of Stockton Heath in as many weeks.
Police have yet to name the victim, but did not rule out the possibility that her death may be linked to those of Jenna Taylor, 27, and Audra Collins, 28. If so, it seems certain that speculation about a serial killer targeting young women in and around Stockton Heath will increase.
More to follow.
That story was from eight fifty-five that morning, a full hour before Kate had got out of bed. When she navigated back to the home page, there was a link to another story. This one was new: from a few minutes ago.
Name of latest murder victim released.
Kate clicked on the link and began to read.
Police have named the woman found dead this morning near Stockton Heath as Michelle Clarke. Miss Clarke, 28, a junior school teacher, lived in Latchford, Warrington. She was originally from Blackpool.
It seems increasingly certain that the murders are the work of a single individual. Police are advising women to take additional care, especially if travelling at night, and especially if they are unaccompanied.
There is a press conference at noon during which the police will release further details.
There was a picture of Michelle Clarke alongside the text. Kate felt goosebumps form on her arms as she looked at it.
Long, straight, near-black hair. Dark eyes.
Her grandmother’s ‘Irish look’.
Her look. Or, at least, her old look.
She ran her hand over her newly cropped hair. Thank God she’d done that. Thank God she hadn’t gone out last night looking like the other victims.
Or – and it seemed barely credible that this could be the case – it might have been her photo in the papers that morning.
21
Kate ordered her drink – a skinny macchiato – and joined Gemma and May on a wide couch in the corner of the café.
It looked, at first glance, like a normal Sunday in a normal coffee shop anywhere in the country. Small groups of people chatting over large cups of steaming latte; single men cradling mugs of strong tea, newspapers splayed out in front of them, couples staring at their phones, the last bite of a shared cake waiting on a crumb-laden plate in front of them.
It was anything but normal.
The apparent absorption in conversations or phones or newspapers was paper-thin. Each time the door opened, eyes flickered over to see who it was. Any single men were subjected to suspicious glances, the subtext clear: Is that him?
Because now three women were dead, all killed in the same way, all sharing the same appearance. There was no doubt – whether the police confirmed it or not – that this was the work of a serial killer. He – and no one thought it was not a man – already had a name.
The Stockton Heath Strangler.
‘What does Gus have to say about it?’ Kate said. ‘Has he heard anything?’
‘Not much,’ May said. ‘Other than that it’s definitely the same guy. Sometimes they get copycat killings, but apparently there’s no chance of that in this case.’
‘Any suspects?’ Gemma said.
‘They’ve got one, according to Gus. But he doesn’t know who it is. They don’t tell the run-of-the-mill cops. It’s a pretty good lead, though. At least, that’s what he heard. He’s working this afternoon, so he’ll probably hear more then.’ She leaned forward. ‘He swears me to secrecy on this stuff, by the way, so you can’t tell anyone. OK?’
‘Of course,’ Kate said. ‘I’ve not got anyone to tell, anyway.’
‘She might have soon,’ Gemma said, looking at May. ‘She signed up for a dating website last night.’
‘Really? Which one?’
‘Dating Harmony,’ Kate said. ‘We’ll see what comes of it. I’m not convinced.’
‘Did you get any interest?’
‘One creep,’ Kate said. ‘At some ridiculous time of the night.’
‘Could be the Strangler,’ Gemma said. ‘Looking for his next victim. Searching the Net for lonely, single women he can—’
‘Gem!’ Kate said. ‘That’s not helping! I’m already having second thoughts about this. And all you’re doing is giving me third thoughts and fourth thoughts.’
Before Gemma could answer, Kate’s phone rang. She did not recognize the number.
‘I’m not answering,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who it is. I’m paranoid now, thanks to you’ – she glared at Gemma – ‘so they can call back some other time.’
‘I think you’re getting carried away,’ Gemma said. ‘You don’t put your phone number on the website, so there’s no way anyone could be calling you. It’s probably some marketing crap.’
The ringing stopped. Seconds later, Kate’s phone buzzed. There was a voicemail.
‘I guess I’ll find out,’ she said, and put the phone to her ear.
It was a woman’s voice. Flat, tired, authoritative.
‘Miss Armstrong, this is Detective Inspector Jane Wynne from the Cheshire Constabulary. No doubt you are aware of the recent’ – she paused – ‘the recent events in Stockton Heath. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss it with you, if possible. It’s a question of some urgency, so if you could call me back at your soonest convenience, I’d greatly appreciate it.’
DI Wynne gave her number, then hung up.
Kate looked at her friends. ‘It’s the cops,’ she said. ‘They want to talk to me.’
Gemma and May stayed on the couch; Kate went to sit at a table by the window. She’d called DI Wynne and arranged to meet her at the coffee shop in thirty minutes.
The fact that the detective – who must have been just about the busiest copper in the UK at that moment – was prepared to drop everything to come and see her was the most worrying thing about this whole situation.
As soon as she walked through the door it was obvious who she was. She was wearing a pair of dark jeans with a jacket over some kind of shirt, but like most cops, it didn’t matter whether she was in uniform or not. There was no hiding the fact she was police. It was hard to say what it was – the stiff back, the watchful expression, the wary smile – but there was an essential police-ness about her that could not be hidden.
Kate nodded. ‘DI Wynne?’
‘Yes. Miss Armstrong?’
‘Kate, please. Would you like a drink?’
‘I’ll grab a coffee. I could do with the caffeine.’
She went to the counter. May waved to Kate; Kate replied with a surreptitious thumbs up.
When DI Wynne came back, she smiled.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your coffee with your friends,’ she said, and gestured to May and Gemma. ‘We’ll make this as brief as possible.’
Kate blushed; the detective must have spotted her thumbs up to her friends, despite the fact that she had her back to Kate when she had done it.
‘Sorry,’ Kate said. ‘We were already here when you called.’ She shrugged. ‘So they stayed. Is that OK?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I’m surprised you noticed them.’
‘It’s my job to notice things, Miss Armstrong.’
‘You had your back to me.’
DI Wynne pointed to a large mirror behind the counter. It was emblazoned with the name of a brand of coffee. ‘In my experience we’re always being observed, one way or another. Which is one of the reasons this investigation is proving so challenging. We have no witnesses. Nothing. No one sa
ying they heard the noise of a struggle, no one saying they saw a suspicious person late at night, no one saying they noticed a vehicle in the morning near the places the bodies were left.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Very.’ DI Wynne sipped her coffee. ‘But what’s more unusual is that you think you might have been followed by the killer?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Kate said. ‘I was followed by someone, and then there was someone outside my house. But it might not have been the killer.’
‘Talk me through what happened. Every detail you can remember.’
Kate recounted the events, the car pulling out behind her, full beam lights on so that she was blinded, sensing that there was a person under the tree at the end of the street, the person riding away on their bike when Carl appeared.
DI Wynne listened and took notes. When Kate was finished, she drummed her fingers on the table.
‘Did you recognize the person under the tree?’ she said.
Kate shook her head. ‘No. They were wearing a hoodie. And they were some distance away.’
‘They were on a bike?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you recognize the bike?’
‘No. I know nothing about bikes.’ Phil was more into them, but they had never interested Kate. He’d bought her one, once, but she rarely used it. It was somewhere in the cellar. She paused. ‘Do you think it was him? The person who’s been killing people?’
‘I don’t know,’ DI Wynne said. ‘It’s possible he did this to the other women, but there’s no evidence to support that. And then there’s the appearance. The victims look alike. You don’t share that.’
Kate gave a half-smile. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘Or at least, I did. I changed. Cut my hair.’ She gestured at her eyes. ‘Not naturally green, DI Wynne. These are contact lenses.’
DI Wynne’s reaction was almost imperceptible. A narrowing of the eyes, a stiffening of the back.
‘I see,’ she said. She put her notebook down.
‘Miss Armstrong – Kate – you recently broke up with Mr Phil Flanagan, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘After a long relationship?’