by Alex Lake
But now he was awake, and his mind was starting to turn over. Images from the night before formed and played out before him. The dark nightclub – wall-to-wall pussy, Andy had said, over and over, until Phil was sick of hearing it – the sweet, sticky drinks, Dawn, the woman on her hen night, Andy going off with her friend, then him, stumbling, alone, out of the pub and into the street.
Where he’d vomited, cut his head on a lamppost and bribed his way into a taxi, then, finally home.
What else had he done? Amazingly, he’d poured a glass of whisky when he got back, which was the last thing he’d needed before he passed out. He shook his head. This had to stop.
He scrabbled on his bedside table for his phone to see what time it was.
Shit.
On the screen was a message he’d sent to Kate. He read it and cringed. It was ridiculous.
Don’t worry about me. I’m having a great time! Really great!
It was time-stamped two thirty-three a.m. He didn’t remember sending it. He must have poured the whisky then got the bright idea that he should send his ex-girlfriend a sarcastic message.
Because he had meant it sarcastically, he assumed, had meant it to convey how shit a time he was having, presumably in the hope that she would read it and feel such sympathy that she would call in the morning and suggest a reconciliation. Reading it now, though, it did not come across like that at all. It came across as the stupid rambling of a bitter drunk.
That was it. He’d had enough. He was going to stop all this. Stop the drinking, stop the disregard for his responsibilities, stop the adolescent self-indulgence in his own heartbreak. Yes, he was sad, yes, he would take time to get over this, but that was no excuse for this pathetic, maudlin self-pity. It was time to grow up and deal with this in a mature way.
Never mind that it pissed her off. It was becoming a matter of self-respect.
And it would start with an apology. Sincere, grown-up, from the heart. He picked up his phone and began to type an email.
Kate – I’m sorry for the text message I sent last night. It was foolish and immature and unfair to you. I want you to know that I realize that I have been behaving badly and it is going to stop. I was – and am – very upset that we broke up. However, that is no excuse for my behaviour. Please accept this unreserved apology, along with a promise that this is the last time I will behave in this way.
Yours, Phil
He read it through, once, twice, then, after a brief hesitation, hit send. Happy – or at least, at peace – for the first time in weeks, he rolled back into bed, and closed his eyes.
He was woken about an hour later by the intercom buzzing. He got out of bed, mouth dry, and walked to the door, rubbing some life into his eyes. He pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Flanagan?’
He recognized the voice of the detective immediately.
‘Yes?’
‘This is DI Wynne. I was wondering whether we could talk.’
‘I’ll buzz you in. Give me a few minutes to put some clothes on.’
‘Why don’t you come down, Mr Flanagan? It’ll be better if we talk at the station.’
‘What about? I already answered your questions.’
‘We can talk at the station,’ DI Wynne said. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
Phil headed for the shower. On the way, he checked the news. As soon as he had, hands trembling, he called Edward Marks. He had a feeling he’d be needing his lawyer.
He sat in silence until the door to the interview room opened and Edward Marks came in. Marks had promised to get there as soon as he could, which turned out to mean nearly ninety minutes, and told him to say nothing until he did. Phil took him at his word.
For the entire time, DI Wynne and DS Chan sat opposite him. Wynne read through a thick file. Every so often she paused to dwell on a photo, making sure, Phil could tell, that he could see them.
They were photos of the victims. One showed Jenna Taylor at the scene, her neck ringed with a purple bruise, a sheet over her face. One was taken from a distance, of a body lying by a bush. One was a close-up of Michelle, two dark holes where her eyes had been.
He looked away, studying his feet.
Marks pulled out a chair and sat next to Phil.
‘Detective Inspector,’ he said, with a nod. ‘Detective Sergeant. I understand you would like to question my client?’
DI Wynne gave a patient smile. ‘That’s correct. We have a few questions.’
‘Go ahead,’ the lawyer said. He turned to Phil. ‘I’ll let you know if you shouldn’t answer.’
Wynne ignored him. ‘Mr Flanagan, could you tell us your whereabouts last night?’
‘I was in Liverpool.’
‘Alone?’
‘With Andy Field. The guy whose flat I’m staying in.’
‘Where did you and Mr Field go in Liverpool?’
‘A bunch of pubs. Then Caspers.’
‘What is Caspers?’
‘A big pub.’ Wall-to-wall pussy, Phil thought. Although it didn’t turn out like that. Wish it had: I’d have an alibi.
‘What time did you leave Caspers?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably around one a.m.’
‘Alone?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where was Mr Field when you left?’
‘He’d met someone. Went home with them.’
‘But you did not?’ DI Wynne said. ‘Meet someone, that is?’
‘No.’
She gestured to his temple. ‘How did that happen?’
‘Someone pushed me into a lamppost.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside Caspers. I’d vomited on the pavement. They were laughing at me.’
She nodded. ‘We can check that, on CCTV. I hope you’re telling the truth.’
‘I am.’
‘And then? After vomiting in the street? What did you do?’
‘I came home. In a taxi.’
‘And what time did you arrive home?’
‘Probably two-ish. I wasn’t checking the time.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I’d had quite a bit to drink.’
‘Would you say you were intoxicated?’
Phil nodded. ‘Pretty much.’
‘How much?’ DS Chan said. ‘You said you’d vomited?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So highly intoxicated would be a fair description, wouldn’t it?’ Chan said.
‘Please don’t put words in my client’s mouth,’ Marks said. ‘He can speak for himself.’
‘Yes,’ Phil said, aware that there was, as a result of the CCTV footage of him throwing up into a bin, no point trying to hide it. ‘You could say that I was highly intoxicated.’
‘So,’ DI Wynne said. ‘You arrived home – highly intoxicated – at around two o’clock in the morning. What did you do then?’
‘I went to bed.’
‘Immediately?’
‘Yes,’ Phil said. ‘Immediately.’
DI Wynne opened her ring binder and consulted a piece of paper. She frowned, then ran her finger along it, as though concentrating on reading something that was hard to understand.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘That raises a question. Do you recognize these words, Mr Flanagan?’ She began to read from the paper in front of her: ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m having a great time! Really great!’
It was his text message. So Kate had gone to the cops. He could hardly believe that she had done it, both because of the betrayal, but also because of what it meant: it meant she thought he was guilty.
‘It’s a text message I sent to Kate last night,’ he said.
‘At two thirty-three a.m.,’ DI Wynne said. ‘Although you said you were in bed by that time.’
‘I said about that time. I must have sent the text first.’
DI Wynne gave him a thin smile. ‘Yes. You must have done.’ She coughed. ‘What did you mean by that text, Mr Flanagan?’
‘Could it have meant something else?’ DS Chan said. ‘Maybe that you were having a great time?’
‘I suppose it could,’ Phil said. He was about to tell them that he couldn’t actually say what it had meant as he didn’t remember sending it, but he decided to keep that to himself. ‘It didn’t, though.’
DI Wynne tapped her forefinger on the table. ‘Do you know Angela Wood, Mr Flanagan?’
Phil tensed. The cut on his temple started to throb. ‘Angie Wood?’ he said. ‘From Stockton Heath?’
DI Wynne nodded.
‘She was a couple of years behind me at school.’
‘At Bridgewater County High School?’
‘Yeah. I don’t know her all that well,’ Phil said. He started to get an uncomfortable feeling. There had been no name in the news report, but now he had an idea about who the victim might be. ‘But I know who she is. Why?’
‘Ms Wood was killed last night,’ DI Wynne said. ‘Around two a.m. Around the time you were sending that text message.’ She looked at him. ‘You can see the implications, Mr Flanagan.’
‘Are you accusing me of killing Angie Wood?’
There was a long pause before DI Wynne spoke. ‘Mr Flanagan,’ she said. ‘Are you entirely sure that you did not leave the house after returning last night?’
‘Yes,’ Phil replied. ‘Entirely.’
‘There is no possibility that you did go out, but that you don’t remember doing so? You were, as you admitted, highly intoxicated.’
‘I …’ Phil paused. Had he gone out? He didn’t remember going to bed, didn’t remember sending the text message. What else didn’t he remember? He was suddenly overwhelmingly relieved that he hadn’t mentioned that he had no memory of sending the text; they would have assumed he had blundered around in a drunken stupor doing God knew what.
Which maybe he had.
‘Look,’ he began. ‘I don’t—’
Edward Marks gestured to him not to answer.
‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ Marks said. ‘Do you have any evidence to suggest that my client is responsible for the crimes of which you seem to suspect him? If not, then I’m going to suggest that we leave.’
DI Wynne gave a regretful shrug.
‘Not yet, I don’t.’
Outside the police station, Marks turned to face Phil. A cold wind pushed his hair into a fan-like shape.
‘What happened last night?’ he said. ‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’
Phil met his gaze. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There isn’t.’
3
LATEST VICTIM NAMED
The latest victim in the string of murders in Stockton Heath has been named.
Angela Wood, 26, was a lifelong inhabitant of the village. Her body was found early on Sunday morning. It had been concealed under a bush by the towpath of the Bridgewater Canal.
A police statement said that the manner of the killing ‘bore the hallmarks of the three earlier incidents. As such, we are treating this as the work of the serial killer known to be operating in this area in the last two months.’
This is the fourth victim of the killer, who has become known as the Stockton Heath Strangler.
Kate sat at her desk and read the story with mounting disbelief. If, at first, this had been a story that gave a thrill of vicarious interest, that was no longer the case. Now it was simply terrifying. Four women had been killed within a mile of her house. Four. Strangled, their eyes scooped out. The police had no idea who had done it – unless, that was, it was her ex-boyfriend, in which case she was going to have to deal with the fact that a) she had been dating a serial killer and b) the trigger for him getting started on his killing spree was her breaking up with him.
She knew this victim well. Angie Wood was Stockton Heath through and through. She lived on Bedford Street, in the terraced house her dad had grown up in. Her brother was a few years older. He was in the army; Kate had had a crush on him when she was twelve. In a weird circle, Angie had confessed – when drunk, aged fourteen – to having a crush on Kate. Not long after gay marriage was legalized she’d married a woman from Iceland; they had adopted twin girls.
She’d bumped into Angie in Morrisons supermarket shortly after she and her wife had brought the twins home.
Kate jerked upright at the memory. Her eyes widened. No. This was not happening.
Angie had been pushing a trolley, her eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.
How’s it going? Kate said.
Tough. Not getting much sleep. But we love the girls.
I almost didn’t recognize you, Kate said. That’s quite a change.
I know. But I needed one less thing to have to deal with. Quite a lot of new mums do it.
Angie had been famed for her thick, long, dark hair. She could have been a hair model, people said.
But it was all gone. Close-cropped for convenience.
Kate put her hands to her mouth. Angie didn’t have the green eyes, or Kate’s lithe build, but she had the hair.
Kate had changed her appearance and the killer had killed a woman who shared the most obvious change she had made. In amongst the maelstrom of emotions that swirled around her, one stood out.
This was her fault. A mother was dead. A lifeless body, by a canal. And she was to blame, at least in part. She couldn’t have foreseen this would happen, she knew that, but she also knew that if she hadn’t tried to throw the killer off then Angie would be alive today.
And it also meant that the killer was not targeting women who happened to look like her.
He was targeting her.
And he was out there, uncaught, planning his next attack.
At lunchtime, Nate came to her workstation.
‘Grab a bite?’ he said.
Kate nodded. ‘Maybe a sandwich,’ she said. ‘I have to get back to this brief.’
They walked to the lift. When the doors closed, Nate pressed the ground-floor button.
‘See the news?’ he said. ‘About the killing?’
‘Sure,’ Kate said. ‘It’s on my doorstep.’
‘That’s four now,’ Nate said. ‘It’s getting serious.’
‘Getting serious?’ she said. ‘You don’t think three women dead was serious?’
He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I meant this is getting out of control.’
‘What does your police friend think?’ she said. ‘Does he think it’s out of control?’
Nate nodded. ‘I spoke to him this morning.’
‘Anything interesting?’
The lift stopped and the doors opened. They walked across the lobby to the main doors. When they were outside – and not in earshot of anyone else – Nate answered.
‘Yes. He said that they’ve been looking further afield, checking other open cases to see if there are any that bear a resemblance to this one. Apparently, these people often move around.’
‘And?’
‘There’s nothing exactly the same. But there was a series of murders a couple of years ago in Sheffield. They never found the killer.’
‘Were they similar to these ones?’
‘Not exactly.’
They walked into a sandwich shop and joined the queue. When they had their food they sat by the window.
‘Not exactly,’ Kate said. ‘But somewhat similar?’
‘According to my friend,’ Nate said. ‘The method wasn’t the same – not strangulation and no eye-removal – but the victims were all women, all in their early thirties, and all childless. They were killed in their houses, at home alone.’
He leaned forward. ‘Whoever did it knew what they were doing. They waited until they knew the routines of the victims, when their husbands or partners would be out, then …’ he paused, evidently relishing telling the story, ‘they
got into their houses and suffocated them.’
‘And they think it’s the same guy?’ Kate said. ‘He moved here from Sheffield?’
‘Maybe. It’s possible. Or he could have travelled to Sheffield. From here.’
‘So what are they doing?’
‘They’re going to compare evidence. See if there’s a link.’
Which would get Phil off the hook, Kate thought. Or not. Maybe he went over the Pennines and killed those women. But at least I could check the dates and see if he had an alibi.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Keep me posted.’
‘I will.’
‘Who is your friend, anyway?’ Kate said. ‘I know a policeman in Stockton Heath. He might know him.’
Nate froze, mid-bite. ‘You can’t say anything,’ he said, his tone urgent. ‘Don’t mention my name.’
‘OK,’ Kate said, taken aback by the strength of his reaction. ‘I was only asking.’
‘Sorry,’ Nate said, back to normal. ‘But I can’t tell you who it is. He probably shouldn’t be passing all this on, you know?’
‘I know.’ And it’s strange that he is, she thought, and that you were worried about your name, and not his. ‘But you will let me know about the other murders, right?’
‘Sure. I guess you have an interest, living in the vicinity.’
‘Except that I’m staying with my parents at the moment.’
‘Oh,’ Nate said. ‘You are? I didn’t know that. Where do they live?’
Kate told him.
At least, she told him the name of the town.
She decided to keep the address to herself.
4
Back at her desk, she looked up the story of the Sheffield killings. There was plenty of information about them.
Four women killed over three months. It was clearly the work of a serial killer; they were all killed in the same way, in the same area, and, to cap it all, they all looked alike.
Nate had failed to mention that.
She studied their pictures. They all had short, blonde hair. Charlotte Walton, Melissa Jones, Lisa Wallace and, the last victim, Claire Michaels. The killer had broken into their houses, suffocated them, then taken them upstairs and arranged them in their beds.
By the time that Claire Michaels died, the way the killer operated must have been widely known. Kate pictured her boyfriend coming home and finding her, lying in bed, thinking at first she was asleep, wondering why, in the early evening, she was already in bed, then the mounting fear that she was the latest victim and the frantic scramble to feel her pulse, shake her awake, call an ambulance, call the police.