Talking to Strangers, page 10
“I don’t mean as a copper,” Ronnie snorted. “As a woman. As a local. You do live here.”
Elise stood to shove her plate in the dishwasher. She’d still be a copper, though, wouldn’t she?
“And Mal and his lovely hands might come,” Ronnie added.
“Too busy,” Elise muttered. “I’m absolutely up against it at work.” But she was already thinking about what she’d wear as she picked up her work bag.
* * *
—
“We’ve got Karen’s car,” Caro said, head round Elise’s office door as soon as her boss got in.
“Excellent.” She jumped to her feet. “Where is it?”
“Brighton. Looks like Karen did go nightclubbing after all. Andy Thomson has phoned it in—it’s in a multistory in Brighton. Top floor, where the security guard couldn’t be arsed to check. Do you want to go over there now?”
“Good on Andy,” Elise said. “Let’s make sure to name-check him in the team meeting.”
* * *
—
The Fiat 500 was poked into a dank corner on the eighth floor, out of range of cameras.
“Well done, Andy,” Elise said, breathless after the climb. The young officer beamed as he strode over. “God, it stinks up here,” Elise wheezed.
“The nearest public toilets are padlocked at six o’clock,” he replied. “Needs must, I suppose.”
“Is the car locked?”
“No. The key was in the driver’s footwell.”
“Careless,” Elise said, “but we don’t know what state she was in when she arrived.”
Elise and Caro pulled on gloves and opened the doors. Both knelt on the concrete floor to look under the seats, but there was no sign of Karen’s handbag or phone. Or anything else.
“This looks like it’s just left the showroom,” Elise said. “Let’s give it to forensics and go and talk to the security guard.”
He was waiting for them in his office, already tucking into his lunch.
“This place isn’t automated,” he said, his mouth full of tuna sandwich and crisps. Elise glimpsed a shred of lettuce caught in his teeth and fixed her gaze on his bank of camera shots instead. “You park and buy a ticket from the machine and put it in your car. Old-school. We go round and check them every hour.”
“Were you on duty last Friday night? Valentine’s Day?”
“Yeah. It was busy.”
“And did you see this Fiat 500 on the top floor?” Elise showed him the car on her phone.
He took another bite of his disgusting sandwich, wiping a gobbet of mayonnaise off some paperwork, while he considered his answer.
“No,” he said. “My last trip up to the top was at oh-one-hundred, according to my log. I had to use the stairwell because the bloody lift was acting up again and I didn’t want to get stuck in it all night. I didn’t bother again—everyone’s gone home by that time in the morning, anyway.”
“But not this car.”
“No, well.”
“And since then? Why did no one spot it?”
“You’d have to ask the others. But the lift still isn’t fixed.”
“Yes, I noticed.” Elise put a protective hand to her heart. “But surely the car is on one of your security cameras?”
He fiddled with the images on a screen. “There’s only a few working—the people who own this place won’t invest in new ones,” he said. “They’re only interested in the money coming in.”
“Hold on, is that it?” Elise cried, jabbing a finger at the rear of a vehicle disappearing up a ramp. “Go back, go back!” The guard pushed the wrong button and the film whizzed forward.
“Sorry.” He grinned, and Elise clenched her hands into fists. Pinpointing the arrival of the car was crucial for their timeline. If they could identify the driver as Karen, they could refocus their investigation.
The images ran backward and then stopped on the car. She could make out most of the number plate. It was Karen’s.
“What time was that?” she snapped.
“Oh-one-sixteen,” the guard said sulkily. “I was probably walking down the stairs at that point.”
* * *
—
“Let’s hope the digital team can clean up the images to get the driver,” Caro said when they got outside.
“So, Brighton’s only a forty-five-minute drive from Ebbing,” Elise said. “But the car didn’t get here for nearly three hours after Karen’s last text to Mina Ryan. Where was she in between? Have we got the data on her mobile phone yet?”
“No, but wherever it was, she didn’t take major roads—there are no sightings of her car on the number plate recognition cameras,” Caro said.
“And…” Elise started and stopped. She felt her thread of thoughts snap, leaving her flailing. “And” now stood like a monolith in her head. Blocking her way forward.
“What?” Caro said.
“And…Oh, shit, I can’t remember what I was saying.”
“It’ll come back to you,” Caro said.
“Will it?” Elise muttered. “Oh, wait. Yes, I wouldn’t have parked my car on the deserted top floor of a run-down multistory at one o’clock in the morning. You’d have to get into a lift with God knows who or take that scary stairwell. I’d have parked near the guard. Or on the street.”
“True,” Caro said.
“And where would she have gone from here at that time of night? Where was still open? How are we doing with the bars and nightclubs? Did I ask DC Thomson earlier?”
“Er, no,” Caro said. “Slow down, boss. I’ll chase him up.”
Elise wanted to say she was perfectly capable of doing her own chasing, but she didn’t have to pretend with Caro. Just everyone else.
She rang the digital team for an update on Karen’s phone while Caro drove.
“The phone stopped transmitting at twenty-three forty on the night of the fourteenth. Last location was in Creek End—the victim’s home and business address,” the techie told her.
“Thanks,” Elise said. She hung up and sat staring out at the traffic. “Did she turn it off at home?” she asked Caro. “Or did someone else?”
TWENTY-SIX
KIKI
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
“Got him,” Miles says, throwing himself down in the chair at the next desk over and crashing it into mine.
“Whoa!” I snap. “What?”
“X-Man,” Miles crows, and I yelp, all irritation with him evaporating in an instant. “You star bot,” I yell, and we laugh together—a warm, fuzzy bonding moment of sorts.
“So,” he says, his voice high with excitement. “Luckily, X-Man has been pretty careless with his security and identities. He’s called Simon Allman in real life. And he’s from Portslade. You should see some of his posts on the BOBs forum—stands for Band of Brothers. Anyway, he’s a total tosser. But what are you going to do with this info?”
“I’m going to get him to tell me how he knew Karen. And, hopefully, the IDs of the rest of the group who were trolling her online. Look, I think a man called Ash Woodward could be associated with them. Can you plug his name into your search?”
“Right.” He notes it down. “You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”
I beam my appreciation and click on the link Miles has sent. I’m looking at Simon’s dating app profile. He’s no Hugh Jackman but is less creepy than some of the others who’ve Liked me. “Looking for love,” his pitch reads, and I swipe him. Within half an hour, I’m choosing a wine bar in the city center for our date tonight. I avoid the station pub in case Eamonn comes looking to make good his investment.
My mother tuts when I ask her to babysit for a second evening in three days.
“You never go out, usually. I have got a life, too,” she complains.
“It’s for work, Ma. I wouldn’t ask you, but I’m hoping to be paid extra to do this—and I need the money if Pip is going on the school ski trip.”
“Are you sure she wants to go? She doesn’t do any sport—apart from Olympic-class TikTok.”
“I don’t know—she seems dead set on it.”
“Are boys going?”
“Yup. And lots of teachers. So, don’t fret.”
But I know she will. Pip is thirteen. A dangerous age, as Ma and I both know. I was a mare at thirteen—bunking off school to shoplift mascara in Boots and hang out with the excluded kids. It didn’t last that long—one nightmare year, tops, until Dad got a new job and we moved away from the problem. But mothers never forget.
I spray perfume behind my ears, keen to look and smell the part.
“Wow, that’s horrible,” Pip says, appearing behind my reflection in the mirror. She’s wearing too much eyeliner, but I bite my tongue.
“I’ve got some samples from my magazines you can use if you like.” She offers me her wrist to smell.
“Hmm, lovely, but I’ll stick with mine. Be good for Grandma, and bed by nine.”
“Nine? Seriously, Mum? No one goes to bed that early. And it’s half term!”
“Start getting up in the morning without moaning and maybe you can stay up later. Night night, gorgeous girl.” I kiss her head and sling my handbag across my body.
* * *
—
X-Man has arrived first and is fidgeting with his trendy glasses and watching the door when I walk in. At least he looks like his photo.
“Hi,” I say. “You must be Simon.”
The man at the table nods, struggles to his feet, and, when he tries to speak, looks like he’s about to burst into tears.
“Oh, Christ, are you okay?” I say, completely wrong-footed. People at adjoining tables are trying not to stare, and I start to panic. “Why don’t we sit down,” I mutter. Bloody hell! It can’t be something I’ve said. Not yet, anyway.
“I am so sorry,” Simon whimpers from behind a tissue. “It’s just it’s my first time since my wife, Rosie, passed. She died just before Christmas.”
Seriously? Well, this is going well.
Simon smiles bravely through damp lashes. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Maybe we could just have a drink?”
“Sure—shall I go and get them?”
“Thanks—that’s so kind of you. Can I have a brandy? I still feel a bit wobbly,” he says. “Take my credit card. I’m really sorry. God knows what you must think of me. I wouldn’t blame you if you made your excuses.”
“No, no,” I murmur. “Back in a mo.” I’m grateful for the thinking time. Could this weepy bloke really be a predator? Bloody Eamonn must have given me a bum steer. The disappointment leaches all my energy, and I have to force myself to burrow into the scrum at the bar. I’ll get him his brandy, then make tracks.
I check on him in the mirror behind the optics. He’s sitting with his head bowed, and I feel a stab of shame that I’ve raised a lonely man’s hopes by swiping him under false pretenses. But when he looks up, Simon isn’t crying anymore. He looks down again, but I can see he’s typing on his phone. And, bloody hell, he’s grinning. I wrestle my phone out and pull up the forum that Miles dug out, and there my date is. “Game on!” X-Man posted thirty seconds ago. “Hot widower gambit aces it.”
Gotcha! God, he almost had me with his disgusting pantomime. Is this what he did with Karen? Cry her into bed? Then abuse her with his mates? Rage is making my hands tremble, and I have to breathe deeply to bring it under control. I’m in charge of this situation, now. He’d better buckle up.
“Feeling better?” I appear at the table out of left field so he doesn’t have time to get the tissue back to his eyes.
“Er, yes, thanks,” he says, flipping his phone over and taking a mouthful of the brandy. “It’s a terrible thing to lose someone.”
“Yes,” I say quietly and pull my own sad face. “Actually, a woman I know died last week. Lovely girl. She was only forty-five.”
He shoots me a worried glance. This clearly isn’t the way the conversation is supposed to be going. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, his concern so fake I want to slap him. “Er, what happened? Was she in an accident?”
“No.” I pause, pretending to choke on my words, milking the drama. “Someone killed her,” I croak.
“Really?” Simon rocks back in his seat.
“Yes, it was in the papers.” I watch his face slowly brighten as it dawns on him.
“Not Karen Simmons?” he breathes.
I nod miserably.
“I knew her, too,” Simon says, all excited. His “dead wife” act apparently forgotten. “I went on a couple of dates with her.”
“No! Did you?” I say, pretending to hang on his every word. “When was that?”
“Er, last month. Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the local news. She called herself LaDiva when we hooked up, but I recognized her from her photo straightaway. She was nice, but she drank so much the last time she threw up in the back of my car.” And that’s why you deducted two points. “I told my mates it was worth the cleaning bill.”
“Your mates?” I say sharply.
A bead of perspiration forms on his hairline, and he brushes it away with a finger. “Just blokes I chat with online. We share intel sometimes.”
“Intel about Karen?”
“Well, just that she was a bit of a drinker—some blokes don’t like that in a woman.”
“Right. I hear you also told your mates that she always said yes.”
Sweat is now making his forehead glisten, and a single drop runs down the side of his face before he can get his tissue back out of his pocket.
“Who told you that?” he grunts. “How did you know her, anyway?”
“I met her when I was writing a feature on online dating.”
He freezes mid-mop. “Fuck! You’re a reporter!”
“Yep,” I say and move my stool closer to him. “So, who did you tell about Karen?”
“Er, just blokes on chat rooms. I don’t know them.”
“So you told a bunch of strangers humiliating and explicit details about Karen Simmons? Just weeks before she was killed?”
His eyes are practically popping out of his head. “No, well, er, yes. Look, I don’t have to answer your questions.” He stumbles to a standstill. “This is a con.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “That’s rich coming from you. And, just so you know, I’ll be sharing my intel on your MO online.”
The length of the hesitation is a confession in itself.
“What MO?” he finally blusters.
“The hot widower gambit. Oh, and quick tip: You really need to check your script. According to your dating profile, your fox terrier is called Rosie.”
Simon drains his glass and mutters, “I’ll get my coat, then.”
I throw his credit card in the bin outside the pub and catch the bus home, fuming about his betrayal of Karen and trying to envisage a scenario in which I would invent a dead spouse in order to have sex with someone. Not happening.
I write my first column when I get home, while I’m still angry, my fingers punishing the keyboard.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ELISE
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
The pathologist took an age to answer her mobile, and Elise drummed her fingers on her temples to ease the building tension.
“Elise,” Dr. Aoife Mortimer finally barked accusingly down the phone. “I was in the middle of something. Is this urgent?”
“Well…”
“Look, I’m still waiting for bloods and fluids to come back from the lab to complete my report, but I can give you a couple of headlines,” Aoife said, voice softening slightly. “Particles of debris from the victim’s nostrils, mouth cavity, and throat are consistent with soil and leaf mold samples from the spot where she was found.”
“Her attacker must have held her down as if he was drowning her,” Elise said, scribbling notes.
“Her blood alcohol was high,” the pathologist went on, refusing to take part in Elise’s hypothesizing. “She was legally intoxicated and likely to have had impaired decision-making function and been unsteady on her feet.”
“That’s what three Pink Ladies and a couple of glasses of wine will do,” Elise said.
“Quite. She put up a struggle—you saw the fake nails that came off—but she would probably have lost consciousness within two to three minutes.”
“God, that must have felt like a lifetime,” Elise said, running through the hideous stages of suffocation in her mind: air hunger; blind, thrashing panic; and the clawing struggle against death. Then oblivion.
Karen had fought for her life. Elise needed to fight for the truth.
She was so knackered when she got home that night that she simply pulled on a sweatshirt over her work clothes and flicked some mascara around her lashes before heading over to the pub for the launch of Ronnie’s vigilantes.
Her neighbor was holding court at the bar, surrounded by Postie Val, Mina Ryan, Destinee Amos and her mum, plus three or four others Elise didn’t recognize. A handful of men were sitting around a table near the window, trying to make themselves heard over Tom Jones’s greatest hits.
“What are you drinking, Elise?” Ronnie said as she reached the bar.
“Er, Diet Coke, please. I’m still working.”
“That’s good,” Doll Harman said as she poured. “But are you getting anywhere? Are you any closer to catching this man?”
“She’s been to see Barry Sherman,” Mrs. Amos added. “But he’s still strutting around the Lobster. And trying it on with all and sundry.”
“Barry is just a bit of a show-off,” Mina said.
“Who has he been trying it on with?” Elise asked.
