Talking to Strangers, page 11
“A couple of the young ones round here,” Doll said. “His waitresses, I’ve heard. But someone’s mum had a word and he backed off. Perhaps they’ve had a lucky escape.”
“Stop it, Doll!” Mina blurted. “You can’t think he had anything to do with Karen’s death.”
“Not death—murder,” Mrs. Amos chipped back in. “And how do you know? Just because he’s in your Free Spirits circle? It could be anyone. I know I’m checking the back door is locked every five minutes.”
“And I’m not sleeping,” Destinee murmured. “I keep hearing noises and think someone is breaking in.”
Gloves off straightaway. I should never have come.
“Look, I know how worrying this must be and how upset you all are,” Elise said carefully, “but I really can’t discuss the case. All I can say is that the police investigation is ongoing.”
The women’s mouths hardened.
“Well, I’m looking out for unfamiliar faces on my rounds—it won’t be anyone local,” Postie Val said as if Elise hadn’t spoken. “Silly woman was meeting strangers.”
“For Christ’s sake, Val!” Mina snapped. “Have some respect. Anyway, why shouldn’t Karen have had an active love life? She was just having fun. She wasn’t the predator.”
“Well, you say that.” Doll pursed her lips. “But she was eyeing up the men so openly at the Valentine’s do, I had to come over and say something.”
As if on cue, “Sex Bomb” echoed round the bar.
“Don’t exaggerate. She was just having a laugh,” Mina said, close to tears. “Blokes do it all the time, but they don’t get labeled slags.”
Elise flashed Ronnie a warning look.
“Right, well, why don’t we get this meeting started?” her neighbor said and moved off. “Ted, make some room,” she barked at her husband, “and pull that other table over, can you?”
Elise hovered at the back of the group, wondering if she could quietly peel off without anyone noticing, when Mal suddenly stood to help rearrange the furniture.
“Hello,” he said over the heads. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Thanks for the drink last night—I really enjoyed it.”
“So did I,” she murmured, stomach fluttering. She was acutely conscious of the twitching of lips as the other women absorbed the exchange and stashed it for later examination.
Elise took a deep breath, sat down beside Ted, and sipped her drink.
Half an hour later, names had been drawn out of a beer glass for the Safe Ebbing buddy system, numbers had been typed into phones, and a new round of drinks had been ordered. Faces were flushed, and voices rose to talk over one another.
Elise shifted in her seat, preparing to get out of there while the going was good. And caught Mal’s eye.
“Walk you home?” he mouthed. And she smiled her acceptance back and swallowed hard.
The group raised their glasses in mock salute as they left, and a buzz of conversation rose behind them as Elise closed the door.
“Well, that’s given them something else to think about,” she said, and Mal laughed.
“Do you fancy dinner this week?” he said at her front door.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elise could see Ronnie’s face practically pressed against the pub window opposite. “I, er, I…well, yes. But I might have to cancel last minute—it’s a tricky time with work.”
“Course. Understood, but let’s talk Thursday and see how you’re fixed for the weekend?”
“Okay. Good plan.”
“See you by the bins.” He grinned. “Sleep tight.”
* * *
—
Inside, Elise sat making notes for the morning and wondering how long she’d got. Ronnie didn’t disappoint. Twenty minutes later, she was installed on the sofa, combing out Mal’s offer of dinner. “Did he say where? You can’t go to the Lobster, can you? Awks. What about that fancy fish place in Wittering?”
“Go home, Ronnie,” Elise laughed. “Ted will be waiting for his cocoa.”
“He’s your problem now. Ted’s your buddy—don’t you remember? Well, you were distracted, weren’t you…You drew the short straw and got my husband as your emergency escort. Think you’ll be protecting him—Ted couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”
Poor Ted. But I don’t suppose I’ll have to put him to the test.
“Who got Mal?” she murmured. Just asking.
“Ha! Mina won the raffle, but you snaffled him before she could get him to walk her home. She stormed off on her own after you left. It’s not like her, to be honest. She’s a bit of a mouse since her divorce—she relied on Karen for her social life. But Mina was really upset by the remarks about Karen. The meeting broke up pretty quickly after that. I don’t know. It was supposed to bring the community together, but you just can’t help some people.”
WEDNESDAY:
DAY 5
TWENTY-EIGHT
ELISE
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Elise knew nothing about the candlelit vigil until Ronnie buttonholed her first thing in the newsagent’s.
“A vigil? Er, okay,” Elise said, rummaging through the evening’s conversations in her head but coming up with nothing. “I don’t remember anyone mentioning it last night. Did they?”
Ronnie squeezed her arm warmly. “No, don’t worry—and anyway, it’s just a few friends,” she chirped. “Mina emailed me this morning and said she decided on her way home—she was so furious about what people were saying. Blaming Karen and such. She just wants us to remember Karen as she was: a lovely, funny woman who’d do anything for anyone.”
A care assistant in a pink nylon tunic tutted loudly beside them and squeezed past, her face stiff with righteous indignation.
“And the women are the worst,” Ronnie added loudly enough to turn heads in the queue at the counter. “Not much sisterly solidarity in Ebbing.”
“It makes people feel safer,” Elise murmured, trying to reach past an indecisive pensioner for some mints. “If they can point at reasons why it won’t happen to them.”
“Hmm!” Ronnie grumbled.
“A vigil could make people think about her differently, I suppose,” Elise said carefully as she paid and edged toward the door. “I hope they’re telling the local police.”
* * *
—
Ronnie caught up with Elise across the street and grinned. “Well, I’ve put her right—how can she call herself a carer, for God’s sake? Her ears must be buzzing now. Anyway, are you going to come tonight?”
“Absolutely,” Elise said. She’d have Karen’s circle of friends and acquaintances in one place, sharing stories about her. Someone might know more about her love life than Mina Ryan was saying. “How many are going?”
“Mina says she’s hoping for about twenty or thirty. We’re gathering in the car park at seven o’clock. Mina’s going to say a few words, and we’ll have a two-minute silence. And if the witches of Ebbing don’t like it, tough.”
When Elise rolled up at Southfold police station, she passed on the details to the duty inspector and they discussed a discreet police presence in case there was any trouble. “I don’t think anyone will bother traipsing up to Knapton Wood to denounce poor Karen Simmons, but if it’s a quiet night on the telly…” she said.
“Have you seen this vigil stuff?” Caro called over to her as soon as she walked into the incident room.
“Yep, it’s just a few of Karen’s customers,” Elise said, shrugging off her coat. “A local car’s going to drive by to keep an eye on it, and I’m going.”
“I hope it’s just a few customers, but there’s some traffic on social media—women tweeting about Karen, saying she should have been safe walking home.”
“We don’t even know if she was taken off the street.” Elise growled her frustration. “Bloody hell, it’s tense enough in the town—people sniping about Karen and at one another. I get that they’re frightened, but this could really stoke things up.”
TWENTY-NINE
KIKI
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Karen is staring out of practically every shopwindow in the High Street. Eyes flashing accusingly at me and the people of Ebbing, scrutinizing our every move. And I wonder if the killer is among us. One of the anonymous BOBs? Or someone closer to home? Feeling himself being watched by his victim. I shiver and glance around quickly, but there are only two old ducks trudging along, arm in arm.
I slip into the doorway of an empty shop and check the number of comments on my column. They’re going up, but I’m furious with the company high-ups for taking out Simon’s name. They didn’t even ask me before they did it. The word came down via Miles, who had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “It could cost us money if he sues. Invasion of privacy or something,” he parroted.
I go back to flicking through the forums, my fingers stiff with cold, looking for X-Man back on the prowl. The thought that I should call Elise King and tell her about him nags at me, but I just need Miles to pull his finger out and identify the rest of the brotherhood first. I want to be a couple of steps ahead. This is my story. My work. And anyway, I’ve written about it, so it’s in the public domain. And the police can call me for more details when they see it. I tell myself I’ll give Elise a call in a couple of days. Then all thoughts of right and wrong are swept away as I see the new post.
Here he is! Good old Simon has posted about me on a BOBs thread—I’m “REPORTER BITCH” in shouty capitals, not named, just identified as a snaky female who tricked him. I start to type a blast of invective in response but delete it. Don’t show out, you idiot. They’ll disappear back under their stones. Change their names. And you’ll lose them. I switch to Danny’s identity and fake email I created for the dating app and post: “The media is scum.” And keep a silent watch on them. I just hope they reveal themselves quickly.
But in the meantime, I’ve got to find something to push the story on—online news is like a great white shark: It dies if it stops moving forward, and all I’m getting is the drip, drip, drip of pointless police briefings. There was nothing about the murder in the national papers this morning, and even Miles is bored with it. “Nothing’s happening,” he sighed at his desk. “It’s just ‘police are investigating’ every day. Blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s how murder inquiries work,” I told him. “It’s not a video game where you run around town bashing down doors.”
“No, well, take a look at the crash on the A3 last night, can you? There’s a spectacular video clip—you can see it about to happen and then, pow, the lorry hits three cars. Pity there isn’t sound.”
I ground my teeth and stretched what should have been a two-hundred-word story into one of those interminable online articles, each paragraph repeating the same sparse facts with a dozen photos and clips. Then I put my coat on and was out the door before Miles could wrest his eyes off the screen in front of him.
I’m reduced to videoing Ebbing High Street, lingering on the frontage of the Neptune with a couple of leftover hearts stuck to its windows while I wait for inspiration to strike. But it’s too bloody chilly.
In the end I give up and seek sanctuary in the Ebb and Flo café. I’m hit by a wave of warm, damp air when I swing the door open. The clientele looks up as one. They all seem to be making their toasted tea cakes last while watching condensation run down inside the panes of glass. The eponymous Flo calls over to me: “What can I get you, love?”
“Tea, please. And a piece of lemon drizzle.”
“Good choice. I made it this morning. Lovely and sticky.”
“Thanks, I need a treat.” I smile at her. “I’m covering the murder case. It’s a bit heavy going.”
Flo leans in immediately. “You’re a reporter?”
“Yes,” I say, hoping I’m not going to get an earful about the media and the many reasons to hate it. I try not to let it affect me—and it doesn’t most days—but Simon’s nasty rant has rattled me more than it should.
“It’s a shocker, isn’t it?” Flo smiles back. “Karen came in here on a Sunday morning sometimes. She used to treat Mina and Mina’s little boy to brunch. He loved it—always ordered a whole stack of pancakes and syrup…” She stutters to a standstill. “Sorry, but I just can’t believe something like this could happen. I heard that the killer got hold of her and suffocated her—snuffed her out. Who would do such a wicked thing? Here. In our little town. I mean, everyone knows everyone.”
“Maybe we don’t,” a woman in “look at me” earrings speaks from the table closest to the counter. “Know people, I mean. You can never really know someone completely, can you? I hear the police are focusing on Karen’s online activities, but I’m looking a bit closer at the local men I pass in the street.”
“Yes,” her younger companion adds. “It could be anyone—a stranger in our midst. Someone living next door, even. Couldn’t it, Mum?”
“Next door? Who do you mean?” Flo snaps, then flushes. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Well, it’s a possibility,” the older woman mutters, and one of her earrings catches and pulls a thread in her jumper. “Not everyone in Ebbing can be Mr. Wonderful. That Noel Clayton always looks like he’s on the edge. That angry face—like a smacked arse. I pity his poor wife. I don’t know how she puts up with him.”
“And his carry-on,” Flo mutters. And my ears prick up.
“Clayton? He’s the one who found the body, isn’t he?” I ask, beginning to thaw as I stir my tea at the counter. “What carry-on?”
“Oh, he fancies himself as a bit of a photographer, apparently,” Flo says, wiping the counter with a cloth.
“Oh?” I say, my hackles rising on Danny’s behalf—only I am allowed to criticize my feckless ex’s profession. “Actually, I was married to one once.”
“Hmm, just saying,” Flo replies.
“What does he photograph?” I say, making a note of his name on a napkin.
“I wouldn’t know,” she says, and won’t meet my eye. What’s that about? “Are you coming to the vigil tonight?” she hurries on.
“Vigil?”
“Yep, Mina is getting some of Karen’s friends together in the car park by the wood. Just to remember her. You know, everyone does it now, don’t they? First it’s flowers and tea lights, then a vigil and everyone sings sad songs.”
“Definitely.” And I thank the god of slow news days and brush the crumbs out of my scarf. “Delish,” I say. “And thanks for the info.” I go back into the cold and huddle inside my coat while I ring Mina to get all the details and quotes. The trouble is, it’s all a bit low-key and hippie-dippie, really. There’s a bit of chatter about it online, but I need to give it a kick up the bum to get a good showing on the news site. I google Reclaim the Night groups in the area and begin ringing round.
* * *
—
After I file a holding story from my car, I ring to nag Miles about finding the other forum users, but he brushes me off. “Busy,” he mutters. “Later.”
I try to do it myself for five minutes, but I know I just haven’t got the skills. Legwork is my thing. I’ll go and pay a visit to Noel Clayton. Have a look at him and his carry-on. It’ll keep me busy until the vigil, anyway.
As soon as I get through the door at the Claytons’ shop, the smell of wet wood with a hint of paint thinner hits the back of my throat. The bing-bong of the door sensor echoes round the store, and a woman somewhere deep in the shelving squeaks: “Noel, there’s someone at the counter.” Silence. “Noel! Sorry, my husband must be outside.”
“Don’t worry,” I call out. “There’s no rush.”
The woman emerges from the shadows. “Sorry,” she says, pushing dyed chestnut hair off her face. “What is it you’re after?”
“Ah, actually, I’m a reporter, Mrs. Clayton,” I say quickly. “And I wondered if I could talk to you and your husband about finding Karen Simmons’s body.”
Mrs. Clayton’s eyes widen. “W-We’re not talking to the press,” she stutters. “Noel said we shouldn’t. And, anyway, there’s nothing to say. We found her and phoned the police.”
“That must have been terrifying,” I say gently. Evelyn droops and nods. “How are you doing?”
“I haven’t been sleeping, actually,” she murmurs. “I keep seeing her sitting there.”
“Sitting?” I say. Sitting? Not lying on the ground? “Goodness—had she been tied up, then?”
“No, I don’t think so. It was so strange. It looked like she was at a picnic or something. But she was all glittery when Noel’s head torch shone on her. Her dress and the frost in her hair. Poor woman.”
“Oh, God!” I say. This is great copy pings into my brain unbidden, and my heart pumps harder in response. I try to shove the thought aside and focus on what Evelyn Clayton is saying, but I can’t stop myself. It’s a hardwired reaction to a developing news story. Ask any reporter. Not heartless, I tell myself. Professional and objective. But it sounds hollow, even to me.
“What did you do?” I push myself out of my queasy navel-gazing.
“We stood there. Neither of us spoke. I couldn’t move. I wanted to, but my body just went rigid.”
“That will have been the shock,” I murmur, and Evelyn nods, eyes closed against the memory. “Did you recognize her right away?”
“No, I couldn’t see her face—her head was hanging down—so I didn’t know it was Karen. She hardly looked human, really. More like a shop dummy. I’d never seen a dead person before.”
“God, how awful,” I say, but these are the quotes that will bring the reader right into the murder scene. Allow them to feel what Evelyn Clayton felt. And see Karen, not just an anonymous victim.
