by Alex Lake
Answer: you can’t. You can send text messages, emails, leave voicemails. You can ask your boyfriend to buttonhole someone at the coffee machine at work. You can invite them to your house, the pub, the gym. But if they tell you they’re OK, evade your questions, decline your invitations, then what can you do?
Answer: nothing. But it doesn’t stop you feeling guilty as hell when the shit hits the fan.
Beth and Colin left three months later. He had a job in Gateshead; she went with him. Apparently they were engaged, or so Phil had picked up from the work gossip. Kate didn’t know first-hand. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Beth since the day they’d been shopping at the Trafford Centre. Neither had Gemma or May.
Kate was concerned. May was confused. Gemma was pissed off.
That guy, Kate said. We’ve still not met him. I don’t like that. It’s not right.
Maybe she’s infatuated with him, May said. But I don’t see why she would ditch us like this. I can’t believe she doesn’t want to be friends any more.
If that’s what she wants, Gemma said, then so be it. My guess is we’ll never see her again.
But Gemma was wrong.
Very wrong.
PART TWO
1
Kate left May and Gemma in the coffee shop and went home. She’d made up her mind: the change in her appearance wasn’t enough. She was going to pack a bag and move in full-time with her parents until this was over. There was too much going on: the car, the person under the tree, her resemblance to the victims, and now Phil’s – potential – involvement.
It was his girlfriend that had died. His girlfriend that looked like her. She had a horrible feeling about this, and, even though she found it hard to believe that Phil was in any way involved, she was not going to take any risks.
Upstairs, she picked out a week’s worth of work clothes and folded them into a suitcase. She packed some make-up and then went into the bathroom to grab some tampons; she was due on in a few days. Then she went into the spare bedroom, which she and Phil had used as a study, to pick up some files she needed for Monday morning.
Their computer – an old desktop – was on the desk, plugged into the mains. She nudged the mouse to wake the screen so she could quickly check her emails.
The screen didn’t come alive.
Kate frowned. She always left the computer on. Phil had complained about it. It was a waste of electricity, he claimed. Even though it wasn’t much, it added up over time, and if everyone did it then it was a huge waste.
Be the change you want to see in the world, he used to say.
A load of pious crap, she used to reply.
One day, he’d say, there’ll be someone who uses up the last drop of oil, and he or she will look back on you and wonder how you could have been so wasteful.
But, whether he was right or wrong, the fact they had argued about it meant that it was something she always noticed, and she knew that she hadn’t switched the computer off.
She felt the power cord to see whether it had become detached from the back of the computer, then checked the plug socket. Both fine. Then perhaps the computer had died; Phil had also warned her that being constantly on wasn’t good for it.
She pushed the on button. There was a whirring sound, then the screen flickered on and the login prompt, asking her to press CTRL + ALT + DELETE, appeared.
So, no problem there.
A feeling of unease corkscrewed in her stomach. She was aware that her heart was beating faster.
If she hadn’t shut the computer down, then someone else had. Someone had been in the house.
Someone had been in this room.
She looked around, searching for anything that was out of place. She examined the pictures on the wall, the photos on the desk, the books on the shelves. Everything seemed OK. She pushed the chair back from the desk – it was one of those office chairs on castor wheels – and took in the whole of the desk.
There was something different. She studied it for a few seconds. Then it came to her.
There was a filing cabinet under the desk that Phil had brought home from work. It was faulty and going to be scrapped, so he had rescued it. He’d had a plan to fix it, but it had proved more difficult than expected, so they had been left with a faulty filing cabinet. It didn’t matter too much; it was a pretty minor fault, so they had put their files in and forgotten about it.
The filing cabinet had two drawers: a large one on the bottom and a smaller one on top. The fault was that, for some reason, both would not close at the same time.
The day before, Kate had opened the top drawer to take out a pen, then left it partly open.
Now, it was the bottom drawer that was partly open.
She leaned forward and pulled it all the way open. It looked like it always did, but then, since there was no index, she had no way of knowing if an individual file or document had been taken.
What she did know, however, was that somebody had been in the house, checking her computer and looking through her files.
And it could only be Phil. The door was locked when she got here and there were no signs of a break-in. He had a key; it made sense.
Fuck, Phil. What the hell was he up to?
She grabbed her suitcase. The sooner she got out of here, the better.
Her dad handed her a cup of tea. She had just finished telling him about her conversation with DI Wynne and her suspicions that someone had been in the house.
Her dad sipped his tea. ‘Phil’s not the killer,’ he said. ‘I know that boy and he didn’t kill those women. He might have been in your house – he’s pretty upset, by all accounts – but he’s not a killer.’
‘Isn’t that the point, Dad?’ Kate said. ‘You don’t know. Some mild-mannered accountant turns out to be a psychopath, playing with his kids by day and slaughtering people by night.’
‘Well,’ her dad said, ‘if it is Phil – which I doubt – he’d have to be a bloody good actor. I mean, to portray himself for such a long time and so convincingly as a genial, slightly hapless bloke while beneath it all he was really a cold-blooded killer? Brando would have been proud of that performance.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t see it. Remember, this was the man who called you when you got your first mobile phone and sang – shouted, I should say – “Angels” at the top of his voice as soon as you answered.’
‘Except I didn’t answer,’ Kate said.
‘He didn’t take the time to find that out, though, did he? He launched right in, top of his lungs. He was quite surprised when he finished and I said I’d go and get you. Surprised and apologetic. It would take a certain kind of genius to go to such lengths to hide his evil psychopathic nature. So no, I don’t see it.’
In all honesty Kate didn’t see it either, but then those closest were often the last to know. Did Ian Brady’s mum think he was an evil killer? Or Peter Sutcliffe’s? They probably doubted it until the very end, until the jury pronounced its verdict. Even then they probably had some doubts.
And maybe they were reasonable doubts. Maybe their sons had been fine and dandy and well adjusted all through their childhoods until, at some point in their lives, something inside them had changed and they had embarked on a killing spree. Perhaps it had always been in them; perhaps some event had brought it on, but Kate was prepared to bet that the people that knew them were more astonished than anyone when it came to light that they were the culprits.
On the kitchen counter, her phone buzzed. Her dad picked it up. He read the screen and passed it to her.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘It’s Phil.’
Kate took the phone and walked across the kitchen to the back door. On the patio, she lifted the phone to her ear.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Phil?’
‘I got your message,’ Phil said. It sounded like he was in the car. ‘What’s up? Are you OK? You sounded a bit upset.’
‘Have you seen the news?’
‘What news?’
‘Phil,’ Kate sa
id. ‘Where are you?’
‘Ingleton. I went for a hike, on Whernside.’
‘And you’ve not read the news?’
‘No. I thought my phone was in my rucksack, but I left it in the car.’
‘Something happened to Michelle,’ Kate said. ‘The woman you’ve been seeing.’
There was a long silence. ‘How do you know about Michelle?’
‘The police told me.’
‘What? Why would the police be talking to you about Michelle?’
‘Can you pull over?’
‘I’m on hands-free,’ Phil said. ‘I don’t need to pull over.’
‘It’s not that. This might be – it might be a shock. It’d be better if you weren’t driving.’
‘I’m fine,’ Phil said. ‘Tell me what the hell is going on, and why the cops are talking to you about Michelle.’
‘Phil,’ Kate said. ‘Pull over, please. For me.’
‘Fine,’ Phil said, his tone exasperated. ‘There’s a lay-by up ahead. Hold on a second.’
There was a pause. A minute later he spoke again.
‘Right. I’ve stopped. This better be good.’
Good isn’t the word I’d use, Kate thought.
‘Phil,’ she said, ‘I’ve got some bad news.’ She paused, and stared through the window. Her dad was reading the newspaper. ‘Michelle Clarke is dead.’
There were a few beats of silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Phil said. ‘The line’s not great. Say that again?’
‘She’s dead. She died last night.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Phil said. His tone was flat and disbelieving. Her dad’s words came back to her: if he was acting, he was doing a good job of it. ‘She died? How?’
My God, Kate thought. Why does it have to be me who tells him this?
‘She was killed,’ she said. ‘They found the body this morning.’
2
The sun was setting as Phil drew up outside Andy’s apartment. There was a red Honda Civic parked near the front door, and as he pulled on the handbrake, two people got out: a woman in her forties in an ill-fitting suit and a younger man in dark jeans and some kind of leather jacket. They were obviously cops. Only cops dressed so badly. What was it about joining the force that destroyed your fashion sense? He was hardly a snappy dresser himself, but even he could see that DI Wynne – this must be her – and her partner could have done with a makeover. Maybe he’d call Susannah and Trinny, or whatever their names were, when this was all over and suggest that they help these detectives with their image.
‘Mr Flanagan?’ she said, when he got out of his car. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Wynne. This is Detective Sergeant Chan.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Phil said. ‘Come in.’
He opened the front door and climbed the stairs to the apartment door. Andy was lying on the couch, his hand in a large bag of crisps. There was a cup of tea on the carpet and a rerun of Top Gear on the television.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You’re back. We need to talk. The cops called me. They—’
Phil nodded. ‘I know.’ He gestured for DI Wynne and DS Chan to enter the room. ‘They’re here.’
Andy straightened up on the couch. ‘Holy shit,’ he said. He glanced around, looking, Phil thought, for weed or porn or anything else illegal or embarrassing, ‘I mean, hi. I’m Andy Field.’
DI Wynne waved him back down. ‘Please, don’t move on my account.’ She looked at Phil. ‘Is there a room we can talk in?’
‘Kitchen,’ Phil said. ‘Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?’
DI Wynne shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I had one at the station. You go ahead.’
‘It’s OK,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll wait. But let’s go to the kitchen. Leave Andy to his Top Gear.’
They sat at the kitchen table, DS Chan to Phil’s left, DI Wynne opposite him. Phil moved an egg-stained plate onto the worktop. There were quite a few other plates to keep it company.
‘So,’ DI Wynne said. ‘You were with Michelle Clarke last night? At least, according to her friends you were.’
‘That’s right. She came here.’
‘What time did she arrive?’
‘Around seven,’ Phil said. ‘We had a drink, then a meal.’
‘What did you eat?’ DS Chan said.
‘Lamb. A Moroccan thing.’
‘Good?’ DS Chan said. ‘Tasty?’
‘It was,’ Phil replied. ‘Not bad, anyway.’
‘Did you make it?’ Chan said.
‘I did.’
‘Some kind of tagine?’
Phil ignored the question and turned to DI Wynne.
‘Is this really what you need to know, Detective?’
‘Detective Inspector,’ DI Wynne said. ‘And yes, it is. That’s why we’re asking these questions. We’ll be checking the contents of her stomach.’ She paused. If she was trying to shock him, it was working. He had a sudden, graphic image of Michelle on some kind of autopsy table.
‘Had you been drinking?’ Wynne asked.
‘Yes. Wine, mainly. I had a Scotch before she arrived. A Macallan.’
‘Do you drink a lot, Mr Flanagan?’ DS Chan said.
‘No. Not normally.’
‘Not normally? What about at the moment?’
‘At the moment, I’m drinking more than usual.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I think you can probably guess,’ Phil said.
DI Wynne smiled a thin smile at him. ‘We’re not in the business of guesswork,’ she said. ‘It tends to cause problems in our line of work.’
‘Because of the break-up,’ Phil said. ‘With Kate. You spoke to her today.’
‘I did.’ DI Wynne paused. ‘Are there any other changes in your behaviour as a result of the break-up? Beyond the drinking?’
‘No,’ Phil said. ‘There aren’t.’
‘You haven’t been – how should I put this – paying Miss Armstrong more attention than normal.’
‘In what way?’
‘Following her. Waiting – hiding – near her house?’
Phil hesitated before answering, wondering whether he needed to tell the detectives about the night he had nearly been caught outside Kate’s house. By the time he decided he didn’t, it was too late; the hesitation had answered the question for him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Look, it’s been difficult and I wanted to see her—’
‘Let’s keep to the facts, please,’ DI Wynne said. ‘What happened?’
Phil told her: watching so he could catch a glimpse of Kate, make sure she was not with another man; Carl coming outside, him fleeing.
‘And earlier?’ DI Wynne said. ‘Was there another incident, earlier that evening?’
‘Like what?’ Phil said.
‘Nothing,’ DI Wynne said, although it was clear to Phil that she was not telling the truth. There was something else, something specific that she was getting at. Before he could push her on it, DS Chan started speaking:
‘Let’s talk about last night. Miss Clarke left this apartment at what time?’
‘Around ten.’
‘That seems early. For a Saturday night.’
‘We’d – well, I’d told her that I wasn’t over Kate. And so she left. I offered to get her a cab, but she decided to walk. She doesn’t drive.’
‘You let her walk?’
‘She insisted,’ he said. ‘I tried, but … we’d had a difficult conversation. She wanted to be alone.’
DI Wynne raised her eyebrows and he realized his mistake.
‘You had a difficult conversation? An argument?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like that. I told her about Kate, that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. So she left.’
‘And you let her,’ DS Chan said. ‘Despite the murderer running around.’
‘What did you do after Miss Clarke left?’ DI Wynne said, after a pause.
‘I stayed here.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘No.’
DI Wynne nodded. ‘How about the night that Audra Collins was killed?’
‘Which night was that?’
DI Wynne gave him the date.
‘I was with Michelle,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately, she’s unable to corroborate,’ DI Wynne said. ‘Very inconvenient for you.’
‘Her friends will, though,’ Phil said.
‘Was she with you the whole night?’ DI Wynne said.
‘No. We went for a drink – lots of people will have seen us, we were in the Mulberry Tree, so there’ll be CCTV footage, for sure – then she went home. She took a cab, I think, so there may be some record of that. You should check.’
‘Thank you for the suggestion,’ DS Chan said. ‘And then?’
‘I came here.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ Phil said. ‘Andy – Andy was at his girlfriend’s place for the night.’ He closed his eyes. ‘So no, they can’t.’
‘And the night Jenna Taylor was killed?’
‘Remind me of exactly which night that was,’ Phil said.
DI Wynne reminded him. A Wednesday night, almost three weeks ago.
‘I don’t know,’ Phil said. ‘It was a normal night. I got back from work, hung out here with Andy.’
‘Andy? Can he verify your statement?’
‘Ask him. But yes, I’m sure he will.’
DI Wynne held Phil’s gaze. He felt like he was being weighed up, evaluated, examined, and, to his shock, she had a look in her eyes of total and utter mistrust.
There was more to this than he had thought, and he had the feeling he was about to find out what it was.
Eventually she spoke:
‘Of course, even if he confirms you both stayed in, you could have gone out after he was asleep.’
‘I could,’ Phil said. ‘But I didn’t.’
‘Do you ever?’
‘Ever what?’
‘Go out late at night?’ DS Chan said. ‘Go for a walk? Or maybe a bike ride?’
Phil hesitated.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Miss Clarke left here around ten p.m., alone,’ DI Wynne said. ‘She was killed around midnight, a mile and a half from here. She bears a significant resemblance to two other recent victims of a killer in this area, and to your ex-girlfriend. The last person to see her alive was you – or the killer, I suppose.’ She paused, studying him. Folded her arms. ‘And then there’s the CCTV footage from the all-night garage on Wilderspool Causeway. Can you guess what that footage might show, Mr Flanagan?’