by Alex Lake
‘But that means …’ Kate paused, staring at him, ‘that means you and he are – you and he are—’
‘The same person,’ Mike said.
She had thought that she had reached her capacity for being afraid, but as she understood the implications of what he had said, she discovered that she was wrong. She made a kind of mewling, whining sound; all that was left of her, it seemed, was fear.
If he was Mark Stevens, then Mark Stevens had not committed suicide. Mark Stevens had faked his suicide, so that he could disappear.
And he would only want to do that because he had killed his girlfriend and all the other women before her. She forced herself to focus. She needed time, time to think.
‘So you’re Mark Stevens,’ she said, struggling to comprehend what he was telling her. ‘You’re Mark Stevens.’
‘I used to be,’ Mike said.
‘He’s not dead?’
‘In a sense he is, yes. He no longer exists. People who knew him think he vanished, unable to bear the grief. But not dead.’ He spread his arms. ‘As you can see.’
‘And he – you – killed the women in Sheffield?’
‘Yes. And since he’s gone, he can’t be linked to me.’ He smiled. ‘The perfect crime.’
Kate stared at him. Even though she had already figured it out, it was still a shock to hear him admit that it was him, that he had killed those women.
And, of course, all the women in Stockton Heath.
Because if he was the Sheffield killer, and the Sheffield killer was, according to the cops, also responsible for the murders in Stockton Heath that meant that he – the man standing in her bedroom, blocking her way out – was the Strangler.
12
Phil unpeeled his key from the key chain and tied it to the side of his right trainer. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about it falling out of the pocket of his shorts as he jogged. Unless he took off his shoe, there was no way he could lose it. It was a trick he had learned from Andy, in the days that Andy went running.
He looked at his watch. Nine thirty a.m. He was planning a trip to Manchester to buy some new clothes; it was time to smarten up. Not because he was interested in meeting someone new; he was still too raw from the break-up with Kate for that, not to mention Michelle’s murder. He had a feeling of guilt that he couldn’t shake, although he felt a bit fraudulent complaining about it. There were plenty of other people – her family, friends, work colleagues – who were suffering much more than him, but nonetheless he had been the last person to see her alive, and if he had insisted on her taking a cab home, she might not have been killed.
On the shelf by the door his phone rang. He ignored it. Whoever it was could leave a message. He bent down and tied his other shoe.
His phone rang again.
Kate, he thought, it might be Kate, and he picked it up and looked at the screen.
It was Gus.
Gus never called him, and now he had called twice in a minute. Phil felt a sense of – not worry, exactly, but a keener interest than normal in what this was about.
‘Gus,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘You still got a key to your old place?’ Gus said. ‘Kate’s place?’
‘No,’ Phil said. ‘She changed the locks.’
‘Any other way in?’
‘There’s a window at the back.’ He blushed a little at the memory of the last time he’d used it.
‘OK. Can you meet us there? May and I are on our way now.’
‘Short answer, yes,’ Phil said. ‘I was about to go running, but that can wait. What’s going on?’
‘Tell you when you get here. See you then.’
Gus sounded brisk and professional.
Phil started to worry. There was a reason for this, and whatever it was, he didn’t think it was anything good.
When he arrived, Gus was looking through the front windows. May was hammering on the door.
‘Her car’s here,’ May said. ‘But she’s not. Or if she is, she’s not coming to the door.’
The neighbour’s door opened. Carl came out.
‘Everything OK?’ he said, then noticed Phil. ‘Hey, stranger,’ he said. ‘Long time, no see.’
‘Hi,’ Phil replied. He looked at Gus. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Kate’s gone.’ He looked at Carl. ‘Have you seen her this morning?’
Carl shook his head. ‘There was a car here last night.’
‘Whose car?’ Gus said. ‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No,’ Carl said. ‘I didn’t see him. Or her. Can I help?’
Gus shook his head. ‘It’s fine.’ He turned to Phil. ‘Let’s try the back.’
As they walked around the side of the house Phil felt a mounting panic.
‘What’s going on, Gus?’ he said.
‘I got a strange email from Kate,’ Gus said. ‘First she asked me if I knew anything about Mark Stevens, who was involved with one of the victims in the Sheffield case. That was a pretty random request in its own right, but then I got this …’
He handed his phone to Phil. The message was short and to the point:
In trouble
Phil’s throat constricted. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Looks like she was in a hurry,’ Gus replied. He caught Phil’s eye. ‘So we got down here ASAP. Which window?’
Phil pointed at the bathroom window. Gus gave him a leg up, and he climbed inside. The key was in the back door and he unlocked it.
‘Kate?’ Phil shouted. ‘Are you there? You OK?’
Gus and May joined him and they walked through the kitchen into the living room. There was a bottle of red wine – about two-thirds drunk – on the coffee table, along with two glasses and a small booklet.
Phil picked it up.
‘Programme for a play at the Lowry,’ he said. ‘She went to the theatre.’
‘Kate?’ Gus called. ‘Can you hear me?’
They looked in the front room – empty – they headed up the stairs. Phil ignored the bathroom and spare room and headed straight for the master bedroom. He pushed open the door.
‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘You guys better come and see this.’
13
He had forced her to get dressed, a flick knife – a fucking flick knife, this was real, this was actually happening – at her throat, and then told her to get in his car and not to say a fucking word or scream or run or do anything at all, because if she did he would fillet her and leave her to bleed to death on the pavement, and then he would disappear, which was what he did, and he would never be caught so she shouldn’t worry about that.
She sat in the passenger seat. He opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of handcuffs, which he put on her wrists. She realized she had never worn handcuffs before.
Mike – Kate thought of him as Mike still – certainly kept the new experiences coming.
Like dating a serial killer. That was a new one, too.
A serial killer who had been killing women who looked like her. Stalking them at night, then strangling and raping them.
But this was different. This was the morning. This was her boyfriend. And he was about to drive away with her. The fear washed over her again.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she said.
‘You’ll find out.’
Kate felt like she was going to vomit. ‘Are you the – are you the Strangler?’ she said, fighting to keep her voice calm.
‘Yes,’ he said. He started the engine and looked in the mirror. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. He was so responsible. It was what she had liked about him. She had wondered if it might get a bit tedious, his non-drinking, exercising, responsible behaviour, but, as it turned out, she didn’t have to worry about that. She had something else to worry about.
He was a serial killer.
‘Is this what you did to the others? Got to know them? Spent the night with them?’
He shook his head. ‘No. You’re different.’
�
�I’m different?’ she said.
‘Oh, yes. The others were nothing. They were cover. You’re the target.’
The target? This time she did vomit, a warm gush that spread over her thighs and onto her bare feet.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘That’s going to be a bugger to clean up. I can’t have any trace of you in here.’
‘Why not?’ she said, panic mounting. ‘Why can’t you?’
‘Because I’m going to kill you,’ he said. ‘At least, the Strangler is. I’m going to play the part of the grieving boyfriend. I’m good at that, as you know. I might commit suicide, like Mark Stevens.’ He paused. ‘I’m guessing your friend Gus – he’s the cop, right? – will be at the house pretty soon,’ he said. ‘Which is why we had to leave so quickly. Still, he won’t find anything. Only the mess the breakfast made and an empty house.’ He shrugged. ‘No problem. My plan won’t change.’
‘You said the others were cover?’ Kate said. ‘That I’m different. Why am I different?’ She started to cry. ‘I don’t want to be different. I want to be back home.’
He paused, hand on the gear stick, suddenly excited, like a kid about to show a new trick to his parents. ‘The cover,’ he said. ‘That’s the best part of it all.’
Kate had the feeling that she might not agree with that assessment, but she nodded. ‘Why?’
‘Because it gets me off the hook.’
‘Off what hook?’
He put the car in gear and pulled away. ‘Think about it. If I befriended you, dated you for a while, then killed you, I’d be the number one suspect. It’s always the boyfriend, right? That’s why they went after Phil – which, by the way, was part of my plan. I killed that slut he was fucking – if he was fucking her, which I doubt as he’s too pathetic and lovelorn about his lost bitch to get it up for anyone else – even though you’d changed your appearance. I knew he hadn’t seen you, so if he was the killer he would still have been targeting women who looked like you.’
‘No,’ Kate said. She couldn’t believe that these innocent women had been killed like that, as though they were nothing. ‘No. That’s sick. It’s unbelievable.’
He held his hands up in a show of fake modesty. ‘I know, I know. I’m a genius. And, as a result of my genius, they’re looking for a serial killer. The Strangler started killing before I met you, and, as far as anyone knows – you included – we have no prior connection. So when you die, it’ll be the Strangler that they look for, not the guy who you met on holiday. Especially after the weird stuff that happened – the victims resembling you, the car following you, all that.’
‘That was you? In the car?’
‘Of course it was. I wanted you scared, and I wanted the police not to be surprised when you turned up dead. It would all support the theory that the Strangler got you. And then he would disappear.’
Kate couldn’t look at him. ‘Like in Sheffield.’
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘That was when I got the idea. I had to deal with that bitch Claire. She wouldn’t do what I wanted, you know? I wanted to love her, to be with her – that was all. Not too much to ask, right? But she told her friends bad things about me, didn’t want to let me take care of her. And then she tried to leave! Can you believe that? Ungrateful slob. So that’s when I came up with the plan: make her the victim of a serial killer. That way, the police wouldn’t be looking at boyfriends and husbands. Then all I had to do was wait a while before Mark Stevens killed himself.’
‘You invented a serial killer so that nobody would think you had a motive?’
‘Exactly. Brilliant, no?’ He paused. ‘Sometimes I think I would have been a good – a great – novelist. Or a playwright. You know, the thing with Shakespeare is that he understood people. He knew what made them tick. Never mind all the fancy language: what makes him special is that his people are real, and you know what you need to be able to understand people like that? You have to be better than them. Superior. Which is me. I know how you lot will react before you do, which is why I’m in control. Yes, I could be a playwright, like him. I’d be better, though.’
He meant it. This was not some comical flight of fancy; he actually believed what he was saying. Mike Sadler, Kate now saw, was a total fantasist. It was chilling to get a glimpse into what passed for his inner life. He was inhuman, lacking something very profound. However he viewed the world – and she could not truly imagine how that was – it was utterly different from any normal person.
There was, though, one thing that didn’t make sense about his story. Kate shook her head. ‘What about Turkey?’ she said. ‘You can’t be the Strangler. You were there when the first murder happened.’
‘Oh God,’ he said, as matter-of-fact as if they had been discussing his late arrival at a party. ‘That’s what I told you so you’d think I had an alibi. I got there the day before you.’
‘But that was why I trusted you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know. One of the things I’ve noticed about people is how easily they trust other people. I mean, trust is probably the most valuable thing you can give someone, but you lot throw it about like confetti. It’s almost like you assume—’
‘Shut up,’ Kate said. ‘Just shut up. I don’t want to hear your voice any more. Kill me now, if it means I never have to hear your stupid preachy sanctimonious voice ever again.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Kill you now, that is. The Strangler kills at night, so I have to wait until then. Or I would. Trust me, I’ve been looking forward to killing you for a long time.’
She stared out of the window. He had driven down a back road that led to the Cheshire countryside and she watched the hedges roll by. He’d been looking forward to killing her for a long time? Why? What had she done? He had killed the women in Sheffield so that he would not be a suspect after he killed his girlfriend; fine, she understood that – although she wasn’t sure that understood was the right word – but why her?
And if he did want to kill her, why go to all this trouble? Why not simply kill her? There was no link between them. It wasn’t as if the police would suspect him; it would appear to be a totally random killing.
So why? Why do all this? It made no sense.
There was a missing piece in this puzzle, and she could not for the life of her work out what it was, although there was something lurking at the back of her mind. Something he had said, back in the bedroom, when he had seen that the message to Gus had gone through.
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.
He’d said he had what he needed.
But what was that?
She took a series of deep breaths. They didn’t work very well – nothing was going to keep her calm right now – but they allowed her to get some sense of sanity.
‘You said you had what you needed,’ she said. ‘Back at the house. But I thought you wanted me dead?’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I do want you dead. But that’s not all I want.’ He gave her an odd look, as though questioning why she would be insulting his intelligence. ‘If that was all I wanted, I could have killed you already. A completely random murder. It would have been untraceable.’
Which is what I figured, Kate thought. ‘So what is it?’ she said.
‘You don’t need to know,’ he said. ‘And I operate on a need-to-know basis.’
Kate didn’t say anything. She sensed that Mike liked to withhold information, in order to prove his superiority; fine, she’d go ahead and burst that bubble.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You operate on your need-to-know basis. Where did you learn that, by the way? Watching G.I. Joe? Or playing with your Action Men?’
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed.
‘I didn’t have Action Men,’ he said.
‘What did you have? My Little Ponies?’
‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Be careful what you say to me, Kate.’
‘Or what? Yo
u’ll abduct me and kill me? Too late for that, G.I. Joe.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘That’s not my name.’
‘It’s as good as any,’ Kate said. ‘Are you Mark Stevens? Or Mike Sadler? How am I supposed to know? And I prefer G.I. Joe. It’s got a ring to it. Sexy, kind of.’
‘Don’t. Call. Me. That.’
Kate laughed. She was aware she was walking a fine line, but she had to find out what was going on. It was the only way she could get out of this. ‘Touched a sore spot? Did someone steal your G.I. Joe dolls when you were a little boy?’
‘You are going to call me by my name,’ he said, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. ‘I will MAKE you, you fucking bitch.’
He reached over and slapped her, hard, across the face, then he lowered his hand and grabbed her breast and squeezed. She took a sharp breath.
‘Not so tough now, are you?’ Mike said. ‘From now on you use my name. OK, bitch?’
‘Fuck you,’ Kate said, clenching her teeth. ‘G.I. Joe.’
He squeezed harder and she cried out in pain.
‘Use. My. Name,’ he said. ‘Last chance.’
‘Sure thing,’ she said. ‘G.I. Joe.’
He let out a strange, high shriek, his face red with anger.
‘You will do what I say!’ he shouted. ‘You will stop calling me that and you will call me by my name!’
‘I don’t know it,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t know your fucking name!’
He glared at her, the car swerving on the road.
Go on, she thought, crash. Crash and this’ll be over.
But he didn’t. He looked ahead and straightened the wheel. He was grinding his teeth.
‘What is your name, G.I. Joe?’ she shouted. ‘What the fuck is your name?’
His answer shocked her. It was the last thing she had expected to hear. A name – a name that she had hoped never to come across again – from the past.
‘My name,’ he said, his face screwed up in anger, ‘is Colin. Colin Davidson.’
14
‘Colin Davidson?’ Kate said. ‘Beth’s Colin Davidson?’