“What?” she asked him, swiveling in her chair.
“Just, don’t you think you should go back to Hawkins? Show him that DT article with the pigeons, and Billy’s interview. This is too big for us.”
It was Pip’s turn to sigh now. “Ravi, I’m not going back there,” she said. “I love you, and you are perfect in all of the ways you aren’t like me and I would do anything to make you happy, but I can’t go back there.” She slotted one hand through the other, tightened them into a knot of crisscrossing fingers. “Hawkins basically called me crazy to my face last time, told me I was imagining it all. What’s he going to do if I go back and tell him that, actually, my stalker—who he doesn’t think is real in the first place—is an infamous serial killer who has been in prison for six years, who both confessed and pleaded guilty, except he might not actually have done it? He’d probably put me in a straitjacket right then and there.” She paused. “They won’t believe me. They never believe me.”
Ravi peeled his fingers away, uncovered his face to look at her. “You know, I’ve always thought you were the bravest person I’ve ever met. Fearless. I don’t know how you do it sometimes. And whenever I’m feeling nervous about anything, I always think to myself, What would Pip do in this situation? But”—he exhaled—“I don’t know if this is the time to be brave, to do what Pip would do. The risk is too high. I think…I think, maybe, you’re being reckless and…” He trailed off into a wordless shrug.
“OK, look,” she said, opening up her hands. “At the moment, the only evidence we have is a bad feeling. When I get a name, some concrete evidence, a phone number, even,” she said, picking up her phone to wave it at him, “then I will go back to Hawkins, I promise. And if he doesn’t believe me, then I’ll go public with the information, I don’t care about any more lawsuits. I’ll put it out all over social media, on the podcast, and then they will listen. No one’s going to try to hurt me if I’ve told hundreds of thousands of people who they are and what they’re planning to do. That’s our defense.”
There was another reason she had to do this and do this alone, of course. But she couldn’t tell Ravi; he wouldn’t understand because it didn’t make sense, it was beyond that. It couldn’t fit into words, even if she tried. Pip had asked for this, wished for it, begged for it. One last case, the right one, to fix all of the cracks inside herself. And if Billy Karras was innocent, and if the man who wanted her to disappear was DT, then she couldn’t have wished for something more perfect. There was no gray area here, none at all, not even a trace. The DT Killer was the closest thing to evil the world could offer her. There was no good in him at all: no mistakes, no good intentions twisted, no redemption, nothing like that. And if Pip were the one to finally catch him, to free an innocent man, that would be an objectively good thing. No ambiguity. No guilt. Good and bad set right inside her again. No gun in her heart or blood on her hands. This would fix everything so it could go back to normal. To Team Ravi and Pip living their normal lives. Save herself to save herself. That’s why she had to do this her way.
“Is that…is that better?” she asked him.
“Yes.” He gave her a weak smile. “That’s better. So, concrete evidence.” He clapped his hands. “I’m guessing Jason Bell didn’t tell you anything useful?”
“Ah, that,” she said, clicking her pen again, and all she could hear was DT DT DT. “Yeah, no, he didn’t give me anything and basically told me to never darken their doorway again.”
“I thought it might go that way,” Ravi said. “I think they like their privacy, the Bells. Andie never even invited Sal over when they were together. And, of course, you are Chief Doorway Darkener, Sarge.”
“But,” she said, “I do think the security alarm at Green Scene that night is key. That it was DT breaking in to get the duct tape and the rope he needed, for Tara. And he must have left before Jason Bell got there to check it out. Whether it was Billy or…someone else.”
“Someone else,” Ravi said absently, chewing on the phrase. “So that FBI profiler from that article, before Billy was caught, said that the DT Killer was a white man who could be anywhere from their early twenties to mid-forties.”
Pip nodded.
“I guess that rules Max Hastings out.” He sniffed.
“Yeah,” she said grudgingly. “He would have been just seventeen at the time of the first murder. And the night Tara died, and Andie Bell too, Max had Sal and Naomi Ward and the others round his house. He could have left when the others were asleep, but I don’t think it fits. And he has no connection to Green Scene. So, yeah, not him, as much as I want to put Max Hastings away for life.”
“But Daniel da Silva used to work at Green Scene, right?” Ravi asked.
“Yes, he did,” she said, her teeth gritted. “I just worked out the timeline this afternoon.” She flipped through the scribbles in her notebook. She knew Daniel da Silva’s exact age, because he’d been one of the men in town who’d matched Charlie Green’s age profile for Child Brunswick. “Had to scroll back really far on his Facebook. He worked as the janitor at school from 2010 to 2011, when he was around twenty years old. Then he started working at Green Scene at the end of 2011, and he stayed there until October-ish 2013, I think, when he started his police training. So, he was twenty-one when he started at Green Scene, and twenty-three when he left.”
“And he was still working there when the first two DT murders happened?” Ravi said, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“The first three, actually. Bethany Ingham was killed in August 2013. I think she used to be Dan’s supervisor, as well as Billy’s. The name redacted in the police transcript, I think that’s Daniel Billy’s talking about. Then Jason Bell gave Dan a job in the office—rather than out on the field, as it were—and that was at the start of 2013, as far as I can tell. Oh, and he married his wife, Kim, in September 2013. They’d been together for years before that.”
“Interesting,” Ravi said, running his hand over Pip’s curtains, checking they were fully closed.
She grunted in agreement, a dark sound at the back of her throat, as she flipped back to her to-do list in the notebook. Most of the crudely drawn boxes beside the list were now filled with check marks. “So, if Jason won’t talk to me, I’ve had a look to see if there are any ex-employees of Green Scene or Clean Scene, people who worked in the office who might know more about that security alarm on April eighteenth, 2014. I found a couple on LinkedIn and I’ve sent them a message.”
“Good thinking.”
“I think I should see if I can talk to Lieutenant Nolan too; he’s retired now. Oh, I also tried to get in contact with some family members of the victims,” she said, running her pen down those items on the list. “I thought I found an email address for Bethany Ingham’s dad, but the email bounced. I did find an Instagram profile for Julia Hunter’s sister, Harriet—you know, the one who mentioned the pigeons. It looks like she hasn’t posted in months,” she said, opening Instagram on her phone to show him. “Maybe she doesn’t go on it anymore. But I sent her a DM just in c—”
Pip’s eyes stalled, caught on the red notification that had just popped up above the messages tab.
“Oh shit,” she hissed, clicking on it, “she’s just replied. Harriet Hunter’s just replied!”
Ravi was already up on his feet, his hands finding their way to her shoulders. “What did she say?” His breath tickled the back of her neck.
Pip scanned the message quickly, her eyes so tired, so dried out, she thought they might creak in their sockets. “She…she says she can meet with me. Tomorrow.”
Pip felt herself smiling before she could help it. Luckily, Ravi was behind her and couldn’t see; he would frown at her, tell her this wasn’t a time for celebrating. But it felt like it, in a way. It was another win for her. Save herself to save herself.
Your move, DT.
That must have been her,
walking through the café door now, her head unsure upon her shoulders, swiveling this way and that.
Pip held up one hand and waved to her.
Harriet’s face broke into a relieved smile as she spotted the raised hand and followed it to Pip’s eyes. Pip watched her as she wound her way politely through all the tables and people rammed into this small Starbucks, around the corner from the Stamford train station. She couldn’t help but notice how much Harriet looked like Julia Hunter had, before the DT Killer stole her face and wrapped it up in tape. The same dark blond hair and full, arching eyebrows. Why was it that sisters looked so much alike when one of them was dead? Andie and Becca Bell. Now Julia and Harriet Hunter. Two younger sisters, carrying around a ghost wherever they went.
Pip untangled herself from her laptop charger to stand as Harriet approached.
“Hi, Harriet,” she said, offering her hand awkwardly.
Harriet smiled, shaking Pip’s hand, her skin cold from being outside in the breeze. “I see you’re already set up.” She pointed down at Pip’s laptop, trailing wires connecting it to the two microphones, Pip’s headphones already cradled around her neck.
“Yes, it should be quiet enough here in the back corner,” Pip said, retaking her seat. “Thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice. Oh, I got you an Americano.” She gestured to the steaming mug across the table.
“Thank you,” Harriet said, shedding her long coat and taking the chair opposite. “I’m on my lunch break, so we have about an hour.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite lift into her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching anxiously. “Oh,” she said suddenly, digging around for something in her purse. “I signed that consent form you sent.” She passed it over.
“That’s great, thank you,” Pip said, slotting it into her bronze backpack. “Could I actually just check the levels?” She slid one of the microphones closer to Harriet, and then held one of the cradles of her headphones against her own ear. “Can you say something? Just talk normally.”
“Yes…um, hello, my name is Harriet Hunter and I’m twenty-four years old. Is that…?”
“Perfect,” Pip said, watching the blue lines spike on her audio software.
“So you said you wanted to talk about Julia, and the DT Killer. Is this for another season of your podcast?” Harriet asked, her fingers twisting the ends of her hair.
“I’m just doing some background research at this stage,” Pip said. “But yes, potentially.” And making sure she collected concrete evidence, if Harriet happened to give her DT’s name.
“Oh, right, of course.” She sniffed. “It’s just, you know, with the other two seasons of your podcast, the cases were ongoing, or closed, but with this…with Julia, we know who did it and he’s in prison, facing justice. So, I guess I’m just not sure what your podcast would be about.” Her voice trailed up, turning the sentence into a question.
“I don’t think the story has ever been told in full,” Pip said, skirting the reason.
“Oh, right, because there wasn’t a trial?” Harriet asked.
“Yes, exactly,” Pip lied. They slid easily off her tongue now. “And what I really wanted to talk to you about was a statement you gave to a reporter from Newsday on the fifth of February 2014. Do you remember it? I know it was a long time ago, now.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Harriet paused to take a sip of her coffee. “They all ambushed me outside the house on my way home from school. It was my first day back too, had only been a week or so since Julia was killed. I was young and stupid. I thought you had to talk to reporters. Probably told them a whole load of nonsense. I was crying, I remember that. My dad was furious after.”
“Specifically, I wanted to ask you about two things you said on that occasion.” Pip picked up a printout of the article and passed it to Harriet, lines of bright pink highlighter at the bottom. “You mentioned some weird occurrences in the weeks leading up to Julia’s murder. The dead pigeons in the house, and those chalk figures. Could you tell me about those?”
Harriet nodded slightly as she scanned the page, reading back her own words. Her eyes looked heavier when she glanced up again, cloudier. “Yeah, I don’t know, it was probably nothing. Police didn’t seem that interested in it. But Julia definitely found it weird, enough to comment on it to me. Our cat was old then, basically housebound, used to shit in the living room instead of going outside. He definitely wasn’t in his hunting prime, put it that way.” She shrugged. “So killing two pigeons and dragging them through the cat flap did seem weird. But I guess it was probably one of the neighbor’s cats or something, leaving us a present.”
“Did you see them?” Pip asked. “Either of the dead birds?”
Harriet shook her head. “Mom cleared up one, Julia did the other. Julia only found out about the first one when she was complaining about having to mop the blood off the kitchen floor. Her one didn’t have a head, apparently. I remember my dad getting mad at her because she’d put the dead pigeon in the recycling bin,” she said with a sad sniff of a smile.
Pip’s stomach lurched, thinking of her own headless pigeon. “And the chalk figures, what about those?”
“Yeah, I never saw those either.” Harriet took another sip, the microphone picking up the sound. “Julia said they were up on the street, near our drive. I guess they washed away before I got back. We lived near a young family then, so it was probably those kids.”
“Did Julia mention seeing them again? Getting closer to the house, maybe?”
Harriet stared at her for a moment.
“No, don’t think so. She did seem bothered by them, though, like they were on her mind. But I don’t think she was scared.”
Pip’s chair creaked as she shifted. Julia should have been scared. Maybe she was, and she’d hid it from her little sister. She must have seen them, mustn’t she? Those three headless stick figures, creeping closer and closer to the house, to her, their number four. Did she think she was imagining them, like Pip had? Had she also questioned whether she was drawing them for herself when sleep-deprived and drugged up?
Pip had been silent too long. “And,” she said, “those prank calls you mentioned, what were they?”
“Oh, just calls from blocked numbers, not saying anything. It was probably just someone trying to sell her something. But, you know, these reporters were really pushing for me to tell them anything out of the ordinary in the last few weeks, put me on the spot. So I just told them the first things that came to mind. I don’t think they were related to Bil—the DT Killer.”
“Do you remember how many calls she got in that week?” Pip leaned forward. She needed at least one more, one more to catch him.
“I think it was three, maybe. At least. Enough for Julia to comment on,” said Harriet, and her answer was a physical thing, coaxing up the hairs on Pip’s arms. “Why?” she said. She must have noticed Pip’s reaction.
“Oh, I’m just trying to work out whether the DT Killer had contact with his victims beforehand. Whether he stalked them, and that’s what those calls were, and the pigeons and the chalk,” she said.
“I dunno.” Harriet’s fingers were lost in her hair again. “He never said anything about that in his confession, did he? If he confessed to everything else, why wouldn’t he admit that too?”
Pip chewed her lip, running the scenarios through her head, how best to play this. She couldn’t tell Harriet that she thought it possible the DT Killer and Billy Karras were two different people; that would be irresponsible. Cruel, even. Not without concrete evidence.
She changed tactic.
“So,” she said, “was Julia single around the time she was killed?”
Harriet nodded. “No boyfriend,” she said. “Only one ex and he was in Mexico the night she was killed.”
“Do you know if she was seeing anyone? Dating?” Pip pressed.
A noncommittal c
roak from Harriet’s throat, a corresponding jump in the blue audio line on-screen. “I don’t think so, really. Andie always asked me that question too, at the time. Julia and I didn’t talk much about boys at home, because Dad would always hear and want to be included to try to embarrass us. She was going out for dinner with friends a lot around then; maybe that was code for something. But it obviously wasn’t Billy Karras—the police would have found a trail on her phone. Or his, even.”
Pip’s mind stuttered, stumbling over one word. She hadn’t heard anything else Harriet said after that.
“I’m sorry, did you just say A-Andie?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “You don’t mean Andie B—”
“Yeah, Andie Bell.” Harriet smiled sadly. “I know, it’s a small world, huh? And what are the chances that two different people in my life were murdered? Well, sort of—I know Andie was an accident.”
Pip felt it again, that creeping feeling up her spine, cold and inevitable. Like everything was playing out the way it was always supposed to from the start. Coming full circle. And she was simply a passenger inside her own body, watching the show play out.
Harriet was eyeing her, a concerned look on her face. “Are you OK?” she asked.
“Y-yes, fine,” Pip coughed. “Just trying to work out how you knew Andie Bell. It’s thrown me a little, sorry.”
“Yeah, no”—her mouth flicked up sympathetically—“it kind of threw me too, came a little out of nowhere. It was after Julia died, a couple weeks after, and I got this email out of the blue from Andie. I didn’t know her before then. We were the same age, at different schools, but we had a few mutual friends. I think she got my email from my Facebook profile, back when everyone was on Facebook. Anyway, it was a really sweet message, saying how sorry she was about Julia, and if I ever needed someone to talk to, I could talk to her.”
“Andie said that?” Pip asked.
Harriet nodded. “So I replied and we started talking. I didn’t really have a best friend at the time, someone who I could talk to about my feelings, about Julia, and Andie was really great. We became friends. We scheduled phone calls about once a week, and we used to meet up, in here, actually,” she said, glancing around the coffee shop, her eyes catching on a table over by the window. That must have been where they used to sit. Harriet Hunter and Andie Bell. Pip still couldn’t wrap her head around it, this strange convergence. Why would Andie have reached out to Harriet out of the blue? That didn’t sound much like the Andie Bell she’d grown to know five years after her death.
As Good as Dead Page 15