‘Ours is the bigger one,’ she had told them. ‘On the smaller road. The one with the two cars outside.’
‘Well?’ Barry asked.
Angie shrugged. She had no other explanations.
Two days earlier, she had ordered an expensive vacuum cleaner online, one so pricey that stumping up the extra twenty-five pounds to guarantee next day delivery had seemed neither here nor there. She had waited in expectantly, but the package had not arrived. Nothing having arrived today either, she had spent the last forty minutes being passed from one person to another at the delivery company, until she had eventually been politely assured that the vacuum cleaner had in fact been delivered, as promised, the previous afternoon.
‘No,’ she told the woman. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘I’m not trying to be rude, madam,’ the woman said, ‘but we have a confirmation of delivery on our system.’
‘I don’t care what you’ve got,’ Angie said.
‘Let me make some more enquiries and I’ll call you back …’
Neither Angie nor Barry had ever spoken to the elderly woman who lived at the other number 12. No more than a grunted ‘hello’, anyway. They saw her slowly walking her ratty-looking terrier, which on more than one occasion she had allowed to do its business on the pavement outside their house. They saw her at her window, peering out at the world from behind grubby lace curtains. Several times over the years, Angie had played the good neighbour and walked round to the other number 12 with post that had been delivered to her house by mistake. The old woman, if she bothered to answer the door, took her missing letters without a word of thanks and had never done the same thing for the Finnegans, despite several items of mail mysteriously failing to show up.
‘I reckon she just chucks our post away,’ Barry had said many times.
Nothing as valuable as a vacuum cleaner had ever gone missing before.
‘Well, she won’t be chucking this away,’ Angie said. ‘Will she?’
‘We can’t let her get away with it,’ Barry said.
‘We can’t prove she’s got it though, can we?’ Angie put the phone back on its cradle. Picked up the coffee she was drinking. ‘Maybe we can claim it on the insurance.’
‘Right,’ Barry said. ‘So the old cow nicks our sodding Hoover and puts our premiums up. Sod that.’
Angie’s mobile and the landline both began to ring within a few seconds of one another. Angie picked her mobile up from the worktop and looked at the screen. ‘Sue,’ she said. She nodded at the house phone. ‘Can you get that? It’s probably the delivery company …’
Angie stayed in the kitchen, while Barry wandered into the extension and took his call staring out into the garden. Listening to the woman from the delivery company, he watched a squirrel dart up on to the ornate stone bird table and begin filching bread Barry had put out that morning. He banged on the window, but the squirrel ignored him.
‘You’re joking,’ Barry said, when the woman on the phone had finished. ‘That’s taking the piss, excuse my French.’ He turned to look at Angie, but she was absorbed in the conversation she was having with Sue.
‘You’re kidding me,’ Angie said. ‘Was she British or American?’
‘Unbelievable,’ Barry said. ‘I mean, that’s our proof, isn’t it?’
They hung up within half a minute of one another. Barry walked back into the kitchen and waited for Angie to finish. When she had ended her call, he said, ‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Angie looked a little stunned, as though still trying to process whatever she’d been told. ‘What?’ Barry asked.
Angie shook her head. ‘No, go on …’
‘She signed for it,’ Barry said. ‘Can you believe that? They’ve found a copy of the delivery slip and she actually signed for it. She signed your name, the cheeky bitch …’
Angie nodded. ‘That was Sue.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Barry said. ‘What?’
She walked past him, into the extension. ‘They’ve had the police on the phone wanting to talk to them about that murdered girl in Florida. The British police, so it’s obviously … what do you call it, an international operation. She reckons they’ll be talking to all of us.’ She leaned against the table, stared out into the garden then turned suddenly, excited. ‘Oh my God, I bet it’s because of those photos. That’s got to be it. It’s all because I emailed those photos to the police in Sarasota. Maybe they found something.’
Barry shrugged.
‘I told you it was a good idea.’ She turned away again, moved to the window, nodding to herself. Outside, the squirrel was still feasting on bread meant for the birds, but Angie seemed somewhat less concerned than Barry had been. She heard him walking out of the kitchen, but jumped when the front door slammed. She ran to the door, opened it and shouted after him as he stomped down the driveway.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Get our Hoover back,’ Barry said, without turning.
Angie grabbed her keys from the table, pulled the front door shut behind her and followed him. She had on the training shoes she had worn for a Pilates class earlier in the day, but still struggled to gain ground on Barry, who for a big man had always moved surprisingly fast when the mood took him. By the time she did catch up with him, he was halfway up the old woman’s front path.
‘You need to calm down,’ she said.
Barry ignored her, marched straight up to the front door and began hammering at it with both fists. ‘Open this bloody door,’ he shouted. ‘I know damn well you’re in there and I know you’ve got our property in there with you.’ He hammered faster, leaning close to the wood which threatened to splinter at any moment and screaming, ‘Listen, don’t make me kick this piece-of-shit door off its fucking hinges, because if I have to come in there, I’m going to sort you and your stupid little dog out. Are you listening to me …?’
Angie moved up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. He shook it off, and, without looking at her, used his own hand to hold her back. Having lost the use of a fist, he replaced it with a boot, kicking at the base of the door and cracking it almost immediately.
‘Do you hear me, you thieving bitch?’
Angie stepped away and said, ‘Leave it, love.’ She walked back to the gate, glanced up and saw the old woman peering nervously down from a first-floor room. She could see the bony fingers curled tight as they clutched at the thin material of the curtain; the old woman flinching at every curse and with each vicious blow and kick at her door.
‘Come on, Barry,’ Angie said. ‘For God’s sake.’
Marina walked back into the sitting room, tossed the phone on to a chair and flopped down on the sofa next to Dave.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I told her we already knew,’ Marina said. ‘I told her that Sue had beaten her to it.’
Dave smiled. ‘That’s what you said? “She beat you to it”?’
‘No … I just said that Sue had already called. Filled us in.’ Marina reached down for a glass of wine on the floor next to the sofa. ‘I think Angie was a bit miffed, actually. She was all excited about giving us the news, you know?’
‘She’s more of a drama queen than you are.’
‘Oh, much more,’ Marina said.
On a small side table next to the sofa, assorted remote controls were arranged in a row. Dave picked one up and muted the sound on the television. Before the first of the phone calls, they had been enjoying an episode of The Wire. They were working their way through a boxed set of the first series after Dave had suggested they try and catch up, so that they might have something to contribute when people talked about it. Killing the sound did not make too much difference, as they had been watching with the subtitles on. He put the remote back and picked up his inhaler. He shook it, puffed and said, ‘So, any idea when?’
‘They’re talking to Sue and Ed on Wednesday,’ Marina said. ‘That’s as much as I know. I should think they’ll get in touch with us fairly soon though.’
�
�Do you think they’ll talk to each couple together?’
‘What do you mean?’
Dave let his head drop back. ‘Or split them up?’
Marina slipped off her sandals, then swung her legs up and across Dave’s lap. ‘Does it matter?’
‘If it was me, I’d split them up,’ Dave said. ‘That way you can be sure there isn’t any collusion. Easier to catch people out.’
‘Yeah, but only if you’ve got any reason to be suspicious about the people you’re interviewing.’
He began rubbing her feet. ‘Obviously.’
‘Which isn’t the case here.’
‘Of course not,’ Dave said. ‘But you do have to wonder why they’re talking to everybody.’
Marina shrugged. She closed her eyes and moaned as Dave applied a little more pressure to the soles of her feet. ‘Nice,’ she said.
‘Man or woman?’
‘Who?’
‘The copper who’s doing these interviews.’
‘No idea,’ Marina said. ‘It was a woman who called Sue and Ed, but I don’t know if she’ll be the one that actually does the interviews.’
Dave nodded slowly, thinking. ‘Again, if it was me … I’d send a couple to interview a couple. There’s all sorts of tricks you can pull using that combination. The female cop could fix on the woman, try and bond with her over women’s stuff or whatever, gain her confidence.’
‘Women’s stuff?’
‘You know what I mean. Or … she could deliberately flirt with the man, and the male cop could flirt with the female interviewee. Create a bit of friction and catch people off guard. Like good cop bad cop, but with a bit of sexual tension thrown in.’
‘You’ve obviously thought about this a lot.’
‘I always thought I might have made a good policeman.’
‘Except for the dealing with people bit,’ Marina said. ‘That’s why you prefer working with machines.’
‘It’s a reliability issue,’ Dave said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Machines aren’t always reliable.’
‘They’re easy enough to replace though, aren’t they?’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Anyway, I’ve got you to do the dealing with people. The chit-chat …’
‘I’d quite like to play a copper.’ Marina turned her head, stared towards the muted television. The main cop was sitting in a bar. The subtitles said that there was music playing in the background. ‘A nice juicy part in a TV cop show can set you up for years.’
‘Well, you’d better keep a close eye on whoever they send to grill us,’ Dave said. He rubbed a hand up and down his girlfriend’s bare shin, then reached for the remote control. ‘See if you can pick up a few tips.’
Marina wiggled her toes. Said, ‘I certainly will.’
TWENTY-THREE
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was sitting on the flight home planning the next one or anything like that. It wasn’t as if I watched the light go out in Amber-Marie’s eyes, saw that amazing smile freeze and fade then immediately thought … I want to do that again.
That wasn’t how it went, I promise you that.
It wasn’t too long after I got home though.
Maybe it was because we’d all been talking about what had happened in Florida so much. Maybe it was in my head even more than it would have been otherwise. I started thinking, just generally, about how things might work, asking myself how easy it would be now I was back at home with family and friends. How long I should wait, wondering where to look for the right girl, all of that. Then one day I realised I’d decided to do it.
After that, it was easier to … relax into it. I could start to think a bit more specifically.
Those books I mentioned before, the ones with the blood-spattered covers that single blokes who still live with their mums and middle-aged women seem to like so much? This would be the part they’d probably refer to as ‘getting a taste for it’. The monster’s ‘hunger’ for killing … his ‘dark compulsion’, that sort of Christmas cracker clap-trap. It’s nearly always a sexual thing of course, they like to bang on about that, throw in a few nasty pictures as well if they have them. The single blokes and the middle-aged women love those nasty pictures.
Nearly always a sexual thing …
I’m not even going to discuss that kind of rubbish.
All I will say is that it honestly never felt like a ‘taste’. I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘compelled’ to do anything in my life and even though I can’t swear that I’ll never do it again, I’ve certainly not been ‘hungry’ to kill since the business with the second girl.
I suppose it just began to feel like doing it again was the right thing to do. If I could, then I should … that sort of thing. Yes of course, I wanted to, I’m not denying that, but that’s not needed, is it? That’s not being driven by some stupid urge or an insatiable appetite.
I wanted to find another one of those amazing smiles, that’s all.
This time round though, things would have to be organised a bit more carefully than they’d been back in Florida. That wouldn’t be difficult of course, seeing as what happened between me and young Amber-Marie wasn’t planned at all. It was still astonishing to me that I’d been able to do what I’d done out there and walk away clean as a whistle. My heart would start to go like the clappers just thinking about it and, looking back on the events of that afternoon, it was clear that I’d been pretty bloody lucky.
Nobody had seen her get into the car.
Nobody had seen what had happened when I’d stopped the car.
Nobody had seen me driving down to the water later on.
Well … OK, somebody almost certainly did see the girl get into the car and either forgot about it or neglected to mention it to the police. As far as not being spotted when I stopped to do what I needed to, I had taken care to find somewhere secluded. It wasn’t like I just pulled up and strangled her at the traffic lights. All in all, the way I looked at it, I’d taken one or two risks and even though I’d not done anything massively stupid, fate had been nice and kind. No question about that.
To me, if not to poor Amber-Marie Wilson.
Luck runs out though, I was well aware of that and there was no way I could count on being anything like that jammy second time around. I kept that thought with me every day. All the time I was trying to sort things out for a second girl.
The first question, the big question, was which girl and where to find her. The answer was easy enough, of course. Turns out Google’s handy for a lot more than finding out who played who in what movie or settling arguments at parties.
Finding the right kind of school took minutes, that’s all.
I had a good look round every inch of the perfect park and playground without leaving the house.
Same thing when it came to planning the route …
There’s plenty of sick stuff online we’d be a damn sight better off without, no question. However good Wikipedia or Facebook might be, kiddie porn isn’t a price worth paying. And all this social networking isn’t actually about meeting people, not when you stop and think about it. I mean, they’re not really your ‘friends’, are they?
Still, what did we do before the internet? That’s all I’m saying. It’s hard to remember sometimes, isn’t it?
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Is this OK?’ the wife asked.
‘It’s fine.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee or something?’
‘Thanks, but this really shouldn’t take too long …’
Jenny had been shown into the Dunnings’ living room: stripped floorboards and off-white walls; sofas and wall-mounted plasma at one end, antique pine dining table at the other. They moved to the end looking out towards the garden and sat at the table. Jenny took her paperwork from her bag and laid it out carefully in front of her.
‘Did you find us all right?’ the husband asked.
Jenny nodded and continued to arrange her documents, happy to take her time, enjoying the app
rehension she could sense in the couple sitting on the other side of the table. Thinking: I could get used to this.
‘Right then,’ she said, eventually. She flipped open a notebook and clicked the top of her pen. She drew a piece of paper towards her, scribbled one final note in the margin, then looked up and smiled. ‘So, according to the statement you made to Patrolman Magenheim, you drove to the shopping mall on the afternoon Amber-Marie Wilson went missing.’
‘We didn’t know that was his name,’ the husband said. ‘He just asked us a couple of questions really. If we’d seen anything, that kind of thing.’
Jenny waited.
‘Yes,’ the wife said. ‘The Westfield mall at Sarasota Square.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘One o’clock-ish. Straight after lunch.’
‘Where did you have lunch?’ Jenny asked.
‘In the cabin. We’d got a few bits and pieces in from the supermarket for sandwiches and what have you.’
Jenny nodded and wrote. ‘It’s a damn sight cheaper than eating out.’
‘It wasn’t a question of cheaper,’ the wife said. ‘You just get a bit fed up of the enormous portions after a while. The sauce they smother everything in.’
‘Right,’ Jenny said. Looking at the wife, she doubted that the woman had ever eaten an enormous portion of anything in her life. Following her to the table, Jenny had seen no backside to speak of and it looked as if she had breasts like a girl under her plain grey T-shirt. Jenny wondered what Susan Dunning’s issues were, figuring that there had to be some.
That said, she couldn’t think of too many skinny women she trusted very much.
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