by Alex Lake
‘Are you sure you want to go out with someone you don’t know? With everything that’s going on?’
Her dad nodded sagely in agreement.
‘I told you. I do know him,’ Kate said, aware that, while not exactly a lie, she was not quite telling the truth. ‘I met him on holiday. In Turkey.’
Her mum rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ she said. ‘I feel a lot better knowing that my little girl is going out with a man she met in some bar in a foreign country.’
Kate gritted her teeth. ‘I. Am. Not. Your. Little. Girl,’ she said. ‘I’m twenty-eight and a successful lawyer.’
Then why do I feel like I’m fourteen and a hormonal teenager? she thought. Parents are like time machines: they take you back to your adolescent self.
‘You’ll always be my little girl,’ her mum said.
‘And mine,’ her dad added. He coughed. ‘You said you met him in Turkey? You didn’t mention him.’
‘It wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Must have been quite a big deal, to stay in touch,’ her mum said.
‘We didn’t. He found me on a website.’
Too late she realized her mistake.
‘Did you say a website?’ her mum asked. ‘Not one of those dating websites, surely?’
‘Yes, Mum, one of those dating websites. There’s nothing wrong with them.’
Her mum’s expression was somewhere between shock, disbelief and disgust. ‘You might think that, but as far as I’m concerned it’s – well, it’s a bit obscene, advertising yourself out there, like you’re for sale in a shop.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Kate said. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
‘Hmm.’ Her mum looked away. ‘I hope no one finds out. I’d be ashamed.’
Kate pushed her plate away from her. There was no point in trying to convince her parents that dating websites were not the same as escort agencies, and that she hadn’t, driven mad after the break-up, become a prostitute.
‘I’m going to get dressed,’ she said. ‘Thanks for dinner.’
He was sitting at a table in the corner of the pub. She hadn’t been there for about a decade and the place had changed from a dark-panelled drinkers’ haunt into a modern, any-time, any-place gastropub of the type that had proliferated all over the country. No doubt they were beloved of accountants and bankers who salivated over the diversified revenue streams and brand value creation, but there also was no doubt that something had been lost in the transformation.
Not the hardcore drinkers, though. They still sat at the bar, passing occasional comment to the other regulars, but communing in any meaningful sense only with the drink that sat before them.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Great to see you. You look well. And I have to say that I still like the new haircut and eye colour.’
He was wearing dark jeans and a fitted, well-made shirt that highlighted how lean and muscular he was. Kate guessed that he had not been one of the boys in school who all the girls had a crush on – but he had aged well and had a lively, inquisitive look in his eyes.
Attractive, she thought again. That’s what he is.
‘You too,’ she said. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘It’s OK. I’m on my feet. What do you want?’
‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, then. Thanks.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘No. The cooking stuff’s fine. I don’t drink much, so anything good’s wasted on me.’
She came back with two small glasses of house red and put them on the oak table. Pubs no longer contented themselves with shiny dark wood tables that were easy to wipe down and didn’t show stains. Now it was Scandinavian-inspired hardwood furniture that looked good with a triangular bowl of feta, rocket and peach salad on it.
‘Good week?’ he said.
‘Busy. Thank God it’s the weekend.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘In Manchester.’
‘Ouch. So you have the commute on the M56.’
‘Or the M62. Either one can be a nightmare. What about you?’
‘My office is in Chester, but I work from home a lot. I travel quite a bit.’
‘What do you do?’ It was strange to be having this getting-to-know-you chat when they had already slept in the same bed, although Kate was surprised how unselfconscious she felt. Of course, since she didn’t remember most of the night they’d spent together, she could well have already asked about his job.
‘Consulting,’ he said. ‘IT stuff. I advise companies on what kind of IT strategy they could put in place – you know, if they have dated architecture or underlying systems, how to modernize, that kind of thing. Pretty boring.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ Kate said, not meaning it.
‘You don’t mean that. You’re being nice.’
Kate blushed. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I mean the travel, that must be kind of good …’ her voice tailed off. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘It does sound a bit boring. But my job’s not much better! I’m a lawyer.’
‘That is interesting,’ he said. He put on a stentorian voice. ‘Where were you on the night of March twenty-second? I put it to you that you were in fact engaged in the robbery of the Warrington branch of Barclays Bank, along with your co-conspirators Scarface, Lefty and Shortstuff.’
Kate laughed. ‘Sadly, I’m not a barrister,’ she said. ‘Or involved in criminal law at all. All my stuff is corporate: breach of contract, liability, intellectual property disputes.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Then I take it back. That’s as boring as my work.’
‘We do get some perks,’ Kate said. ‘Some of the lawyers have contacts with the police, so we get the inside scoop on stuff.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the Stockton Heath Strangler.’
He frowned. ‘That’s the guy who’s been killing women, right? I’ve read some stuff about it. To be honest, though, I try to avoid reading too much. I don’t want to know about some sick idiot. And I find all the interest a bit distasteful. It only encourages these people.’
‘I know,’ Kate said, thinking Shit, why did I bring that up? Now I look like one of those people with an unholy interest in the Strangler. She sipped her wine then got to her feet.
‘Ladies room,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
They had one more drink; she had another glass of red, he had a ginger ale. Their conversation flowed easily, slipping from topic to topic. She noticed that they were laughing a lot; when they finished their drinks, she found it hard to believe that it was already ten p.m.
And she realized that she was sad the time had passed so quickly.
‘Sorry to be a party pooper,’ he said. ‘But I have an early start tomorrow. Properly early. Like five a.m.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going swimming,’ he said. ‘The Great North Swim, in Windermere. I need to get up early and get going.’
‘God,’ Kate said. ‘I never do anything like that. I’m always too exhausted. I don’t know where you get the energy.’
‘The more you do, the more energy you have,’ he said. ‘At least, that’s what I find. And I sleep better if I’m tired; if I’ve been sitting around all day I can’t go to bed.’ He reached behind for his coat. ‘You need a lift home?’
‘It’s OK. I drove.’
‘You OK?’ He looked at the empty wineglass. ‘To drive?’
‘I should be. We’ve been here a while, and I only had two glasses.’
‘Two glasses might be over the limit, especially with pub measures.’ He raised a hand. ‘Sorry. None of my business. I’ll shut up.’
He was so sensible. So responsible. Like the night they’d met and he hadn’t taken advantage of her. It wasn’t what she imagined she would be looking for when she thought of an ideal partner – I’d like to meet Mr Sensible, please – but she liked it. A lot.
She liked him a lot.
‘Good.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’d love to see you another time. This was fun. You’re fun.’
‘You too,’ Kate said. ‘We should definitely do this again.’
‘What’s your mobile number?’ He took out his phone and Kate gave him her number. He typed it in and called her; in her bag, her phone rang.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you have my number. Call me.’
6
Phil sat at a metal table in a windowless room and waited for DI Wynne to show up. She’d called that morning – a Saturday, for God’s sake – asking to see him. He’d suggested that they meet in Costa Coffee. She said no: she wanted him to come to the station.
He hadn’t seen her since the previous Sunday, when she and DS Chan had interviewed him; nearly a week later, the detective had red blotches on her cheeks and looked tired and irritated; DS Chan looked hungover.
‘Mr Flanagan,’ she said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the evening you spied on Ms Armstrong.’
‘What about it?’
‘Could you describe your state of mind that evening?’
‘I was …’ Phil paused, searching for a suitable word, ‘… upset.’
‘Upset? Is that all?’
‘More or less. It was a difficult time for me.’
‘How upset were you, would you say?’
Phil nearly laughed. ‘My girlfriend of ten years had broken up with me, more or less without warning. I’d expected the next big change in our relationship to be marriage. It was a shock to find out that it was termination. So I was – I would say – pretty bloody upset.’
‘Do you normally react in that way when you are upset?’
‘In what way?’
‘Acting secretively. Spying on people. Would you, for example, spy on your boss if you lost your job?’
‘I don’t know. It’s never happened before.’
DS Chan nodded. ‘So the one time it has happened, this is how you reacted?’
‘Evidently,’ Phil said. ‘But I’m not sure what this has to do with anything.’
‘It’s of interest,’ DI Wynne said. ‘I’m not wasting your time, you can trust me on that.’ She sipped her water. ‘Would you say that there was anything unusual about your state of mind? Apart from being upset?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by unusual?’
‘Did you feel in control of your actions, Mr Flanagan?’
‘Yes!’ Phil said. ‘Of course!’
He thought back to that night, to when Carl had come outside and he had been forced to flee, and, as he ran, he had thought What the hell am I doing? There had been a moment of clarity, a moment when he realized that he was acting a little bit crazy, that he was being driven on by something outside of himself.
But he wasn’t going to tell the cops that. It would only make things look a lot worse.
The detective seemed to sense his uncertainty. ‘Sometimes, Mr Flanagan,’ she said, ‘people can enter a state in which they are not themselves. I wonder if you recognize that sensation at all?’
‘No,’ Phil said. ‘Not at all.’
‘Before the incident outside the house, Ms Armstrong claims she was followed by someone who drove very closely behind her and dazzled her with their high beams. Do you know anything about that?’
Phil shook his head. The last time they had spoken, the detective had referred to an earlier incident on that night. Was this it? ‘No,’ he said. ‘Was someone harassing Kate?’
‘She says so. I wonder if it might have been you?’
‘I said it wasn’t,’ Phil said.
‘Mr Flanagan, let me explain how it appears from our point of view. We know you were in the area that evening, waiting for Ms Armstrong to return. We know you were in a state of high emotion – upset, as you termed it – and we know that you spied on her. It is not a huge leap to wonder whether you also followed her in her car. Perhaps to scare her.’
‘No,’ Phil said. ‘It wasn’t me! I don’t know what else I can say. I only found out when you told me. And why would I want to scare her?’
‘Why would you?’ DS Chan said. ‘Good question. How about because, if she felt frightened and vulnerable, she might be keen on having her boyfriend back in the house?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Phil said. He looked at DI Wynne. ‘You must see that.’
DI Wynne smiled. It was not a warm smile.
‘Let’s move on,’ she said. ‘Mr Flanagan, there have been three very troubling – very vicious – murders recently. They started after your girlfriend broke up with you, all the women killed resemble your girlfriend, and you were the last person known to be with the third victim. You have no alibi for any of the murders, and you have admitted to some erratic behaviour, namely spying on your ex-girlfriend. Then there’s the CCTV footage at the all-night garage and the lies you told about that. You can see how this looks.’
DI Wynne paused. DS Chan spoke up.
‘Now would be a good time to confess, Mr Flanagan. If there is anything you think that we should know, then telling us now would certainly help your case.’
Phil didn’t reply. He pushed his coffee away.
‘I need to see a lawyer,’ he said.
The lawyer he found – a bespectacled man in his sixties called Edward Marks – sat on the shabby couch in the front room of Andy’s apartment holding his mug of tea with a look of some distaste. Tea, clearly, was meant to be served in more elegant cups.
‘Thanks for coming on a Saturday,’ Phil said.
‘Not a problem,’ Marks said. He took a file from his briefcase. ‘Let’s get started. Here’s where we are. The police evidently view you as their number one suspect, in part because they have no others.’
Phil felt the blood drain from his face. ‘But I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘This is so unfair. They’re going to pin this on me!’
‘No, they aren’t,’ Marks said. ‘Let me be clear with you: the police think you did this. But all they have is circumstantial evidence. Now, you can get a conviction with circumstantial evidence, but it’s damn tricky, and they’d need more than they have here. Yes, you have a motive. Yes, you have no alibi. But that means – pardon my language – bugger all. In an English court of law, they need proof beyond reasonable doubt, and that is, as it happens, a very high standard of proof. It is one of the glories of our legal system, and what it means right now is that they won’t arrest you or take you to a trial until they have evidence.’ He leaned forward, putting his untouched tea on the table in front of him. ‘And at the moment they don’t have any. Your DNA was not on any of the murder victims, which is good news. The bad news is that no one else’s was, either. The killer did not leave any traces, at least not that the forensic folks have been able to find. Which means you are not ruled out.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘You wait, Mr Flanagan. You wait until they clear you or they catch you.’
7
Kate had that feeling. The feeling of possibility, of newness, of growing excitement that something might be getting started.
She had a smile on her face when she left for work on Monday morning, and a smile on her face when she sat down at her desk. She grinned at the man in the sandwich shop at lunch and hummed as she worked through her emails in the afternoon. She felt a thrill go through her when she saw she had an email from Mike.
How goes the battle? Drink this weekend? Maybe Friday evening?
She typed a reply:
Yes! Sounds good. How was the swim?
She swapped great for good, then sent the message.
Moments later he answered:
Awesome. Really good fun, although it was a bit choppy so I swallowed about half the contents of the lake. 7 pm on Fri?
Seven p.m. on Friday. It felt a long way away.
On her way home, her phone rang. It was DI Wynne.
‘Miss Armstrong,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘We’re making progress.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Could we meet? I have some questions I’d like to ask.’
Kate gave her parents’ address, and said she’d be home by six.
She was late; when she pulled up outside her parents’ house it was closer to six twenty, and DI Wynne’s dark red Honda civic – old, but very clean – was parked on the street.
In the living room the detective was perched on the edge of the floral patterned couch with a cup and saucer balanced on her knee. In her hand she held a piece of shortbread. Kate’s mum was hovering by the door.
‘There’s someone to see you,’ she said, then lowered her voice and raised her eyebrows. ‘She says she’s a detective.’
‘I know her, Mum,’ Kate said. ‘It’s OK.’
She went into the living room and closed the door. There was no doubt whatsoever that her mum would listen outside it.
‘Detective Inspector,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, very good.’ DI Wynne flashed her a brief, mirthless smile. ‘Miss Armstrong, could I ask you some questions about the car that followed you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Could you describe it?’
‘I didn’t get a good look. But it was a pretty normal car.’
‘Could you explain what you mean by “normal”?’
‘Four-door family car. That kind of thing, you know?’
‘A saloon car? Or a hatchback, like a Golf?’
‘Saloon, I think.’
‘Colour?’
‘Dark. Black. Maybe grey.’
DI Wynne nodded. ‘Or dark blue?’
‘Could have been,’ Kate said. ‘But I only got a glimpse, so it could have been a purple Jeep, to be honest.’
‘But you don’t think it was. If pressed, you would say it was a dark-coloured saloon car of some type?’
‘I guess I would, yes.’
‘Mr Flanagan drives a dark blue Mondeo,’ DI Wynne said. ‘Could it have been that car?’