Saving Grace, page 24
I am guilty.
As the sun came up, I awoke from a restless sleep and a pain in my cheek from where I’d grinded my teeth and bitten the inside of my mouth. The paper is published, online and in print. I ditch my morning run and head straight to the office. I feel like I’m preparing for battle. There are a few other reporters in when I arrive, and they nod their heads in my direction, bleary-eyed and fuelling up on caffeine and toast. The red voicemail light flickers on my desk. Usually I check voicemails last, but today is a day I should probably check them first. There’s a couple of uni students asking for work experience, and since The Chronicle played a huge part in the Grace murders, everyone wants a piece of the action. I hear a muffled voicemail, like a hand is over the receiver and I strain to hear the message. I turn the volume up to try and gauge a better sound. It’s probably a nothing message, but I have a feeling it is something.
Logic is part of the game in journalism, but so is a gut feeling.
I’ve had similar moments to this in the past. When my grandmother (my mum’s mum) was about to die when I was ten, the night before she did, somewhere deep in my core I knew I’d be part of something huge – and then I was living it. This is the feeling I have now.
I hear intermittent words like ‘I know’, ‘identity’, ‘killer’. It is enough to set my brain on fire. I stand up and keep hitting replay over and over, like pieces of a puzzle. There’s no number attached to the call. I scribble the words down trying to make a clean sentence out of them, and when I finally do my nerves become barbed wire.
‘You’re in early.’ Jacob’s voice.
‘We’ve got a new lead,’ I say, pointing to the phone and then to my frantic illegible scroll.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Jacob, that somebody knows who the killer is.’
Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Jennifer, you’re going to get a hundred crackpots calling you with crazy allegations. This is just how it’s going to be for a while.’
‘Maybe…’ I pause, quiet my raised voice and whisper, ‘but what if it’s not? And Jacob, the killer isn’t a man, it’s a woman.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
THEN
Her body floats, unseeing eyes upright to the moonlight casting a diluted glow on to the ocean. I support the weight of her with my arms under her back, recreating a memory of when I was with my Grace. I think of the last time I saw her face. In a way, this feels like her funeral. I’m saying goodbye on my terms. I’ve been lost without her, thinking about her all the time. Isn’t love overrated anyway? This is so much better. The chill of the water bites through my skin, my body covered with goose pimples, but I feel so alive, so alive that I want to do it all over again.
‘We’re back at the beach. This is where it all started. But this isn’t where it ends.’
Her skin is ashen. Body drained of life. Lividity set in.
Her hair is white as snow.
She looks like an angel.
Even though she’s been dead for several hours, here I am, still talking to her. I wish I could stay here all night, but it’s too cold. I don’t think I’d survive it.
Slowly, I pull my hands away from her body, letting the water engulf her.
A baptism. Not for her. For me.
When her body is surrendered to the ocean, I wade back to the shore. I take a moment to look back, imagining the sea has now swallowed her.
Back home, I make myself a hot cup of tea and use the rest of the water to prepare a hot water bottle. I wash my face, stare into the bathroom mirror, and grin. What an incredible achievement, the overwhelming feeling of power pulses through my veins. I pull my shoulders back, stand taller.
The briny scent from the ocean still clings to my skin, underneath my nails are dry remnants of her blood. The knife was surrendered along with her body. Next time, I’ll use a different knife.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of a joyful tune from my mobile.
It’s Beryl. It’s also my day off, but then I suddenly fear I’ve left something behind in the café. I take the call.
‘Sorry to call you on your day off. But something awful has happened.’
Now I must pretend to show concern.
‘Oh no, what’s happened?’
‘They pulled a body from the water. They think it’s Grace Matthews. I can’t process it all. That beautiful girl. Her whole life ahead of her, I feel sick to my stomach.’
‘Oh…’ Pause. ‘That’s awful. Did she drown?’
‘They think she was murdered. Rumour has it the sicko carved up her back. Wrote words, even. What kind of sociopath could do such a thing?’
I take the phone away from my ear and try not to laugh. It’s funny hearing Beryl so hysterical. I can imagine her pacing up and down the beach desperate to discover every last detail.
‘I told the police you were here last night cleaning up. They want to talk to you, want to know if you saw anything.’
‘I went in the afternoon. Only saw a mother and child, maybe a dog. That’s it.’
‘But they may want to know if those people saw something, best you come down.’
‘I can’t.’ A knot forms in my stomach.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m sick.’ If she only knew how sick I was, but that’s not something I’m ready for her to learn just yet.
London was unfamiliar territory. A while after I’d killed Grace number one, faux Grace, the media blew up. My mark had left quite an impression. I worked long hours at the café and squirreled away cash so that when the time was right, I could take the train to London. I told Beryl my aunt had died (I’m not lying if I never said when, am I? Poor Aunt Lizzy!). I had never left Cornwall before. There was something so enticing about travelling to a new city, a new discovery. I stayed in a Travelodge for a couple of days, went to gay bars in the evenings, where finding lesbians was like taking your pick in a toy shop. Instagram is pretty much a killer’s catalogue. Filter a name and place and poof! Like magic a whole dreamy collection appears. I knew where she was going to be because so many people spill their entire lives out on social media, I even knew what she had for breakfast that day. You would think people would be more careful, because there are people like me, watching, waiting and really if you are going to lay yourself out like a piece of meat, expect the wolf to devour you. The Village is where I found her. I wore a short blonde wig and long patent, heeled boots. I absolutely looked like a prostitute but playing another character was fun. It added to the excitement. Surrounded by a group of friends, ‘Grace Number 2’ and her pals were like a pack of wolves on the prowl. It reminded me of the early days when Imogen was still around. I watched her throw her hands in the air and dance; finally, her pack dispersed, and she was left alone at the bar. I took this as my chance. I bought her whisky and tequila, told her my name was Emma and I’d just come out of a shitty relationship with still-in-the-closet Becky, who cheated on me with a man to prove to herself she wasn’t gay. She bought the story, took pity on me, and we left together. She was vastly different to Grace Number 1. Far grittier and I didn’t have to persuade her. If anything, she was all over me. I found the forwardness off-putting. We kissed in an alleyway behind a kebab shop; the smell of chicken fat and doner escaped from the vents and the overflowing dustbins permeating rot and decay made the perfect setting for her desperation to please me. We moved to a couple of other bars. She downloaded her shitty life as if I gave two fucks, but I was good at pretending. Fused with alcohol and maybe a line or two of coke, we found an old, abandoned video shop to get more handsy in. She complained of feeling sick, hey presto, I took the opportunity to give her one of my ‘here’s one I made earlier’ bottles of water with a magic pill and waited for her to slip into unconsciousness. The ceremony was just that: an act.
‘London has been fun, hasn’t it, my love? Such a shame these old video shops are abandoned. I can relate. Once they were the place to be, until something better came along.’ She couldn’t hear me.
The song ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ popped into my head and I began to sing it.
After a short conversation, I took my hands to her neck and it was enjoyable, like switching her off.
When I pulled her top up to tattoo her, I saw marks on her arms that showed she was already a cutter.
Seems I did her a favour.
Just as I’d finished carving ‘number 2’ into her back I heard footsteps. A rustle. I paused. A person? Rat?
I hid behind a video rack, a homeless man making his bed for the night. It was too dark to see another exit without passing him. I had to risk it, slowly, slowly. I crawled on my hands and knees; the crunch of plastic alerted him. Fight or flight. I pushed one of the heavy video racks to the floor and bolted.
LSD was my drug of choice to take to Earth Rabbit. Newquay is known to be a hotspot for partygoers and people who are just out for a good time. Her Instagram handle was Gracie Elizabeth, and she had her own online fashion boutique. It was easy to gain her trust from a few social media exchanges. I have learned that most people fall for flattery, because in our own way we are all looking for acceptance. I never purchased any of the clothes from Gracie Elizabeth. I am not stupid enough to leave a trail – but I did comment how they were exactly the kind of thing my boss would love to feature in her new reality show. I told her my boss was a well-known celebrity, but of course I couldn’t say who, not until we met in person. It really was that easy for her to fall into my lap, like sprinkling a bucket of blood and guts into shark infested waters. They will come. Just like they always do. It turns out that Gracie wasn’t nearly as pretty in real life as she was in her little square boxes – I almost felt like I was the one who’d been lured under false pretences. The word ‘catfish’ sprang to mind when I laid my eyes on her for the first time. I have to admit, my hope of getting that hit of pleasure during and after the kill evaporated quickly leaving an empty chasm in my chest. She was dull and blunted and the world really wouldn’t miss her.
While eating dinner at the café, Beryl mentions the latest happenings with the murders. She places The Cornwall Chronicle in front of me.
‘All those poor girls. Grace Matthews. Oh, I can’t imagine what their families are going through right now. It’s a right sin is what it is.’ Her chin is shiny with bacon grease. ‘One of them is alive, but she’ll never be the same again. Can you imagine going through that ordeal, reliving that moment over and over? Poor girl. I hope she gets the help she needs.’
She wasn’t supposed to be alive.
There’s an old box TV in the corner of the café which sits on a food trolley meant to serve dessert. Beryl turns it on, it’s slow and takes ages for the picture to come into focus. A thick sheet of dust is settled on the top, she uses her fat index finger to remove it and wipes it on her gingham apron. The news is on. Jennifer Mack is in the background; hungry, alert. I like her, she’s got tenacity, fire in her belly. She isn’t exactly what I’d call pretty; her face is reddened, on-screen she looks older, but it might just be the lighting from the camera. She looks more like an art student than a journalist, reporter, whatever it is they call themselves.
The Redbricks look different in real life to how they look on TV. The quiet area is now brimming with activity, crawling with police, press; all this because of me.
She survived.
Beryl flicks the channel to another news station, repeating the same thing.
It makes me a little sick to know the ritual had to be abandoned. This is a mark of failure, my failure, but I tell myself even the most prolific killers have made mistakes along the way. I wish I had known how much she’d fight back; I would have given the bitch an extra pill.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
JENNIFER MACK
Lilith switches off the tape machine.
‘Let’s end it there.’ Beryl nods, tears filling her eyes. She chews on her fingernails, to the point there is barely any nail left to bite. She’s told them everything she knows. Another police officer comes in and tells us they’ve located the address of Amelie Jones, and that of her former lover Alice Watson, formerly known as Grace Anders.
‘My grandson and my daughter live with me. I’m worried about what she’ll do, if she’ll come after us.’
‘Would you like us to find you somewhere else to stay?’ Lilith says.
Beryl nods. She’s trembling, her breathing hard and laboured.
‘You know, I always knew she was a strange girl, but after everything she told me she’s been through, well, it was bound to mess her up.’ She points her finger to her head, signing madness.
‘We will not reveal your identity, Beryl, we will keep you and your family safe.’
When Beryl leaves with two policewomen, Lilith looks at me.
‘As soon as we get what we need, you can go to print, okay? But for now, every movement we make has to be cautiously executed.’
‘You have my word.’ I want to catch the killer as much as she does.
A warrant to search Amelie Jones’ flat has been granted. I’ve been given permission to ride along, but not to enter the premises. I begged, pleaded, but I am told the law is the law. We leave the police station by the back door and step into the bitter November air. I see my breath as I breathe and my heart beats against my ribcage. I am a part of something big. Entering the beast’s lair. I slip into the back of a police car, sitting next to an officer who smells of fried food and has bright pink cheeks. He doesn’t talk to me. In fact, he is giving me distinct ‘fuck off’ vibes telling me I shouldn’t be part of this operation, that I am the hair in his soup.
We are joined by two other officers who sit in the front. They start the engine and as the car pulls away from the station, nimbostratus clouds knit together forming a heavy blanket of grey in the sky. Soon, sleet begins to fall and the windscreen wipers spring to life. When we arrive at the Grahame Warner Estate, the sleet is coming down in sheets. It makes the tall high-rise towers appear menacing, like the headquarters of hell. We enter the block and I’m first taken aback by the stench, the putrid rot of poverty, urine, and poor choices. I go to the lift. The officer who I sat in the back of the police car with glowers at me. ‘We’re taking the stairs. Use your brain. If we get stuck in the lift we’re screwed.’
I take his point and follow the armed officers up the stairwell. When we reach number 75 my mouth is completely dry. That night with Pete I felt fear, but this is a different kind of fear, because it’s mixed with both adrenaline and excitement.
‘Police! Open up!’
Hard knock.
‘Police! Open up!’
Silence.
Bang!
They break open the door and enter the dwelling. I stand in the doorway but don’t step inside. The flat is clean and orderly, open-plan so the kitchen and the living room are one, there is nothing glaringly obvious to suggest this is the home of a murderer. No dead animals, no body parts being cooled in the fridge. Temptation gets the better of me and I edge far enough in to see more details. On the coffee table is a neat pile of books: A Good Marriage by Stephen King, Monster by Aileen Wuornos and Christopher Berry-Dee, Women Who Kill: Profiles of Female Serial Killers by Carol Anne Davis. Lilith is joined by another pair of officers.
‘Hey, look at this,’ I say, pointing to the books.
‘That’s not evidence,’ she says.
‘But it shows who she…’ Lilith holds up her hand and cuts me off.
‘What if we came in and saw she had a big showcase of Disney DVDs, then what? It’s circumstantial at best. This tells us nothing. Jennifer, I need you to stay back, you know you can’t be in here.’
The police pull apart her bedroom drawers, blankets, underwear, a sex toy the handling officer shows no embarrassment toward as he tosses it onto the bed.
In the wardrobe is just rails of clothes, everything has a place, it seems ‘normal’.
When the police lift her mattress, I drift in the kitchen. Think, Jennifer. If I were a killer, where would I hide the evidence? It’s a full thirty minutes before the police begin to draw things to a close when an annoying fly buzzes around my face. I draw my head upwards to swat it with my phone. Lilith calls the team and points to the kitchen ceiling; a tile is dislodged. She grabs a dining chair and stretches her arm to shift it but she cannot reach.
