Killing Kate

by Alex Lake

When Friday finally came he pulled up outside her office shortly after six. She was wearing work clothes, but only just; a close-fitting knee-length dress was not her normal office attire. Nate had teased her about it – Going on a date after work? Anyone special? – but she had batted away his questions. She could tell that his interest was more than that of a friend. She wasn’t sure that it was desire or lust, not exactly. She didn’t get the sense from him that he fancied her, didn’t catch him looking her up and down, but there was definitely something, and so she wanted to keep their relationship as professional as possible. No more late nights working together, no more after-work drinks, no more sharing what was happening in her private life.

  ‘Jump in.’ Mike looked at her. ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. He was in dark jeans and a brown leather jacket. ‘You too. Where are we going?’

  ‘The Lowry.’

  Kate smiled. ‘To do what?’

  ‘See a play. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. It’s been getting amazing reviews. I grabbed some tickets. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Mind? It’s a fab idea. It’s years since I went to the theatre.’

  ‘It’s a great play. Kind of a play within a play within a play. Lots of layers; it’s complicated. My kind of thing.’ He paused. ‘And then dinner afterwards? There’s an Ethiopian restaurant nearby that’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Kate said. ‘And thank you for doing this.’

  They stood in the foyer of the theatre, guessing the stories of the people they saw.

  ‘Russian oligarch,’ Mike said, pointing at a man who was clearly a geography teacher.

  ‘Plays football for Manchester United,’ Kate said, nodding at a man in his fifties with a prodigiously large beer belly.

  ‘No way,’ Mike said. ‘He plays for City.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A young Asian woman interrupted them. She was holding her phone. ‘Would you mind taking a photo of me and my friends?’

  Kate took the phone. ‘Of course not.’

  They assembled themselves and Kate held up the phone. ‘Ready? Say “cheese”!’

  She handed it back to the girl.

  ‘Would you like one of you two?’ she said.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Mike said. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Come on,’ Kate said, and put her arm around his waist. ‘Smile for the camera.’

  ‘Let’s not bother them,’ Mike said. ‘The play’s nearly starting.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ the girl said. She took Kate’s phone. ‘Smile!’

  They linked arms; Mike seemed stiff. The girl handed Kate’s phone to her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kate said. Mike merely nodded, and led her into the theatre.

  They watched the play, thighs pressed together, arms linked. He had his hand on her knee; the touch on her bare skin sent a thrill through her. She was hyper-aware of his presence, of the heat he gave off, of his scent.

  This was what she wanted to do, the reason why she had broken up with Phil. They had a routine, a way of doing things, and it didn’t involve going to the theatre. It could have, of course, if she had made him, if she had bought tickets and dragged him there, but she didn’t want to have to do that. She wanted it to be the norm, the kind of thing that they often did. And with Mike, it was.

  When the play was finished, they filed out of the theatre. He was behind her, his hands lightly resting on her hips.

  ‘You want to go and eat?’ he said.

  She shook her head. She wanted to be with him and with him alone as soon as possible.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back.’

  8

  The next morning she woke up, for the first time in what seemed like an age, in her own bed in her own house.

  She looked over to her left; Mike wasn’t there. His jeans were on the floor, so he was presumably – unless he was running around Stockton Heath in his underpants – downstairs. She got out of bed and walked to her wardrobe to grab some clothes. This was very different to the last time she’d woken up in a bedroom after spending the night with him; that time all she’d wanted to do was get away. Now, she wanted to do the opposite.

  She heard footsteps approach the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Hey,’ Mike called. ‘Do I hear you wandering about up there?’

  ‘I’m coming down,’ she said. ‘Give me a moment to make myself decent.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Mike said. ‘Indecent is good. And don’t come downstairs. I’m making breakfast. I’ll bring it up.’

  ‘What are you making? There’s no food in the house?’

  ‘I popped out.’

  ‘In what? Your jeans are up here.’

  ‘Shorts. I brought a pair so I could go on my morning run.’

  Was this guy for real? Evenings at the theatre? Up half the night having energetic sex? Breakfast in bed? Morning run?

  ‘Stay in bed. Read the news. I’ll be up in a bit.’

  ‘Fine,’ Kate said. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  And when breakfast is over, she thought, I’ll have to think of a treat for you, which is probably why you’re doing this in the first place, you sly dog.

  She picked up her phone. There was a text from Gemma.

  Check this out – from the Sheffield case.

  Typical Gemma. Obsessed with the news, as usual. Kate clicked the link.

  STRANGLER: POLICE APPEAL FOR INFORMATION

  Police investigating the recent murders in Stockton Heath today released an appeal for information from the public.

  Detective Inspector Jane Wynne, who is leading the investigation, said ‘We would like to ask the public to come forward with any information they have about the victims of the Sheffield murders, their partners, and any links they might have to the recent killings in Stockton Heath. If they think of anything – however insignificant or incidental it seems – they should contact the police immediately.’

  There was a series of photos attached, showing close-ups of the faces of the victims next to their boyfriends and husbands.

  Kate scanned them. A set of young people, their lives ended – in the case of the women – or ruined – in the case of the men – by the killer. And in the case of Mark Stevens, both.

  She studied his photo. Stevens had a shaved head and a beard. He looked out of shape, the shadow of a double chin starting to appear while the line of his jaw disappeared. He had very intense, very blue eyes. They were a bit like Mike’s; in some ways, Mark Stevens resembled him. Kate chuckled. When she was a teenager there was a TV show that found normal people who looked like overweight versions of famous people; they called them fat lookalikes. It probably wouldn’t pass the PC test now, but it was quite funny in its day. She imagined the presenter holding the photos up.

  Mark Stevens, ladies and gentlemen, the fat lookalike of Mike Sadler.

  Same initials, too. M.S. She looked at the photo again.

  The eyes really were the same. They had the same cool, slightly distant look. Mark Stevens and Mike Sadler could almost have been brothers. It was uncanny.

  Not the same, she said to herself. Similar, but not the same.

  It was something her dad always said when, as a teenager, she’d say May and me have the same shoes or something like that.

  Similar shoes, he’d say. You can’t have the same shoes. It’s impossible; if you’re wearing a pair of shoes, May can’t be wearing the same ones. And it’s May and I, by the way.

  So the eyes were similar, but not the same.

  If Stevens had been thirty-six when he died they’d be a similar age too, give or take. And in the same field – they both worked in IT, if she remembered correctly.

  Her leg twitched nervously. She studied the photo, imagined Mark Stevens with no beard, with thick, brown hair, with the thick brown hair she’d run her hands through the night before. She mentally stripped away the nascent double chin.

  And she had Mike.

  She shook her head. This was r
idiculous. Mike Sadler, the man downstairs in her kitchen making her breakfast in bed, was not Mark Stevens. Mark Stevens was dead. He’d committed suicide after his girlfriend had been killed.

  She typed Mark Stevens Sheffield into Google and scanned the results. There it was – the story she’d read about his death.

  MURDER VICTIM BOYFRIEND SUICIDE

  The boyfriend of Claire Michaels, victim of the serial killer who has recently been operating in the Sheffield area, apparently killed himself on Sunday.

  Mark Stevens was a lifelong lover of the Lytham area, and, according to a suicide note found by friends, planned to kill himself by drowning in the seas off his favourite beach.

  He was said by friends to be distraught over the death of his girlfriend. When he did not show up for work on Monday, they attempted to contact him, and found the letter in which he outlined his plans.

  No body has yet been recovered, although the search is ongoing.

  There it was, in black and white. Stevens had left a note for his friends and then drowned himself in the sea off Lytham.

  Except there was no body, so technically – and she knew this from law school – there would be no death certificate. You had to wait seven years to declare someone dead without a body.

  This was getting stupid. Did she seriously think that Mark Stevens had faked his death? And that he was somehow related to Mike? Not a brother, obviously, because they did not share the same surname, but a cousin, maybe?

  Because the resemblance was there, and the more she looked at the photo, the stronger it became.

  It was a coincidence. It had to be. She needed another photo of Stevens; that would settle this once and for all. She clicked on the ‘images’ tab.

  Other than the photo from the police appeal, there was nothing. Mark Stevens had not been on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn. He’d kept his online presence to a minimum.

  Maybe the police had another. She opened her email and typed in Gus’s name. His email address auto-populated the To: field. She clicked on the message body and typed:

  Hey, could you try and find out if the police know anything about Mark Stevens? I’m looking at the photo of him, and he reminds me of someone I know. Not urgent. Email me back if you have anything. Ideally another photo, if possible. Thanks, K. xxx

  She hit send.

  And in Mike’s leather jacket a phone buzzed.

  9

  Kate paused. She rarely saw Mike’s phone; he wasn’t one of those people who constantly had it out on the table or in his hand. It was normally stashed away in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, the jacket that was now hanging on the handle of her bedroom door.

  Her phone buzzed. A fraction of a second later, Mike’s did the same.

  She looked at her email. It was Gus.

  Sure, I’ll take a look. You OK?

  Kate looked at the screen, blinking, then replied:

  Yes, fine. Enjoying a Saturday morning lie-in.

  She hit send. Mike’s phone buzzed.

  Her mouth went dry. In her mind, pieces began to arrange themselves. As they did, a picture emerged. It was like a part-finished jigsaw; there were holes, but there was enough there to give her a picture of something that she didn’t like.

  Mike had told her that Phil had installed something on her computer that forwarded all her emails – incoming and outgoing – to him. They’d had some fun with it – sending dirty emails to a fictitious lover – and then he’d removed the software.

  Phil had never mentioned it, which, she’d assumed, was because he was ashamed. She’d half-expected an apology, but she’d let it slide. She didn’t feel the need to rub his face in the dirt. She’d been surprised, though: he was a pretty honest guy and it was a bit out of character for him to say nothing.

  But maybe he’d said nothing because he hadn’t done it. Because he hadn’t known about it, hadn’t been getting the messages at all. Maybe it was because Mike had been on her computer and he had done what he said Phil had done.

  He had put some kind of software on her computer. Which meant that he was reading her emails.

  But then who had been in her house and turned off the computer, who had messed with the filing cabinet? It couldn’t have been Mike; he’d have had to break in, and there were no signs of that. It was Phil; only he had a key.

  So this was all a coincidence. People received lots of emails; it was easy to imagine that two people could have emails arriving at the same time.

  But not three, not all at the exact moment.

  There was a way to find out. She typed an email to herself, titled test. If he was getting copies of every email she sent or received, his phone should buzz twice when she sent this, once when it left her outbox and once when it arrived in her inbox.

  She sent it.

  His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again.

  She sent it again, and again, and again.

  His phone buzzed and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed.

  Kate stared at her phone, blinking. In her inbox she saw the emails she had sent herself.

  test. test. test. test.

  Those emails – she knew this now – were also in Mike’s inbox. The man she had had sex with last night in her own home – in her own bed – was reading her private communications.

  All of them.

  She thought of what she had said to her friends about him. What she had said to her friends about herself. Her private thoughts.

  And he had read all of it.

  She didn’t know why, or how, or what he wanted, but she did know that this was not good. She had to get out of the house as soon as possible and – she shuddered – she needed help. She needed someone to know about this.

  She opened Gus’s email and started to type a reply.

  As she did, the bedroom door opened.

  10

  ‘Hey,’ Mike said. He was in a pair of running shorts, his legs long and muscular. Not like the legs of pudgy Mark Stevens. He was holding a tray, on which were two cups of coffee and two plates of scrambled eggs on toast. They smelled delicious; Kate could see cracked black pepper and chives on them.

  She stared at him, phone in her hand. She was pale, she knew that. She could feel that the blood had drained from her face. He frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She couldn’t think of what to say. All she knew was that she had to get out of the room, then out of the house, naked or not.

  ‘I … I … I …’ she stammered. ‘I have to go to the t … t … toilet.’

  He stepped backwards to block the door. ‘What’s going on, Kate? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  Her legs felt weak; her head spun. ‘Mike,’ she said, unable to raise her voice higher than a whisper. ‘I feel a bit sick. I need to go to the bathroom. Now.’

  He shook his head. His expression was cold, emotionless. It was as if he had taken off a mask.

  ‘What’s going on, Kate? A few minutes ago, you sounded happy. You said you were coming down. You didn’t mention feeling sick.’

  ‘It came over me suddenly.’ Her voice was faint, the words a struggle to get out. She felt, she noticed, no hatred towards him, no anger, no resentment.

  Only fear. Sheer, unadulterated terror. Terror so all-encompassing it left no room for any other emotions.

  ‘Kate? What’s happened? You can tell me.’

  Her phone buzzed in her hand. In his jacket, his did the same. She glanced at it; as she did, she realized it was a mistake.

  Understanding spread slowly over his face. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Oh, I see. It looks like you might have worked it out after all.’

  She swallowed, hard. ‘I haven’t worked anything out,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Don’t try to fool me,’ he said. ‘It won’t work.’ He pushed the door shut and stood in front of it. ‘Just me and you now, Kate.’

  There was no way out. She was trapped. She felt cold inside, disconnected from herself.

>   But there was one thing she could do. She picked up her phone and began to type.

  11

  The reply to Gus was already open, so she didn’t have to worry about that. All she had to do was type.

  In trouble, she wrote, then there was a loud crash. She glanced up; Mike had dropped the tray and was reaching out to grab her. She lifted her legs and kicked at him to keep him away; he grabbed her calf and twisted. She cried out in pain as something in her knee gave way.

  She scrambled across the bed, her knee agony, holding her hands away from him. She ignored everything else – him, the pain, the fear – and focused on holding the phone still enough so that she could get the email – her only lifeline – to Gus.

  She tapped send with her thumb; as she did he slammed his body on top of her and wrenched the phone from her hands. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure that it had gone.

  His phone buzzed.

  Yes, she thought. Yes, yes, yes.

  He tossed her handset onto the floor and walked to his jacket. He took out his phone and read the emails.

  ‘Your message to Gus went through,’ he said. He was like a different person. His voice was flat and impersonal, his face expressionless. All the warmth and animation was gone. The play was over; the actor had taken off his costume. ‘But that won’t make any difference. All it means is that I’ll speed things up. And, as of this morning, I have what I need, so the end was coming anyway.’

  ‘You have what you need?’ Kate said. ‘What’s going on?’

  He ignored her and continued to read the emails she had been sending.

  ‘You hacked my emails,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘I trusted you.’

  He continued to scroll through her messages.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘You’re not as stupid as I thought. You linked me to Mark Stevens. To my former self.’

  ‘What?’ Kate said. ‘What do you mean, your former self?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ Mike said. ‘Mark Stevens is my former self.’