Talking to Strangers, page 13
“That is still being determined. Look, I know this goes without saying, but you absolutely cannot write about what happened tonight.”
Kiki opened her mouth to say something, but Elise carried on. “It could be key to the investigation—to finding out who killed Karen. You do understand how important it is to keep it confidential?”
“Yes,” the reporter said. “But where did they get that photo?”
Elise sighed. “I wish I knew. Your mobile will be examined by the digital team in the morning, but it’s unlikely to give us much. It’s you and Chevening who hold the information. Look, I’ll try not to take too long, but we need to go through what you saw again. Okay?”
“Yes, course,” Kiki said, moving forward onto the edge of her chair, leaning into the memory. “I heard a ping and remembered I hadn’t muted my phone,” she said. “And I was looking right at the screen when the photo flashed up. I probably only saw it for a second, but I knew who it was because of the red dress.”
“Good. Describe the image. Every detail.”
The reporter rubbed her eyes, then closed them to concentrate, and Elise could see that flakes of mascara had gathered in the corners of her lids.
Elise sat completely still as Kiki recounted the scene.
“That’s very good,” she said when the reporter began to falter. “Now I’d like you to look at these photos.”
Elise pulled up the scenes of crime images of Karen on the computer, teeth clenched and praying hard it wasn’t one of them. That was the worst-case scenario—a leak by one of her trusted squad. She’d heard whispers on the conference circuit about a horrifying new trend: posed trophy photos of crime victims being taken and shared by a handful of sick officers. Elise knew there’d always been dark humor in the job—joking about the horrors they faced gave them power over the situation. If they could laugh at it, it couldn’t hurt them, was the rationale. But of course it did. Dealing with violent crime was a steady erosion of sensitivity. But when had edgy banter tipped over into swapping images of dead bodies?
If it had been one of hers? She flew through the roster in her head, looking for a deviant in their midst. This could blow up the team. She’d have to rebuild from scratch. Elise’s mind was racing out of control down the catastrophe route, and she made herself haul on the brakes. With a heavy heart, she turned the screen so Kiki could see.
The reporter swallowed hard. “That’s it.” Kiki pointed at the first picture. “Well, that’s how she looked. Except she wasn’t in a tent,” she murmured almost to herself, and stopped.
“Thank you, God,” Elise muttered under her breath. No tent must mean before her detectives got there. Mustn’t it?
“Sorry?” Kiki said.
“Sorry,” Elise murmured. “Thinking aloud.”
“Okay,” Kiki said. And gulped hard. “And there’s no hand,” she whispered.
“Hand? What hand?” Elise jumped out of her chair and hurried round to stand beside her.
“In the photo I saw. It was right at the edge of the frame. A blue glove. Against Karen’s left shoulder. Like it was pushing her upright.”
“Show me,” Elise said, and sat down on the floor to re-create the pose, her head sagging like Karen’s had. Kiki crouched down over her and put her left hand hard against Elise’s shoulder to sit her up while she took a photo with her phone.
Elise braced herself against a chair to get to her feet, and they looked at the image together.
“That’s how it was,” Kiki said. “But a bit farther away. Maybe the person who did it was taller? Had longer arms?” There was a sickening beat while her brain raced ahead. “It was the killer, wasn’t it?” Kiki whispered. “He was there tonight. Standing less than ten meters from me. Sending me his sick photos. Oh, God, did he target me deliberately, Elise? Does he know who I am?”
“That is yet to be determined,” Elise muttered and avoided the reporter’s eye. It was a strong possibility, but she didn’t want to spook her any further.
She dialed the forensic team leader.
“You need to focus on the left shoulder.”
THURSDAY:
DAY 6
THIRTY-THREE
KIKI
Thursday, February 20, 2020
It’s six thirty a.m. and still dark outside, but I’m sitting at the kitchen table, scanning the faces in the television footage over and over again. Searching for answers to the questions that kept me awake most of the night.
The question of why Karen’s killer would send her photo to me is drumming on the inside of my skull. Elise said it could be because of my byline on the articles about Karen. Some sort of gross grandstanding to the media. But the thing is, she doesn’t know about the BOBs. I still haven’t told her about X-Man or his cronies. Or that they’re aware I’m on their trail. Only I know this could have been a sick warning to watch my back. Or a direct threat. The image of Karen, frozen in death under the trees, sits behind my lids when I close my eyes. I wrap my arms around myself and rock gently while I talk myself down.
My head is ringing with tiredness, and I know I should go back to bed for an hour, but I can’t leave him out there in the darkness. I draw a ragged circle in my notepad and plot in the faces I recognize. But my mate, the cameraman, has only zoomed in on women. Typical! The close-ups are all of weeping girls. Still, he managed to get me in one of the clips he sent, so I can move outward from my position. It was so crowded; there must have been at least fifty people within the ten-meter range of my phone. I stare and stare at the images, willing someone to jump out of the sea of faces. DI Elise King must be doing the same thing with her digital team—and they’ll do a much more accurate job, piecing together the images to make a complete 360-degree panorama—but I can’t wait for her. I need to know now.
My eye snags on the faces I already know: Barry Sherman, two rows behind me, holding his phone torch up high, and Noel Clayton, standing four or five people off to the side. I enlarge him, studying his blank expression. Clayton was definitely alone at the crime scene before the police arrived. His wife said he’d sent her ahead, to run for safety in her high heels. So he’d been on his own with Karen’s body. But if he’d killed her a few hours earlier, why would he go back to “discover” the body with his wife? What sort of monster would you have to be? I shudder as I try not to imagine.
Where’s Ash? I can’t spot him in the clips. He could still have been close enough, though. I add him to my very short list and try enlarging one of the unidentified male faces—a pale oval in the darkness wearing glasses—but as I pull him closer, he dissolves under my fingers.
I can hear Pip moving about upstairs and realize another hour has passed while I’ve sat here.
“Cereal or a boiled egg for breakfast?” I shout up through the ceiling.
“Oooooh, dippy yolk and soldiers, please!” my girl shouts back—her favorite since she was a baby. I hug the heartwarming image of her in her high chair to my shivering skin.
My phone rings while I’m watching the eggs bob about in the simmering water. It’s a withheld number, but I take it anyway. It could be one of the national news desks—maybe they’ve seen my exclusive interview with Evelyn Clayton about finding the body.
“Hi,” I chirp down the phone, trying not to sound half-dead.
“Never mind ‘Hi,’ ” Mrs. Clayton hisses. “Why did you quote me? Noel is furious.”
Bugger.
“Oh, hello, Evelyn. You’ve seen the story, then? I thought it was a very moving account of your ordeal. And so did the audience. Have you seen the comments under the story?”
“Er, no…” The fight starts to leak out of her voice. “What do they say?”
“That you were incredibly brave and public-spirited,” I say, crossing my fingers and taking the pan off the heat. I’ll post that comment anonymously as soon as I get off the phone.
“Oh,” she says. “I’ll tell Noel. I think he’ll be okay about it.”
Job done.
I’m stupidly pleased with myself for a moment. I’ve swerved the dressing-down like a pro, and Pip arrives in front of me, dressed, hair brushed, bag packed for an overnight at the home of her best friend, Zoe. My headache ratchets down, and I sit across from my daughter, stealing dips of her eggs and trying to pretend this is a normal day.
But as soon as I’ve dropped her off, the dread creeps back in and I sit in the car, staring at the traffic crawling past. Ordinary people going about their lives. Not worried that a killer is out there watching them. And for a second, that’s all I want. To be what I’ve always railed against. Ordinary. It’s simple, the Mrs. Sensible lurking inside me says. Stop your investigation and just let the police deal with this. You’re a single mother with a child to think about. Not a twentysomething with a name to make. Keep your head down.
But I can’t. Karen was murdered by this man. She was shut up by him—but I won’t be. “Screw you!” I shout at my windscreen, and a bloke in a car idling at the traffic lights beside me sees and gives me a smirky thumbs-up. I take that as a sign and start the engine. I’ll be careful, but I’m going to track down all the BOBs and present them to Elise. And, yes, get my scoop. I rev my engine and pull out.
My first thought when I get to the office is to check the comments on my first “Secret Dater” column. I’m hoping it will bring me other women who’ve had contact with Simon and his mates.
“Morning,” I call to Miles on my way to my desk. “Have you got any of the other names yet?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No—and I’ve heard from the boss. Ali doesn’t like your ‘Secret Dater’ thing. He thinks it’s a bit safe.”
“Right,” I snap, and breathe out through my nose. Do not lose it.
“He wants you to up the ante and get on the hookup apps for next week—become a Tinderella and get the full experience of swiping right.”
“A Tinderella?” I squeak.
Miles flushes beetroot red and his Adam’s apple dances in his throat. “It’s not my idea,” he mutters.
I go and buy chocolate and walk my anger out on the pavement. You need this job is my mantra, reinforced by the knowledge that my credit card bill will empty my account in six days. And it’s only until you get back to proper journalism. Suck it up!
It takes two minutes to sign up to a couple of hookup apps, and I open my Twix and start looking at the prospects in a fifteen-mile radius of Ebbing. It’s quite a range.
Eamonn is there. Bloody hell, he’s like Where’s Wally?
I keep scrolling, the taste of defeat souring my mouth until I suddenly get swiped. I sigh. I bet he’s sixty, claiming to be thirty, and wearing a fake Prada T-shirt.
But he isn’t. Rob says he is forty-nine and likes the outdoors. He also has gorgeous eyes and is only minutes away. It’s the first good thing that’s happened to me since last night.
I swipe back and carry on looking at the app while I wait. But I can feel my heart picking up pace like I’m a teenager about to be asked to dance. I check myself, but who am I kidding? This is no longer research. But, hell, I deserve something better than sweets on a shit day like today.
Rob doesn’t take long. His first message pops up: Hi, great photo! You’ve got a lovely smile.
I spend the next five minutes composing my reply: typing, editing, deleting a dozen times.
Hi! Thanks. This is my first time! Hardly Hemingway.
But Rob doesn’t seem put off.
I’ll be gentle with you. Do you fancy a coffee?
That would be lovely. What the hell am I doing? I hate emojis.
There’s a place on the front in Hove. The blue café. Can be there at eleven if that’s good for you?
Will be there.
I sit, catching my breath for a moment. This is why Karen did it, I realize. This rush.
THIRTY-FOUR
ANNIE
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Henry brought her tea when she woke and climbed back into bed with her. He never did that on a weekday. And Annie felt her fingers tighten on the duvet as she wondered what was coming.
“I want you to ring your therapist,” he told the wardrobe. Annie knew—and couldn’t help resenting the fact—that he found it hard to have eye contact when discussing personal things. Or when he’s lying, a voice in her head whispered. “I think this new thing is dragging you down again,” he said and pried her hand off the cover to squeeze it.
New thing. He meant Karen’s killing, but they never really called anything by its real name. Since Archie. They never said the word “murder” at home. Other people did—the police, the press, her therapist. But not here. They couldn’t have that in the house.
“I’m okay,” Annie said. “It was just difficult being at Knapton Wood. And people were so upset. One woman right behind us screamed. It really shook me.”
It had. Much more than she’d been prepared for. The scream had come out of the silence. Like hers, that day. Sixteen years ago. When she’d carried her boy out of the wood. Someone had taken the screaming woman off last night, and that had made Annie cry again and Gavin had wanted to leave. But Annie wouldn’t go before the end. She’d gone and waited for her chance to speak to the organizer, a woman called Mina. There’d been so many people milling around her, but a tall man with sad eyes had made a space for her. “Hello, Mrs. Curtis,” he’d said, and she couldn’t remember his face. And then Mina had taken her hand, and Annie had turned away and told her she’d known Karen back in the day, and they’d hugged each other.
“It was just so sad,” Annie said to her husband, and burst into tears. She didn’t mean to—she thought she’d got it out of her system at the vigil. But all those feelings that quietly blipped in her chest, like a malignant sourdough starter, had clearly just been waiting for another chance to erupt.
“Come on, love,” Henry sighed. “Don’t cry. I did tell you. I knew it would end like this. Why don’t I run you a bath?”
Annie mumbled that she’d make an appointment and watched as Henry got dressed, noting he was putting on a new shirt.
“Where are you today?” she asked.
“Er, over Southampton way,” he told the window. “There are a couple of customers I haven’t visited for a while. One’s got a chain of pharmacies, and I need to nudge the boss to up his order. I’ll probably be late. I might have to take him out for a drink after work.”
“Okay,” Annie said automatically. “Ring when you’re on your way home.”
She finished her cold tea and moved herself on to the day ahead. She needed to change the beds. And get the washing on. And the fridge was empty. But she knew none of it would get done.
She was going back to Knapton Wood.
* * *
—
Annie parked up by their old address. It took her a moment to recognize it after all that time. Someone had painted the front door black. Like a plague house. This was where they had lived for ten years as newlyweds and young parents. But Annie couldn’t see them there now.
There were no cars in the drive, and she hoped the new people were at work. It’d been a young, hard-faced couple who’d bought it—they’d whispered together in the kitchen while she and Henry had stood watching from the garden and then beaten the price down mercilessly. They’d known the Curtises were desperate. So desperate to leave they’d let them have it for almost nothing. Annie had hated them for it. She wondered if they were still there.
There was a deflated football in the front garden and Spider-Man stickers in the window of Archie’s old bedroom. A new child in the house. Annie’s heart twitched in her chest.
The entrance to the alleyway at the end of the houses was overgrown with brambles, and the path was studded with ancient dog turds. She got herself caught on thorns as she walked through to the wood and scratched her hands when she released herself. When she emerged back into the thin sunlight, she stood for a while at the spot where their rickety old back gate used to be. The new owners had replaced it with a big sturdy one—and locked it with a padlock. Keeping the bad out. It’s what we should have done.
Annie suddenly wondered if anyone was watching her and glanced up at the windows. There was no one there.
She’d come to walk back into the trees, as the detectives had made her do over and over again during the investigation, but she couldn’t do it. She just stood there weeping. She’d sobbed the first time—had to be held up by officers—but Annie had stopped crying by the end. She had made herself not feel anything. Because even the tiniest thing could destroy her. A discarded sock under a bed. The biscuits Archie loved. A baby on the television.
Today, there was rain in the air, misting her glasses. It had been so hot that day. Shorts and T-shirts weather. Annie pulled her coat closed and zipped it up. And stood. And stood.
It was only when she heard a back door open and someone shout for a dog that she bolted clumsily for the tree line and ducked under a branch.
It was so dark. Annie heard herself call, “Archie!” and wondered if she was losing her mind like Henry said. Your little boy isn’t here, she told herself. They’d had Archie cremated because they couldn’t bear the thought of his little body cold in the ground, and had scattered his ashes into the sea on a gray day like this one.
The trees had been in full leaf back then—a great green canopy over her—but they were bare-boughed now. Like fleshless arms. Dead. Annie leaned against a trunk and gathered herself. She walked on and suddenly realized she was there. Standing where Archie and Xander had made their last camp.
It’d taken her three minutes at most to reach the place. Three minutes. People interviewed in the newspapers had said they would never have let their kids out of their sight, never mind “deep” in the wood. Like you did. The neighbors had wanted to be sympathetic, but there had always been an edge to their words. Your fault seemed to hover at their lips.
