Talking to Strangers, page 25
I’ve left a message on her phone, but she hasn’t rung back. I hang around in my car, fidgeting as I watch for her to drive up. I sat up late last night, torturing myself over Henry Curtis. I tried to write the story Xander had given me as soon as I got home, but it kept dissolving on the page. What did I have? One source—a child at the time—and an affair that may have happened sixteen years ago. Nothing to say there had been any recent contact. It was all too tenuous, and Henry Curtis could deny the whole thing. Annie had said Xander had a vivid imagination.
I had to find a better way in. A cold case review would be ideal. What I needed was Elise to confirm it.
She turns up on cue. Sees me waiting and waves me over.
“You’re an early bird!” Elise says, and a ghost of a smile flickers across her lips. I wonder if she might be warming to me.
“I had an interesting conversation with Annie Curtis yesterday,” I say lightly.
“Did you really?” The smile dies. “Goodness, Kiki, you have your fingers in everything. Did Annie ring you?”
I shake my head. “No, but I understand you’re reviewing the original investigation into Archie’s killing. That there are unanswered questions.”
She pulls a face. “Come on, Kiki. I know you’ve got to try, but why would I comment on that?”
“Because I’ve got something to trade,” I say quietly. “I also spoke to Xander Curtis. Do you fancy a coffee?” We walk in silence to the nearest café.
Elise’s brow furrows as I show her the photo of Henry I found—“Did you have permission to take those albums?” she snaps—but the line deepens as I lay out Xander’s story. There is a pause while the waiter slides our coffees onto the table. Then Elise tests my information line by line.
“An affair? But he doesn’t know if there was any contact with Karen after Archie was killed?” Elise says half to herself. “Henry Curtis might have moved his family away, but Karen was only thirty minutes down the coast.”
“The temptation could have been overwhelming,” I say, urging her on.
“Okay, this is all speculation, so please hold off writing anything until we’ve had a chance to talk to Henry Curtis. I don’t want him tipped off,” Elise murmurs as we scrape the chairs back to leave.
She’s going to put it to him. I need to keep her onside.
“Of course,” I say.
“Okay, so, off the record, we are taking a look at aspects of the Archie Curtis case. It’s at a very preliminary stage. Make sure it comes from an anonymous source—and don’t over-egg it.”
I write the story and file it straightaway. Miles says it is brilliant. I love that he is making the effort to sound interested but can’t help bristling at his patronizing tone.
“Do you feel like coming into the office?” he asks uber-carefully, as if I’m made of glass and may shatter at any moment.
“Why? Have you got some mind-numbing press releases waiting for me?” I reach for sarky banter to stop him.
“Yeah, I have, as it goes.” He plays his part, the relief that I’m not a sobbing mess making him sound a bit giddy. “Fancy it?”
“Well, if you put it like that. I’ll be there shortly.”
I try to sing along with the radio as I drive, like I always do, until I can safely bury myself in planning appeals and craft fairs. But the words keep dying on my tongue. I distract myself with Pip. She doesn’t know any of it. Ma and I agreed she didn’t need to. “She’s so young,” Ma had said. “Don’t frighten her.” And I went along with it.
But my girl looked at me this morning with a new wariness in her eyes. “Is something the matter, Mum?” she said quietly, pushing her Weetabix around the bowl.
“No, love,” I murmured, and tried to pin a smile on. “Just a bit tired. Like that school shirt!”
Pip had looked down at her graying top—the victim of too many mixed washes—and grinned. “I’ll pop into the shops at lunchtime and buy some new ones,” I said fake brightly. It was a dead cert for moving her away from my horror.
* * *
—
I bloody hate shopping centers; the synthetic spend-more music and the smell of bath bombs and popcorn make me headachy at the best of times. But I promised Pip.
I find the shirts, but it’s lunchtime and the queue for the one open till defeats me. I sit to gather myself on one of those tired old lady chairs in the corner of the store and catch up on emails while the world of commerce continues around me.
There’s an alert for the BOBs sitting in my inbox, and I feel the numbness creep back into my legs. My protective shield. My finger trembles as I watch it move to click on the link.
The poisonous BOBs seep into the store. They are back in full misogyny mode on the chat room today. X-Man has been on a five-star date—his post is studded with aubergine and sweat emojis—and Deadpool boasts he is close to hitting his target of sleeping with a woman every twelve hours. And I think of my girl, giggling over shoes and Harry Styles, and wonder how I’m ever going to protect her from men like this. Maybe I can put her in a convent, I’m thinking when a movement on the other side of a display catches my eye. A figure. Tall, dark jacket. It’s only a glimpse before it disappears, but something inside me dies. Is it Rob? Has he followed me?
The fear pushes me out of my seat, and I look round wildly, my thoughts scattering. What will he do? Shut up—it isn’t him. But will he approach me? It isn’t him. And spill out the sordid details of our encounter in front of all these people? Pretend I was part of it? Not the victim? I can’t let him.
Everything is too bright and shiny in the mall, and I have to screw up my eyes against the light as I scan for him.
There’s no sign and I’m beating myself up for letting him get under my skin, when I suddenly see him. He’s in a glass lift, rising above me. I don’t think he’s spotted me, but then he looks down. And waves.
SIXTY-FOUR
KIKI
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
I think I’m going to be sick as I run, hand over my mouth, to the nearest exit.
The crowd in the city center swallows me whole, and I feel safer, but I don’t ring Elise until I’m sitting right at the back of a busy café.
“I’ve just seen Rob, my rapist,” I whisper. “He’s in the shopping center.”
“Are you sure? Did you get a picture?” Elise says, and I groan.
“It was him. He waved. But I was so panicked I didn’t get my phone out. And he was in one of those glass lifts, above me.”
“I’ll put out an alert. Sit tight.”
I order a coffee for me to watch go cold. The waitress pushes me to have a muffin, but I’m so jangly that the thought of putting food in my mouth makes me want to throw up.
I startle when Elise finally rings back. “We’re looking at the CCTV, but it’s going to take time to find the right tapes. Why don’t you go home and I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
I’m making my way to the bus stop when someone suddenly says, “Hello, Kiki,” close to me. I yelp and whirl round.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Ash Woodward is standing in front of me, blinking into the low sunlight.
And I feel a hysterical sob of laughter rising up my throat because it’s not Rob.
“Er, hello,” I blather, stupidly grateful for a familiar face. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “Trying to keep busy. I’ve been looking at places Karen used to go to,” he says, his droopy eyes holding mine.
“The nightclubs?” I ask. He is the last person I’d imagine bopping under the strobes.
“I never went in. I just waited to make sure she was okay to get home,” he murmurs. And I shiver, imagining him standing in the shadows, watching and obsessing.
Ash clears his throat.
“Oh, sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.” I flounder for something to say. “Umm, you know they found her car in Brighton…” He must, but his eyes light up.
“I read that, but which car park was it? Do you know?” he says, more urgent now. “Where did he leave it?”
I stare at him uneasily. “ ‘He’?” I bleat, feeling the shoppers swish past us as if we don’t exist.
“The man who killed Karen,” Ash whispers, back to sad eyes.
“How do you know it was him driving the car?” I whisper back. “And not Karen?”
Ash looks away. He knows something I don’t, and my whole body tenses. How am I going to get him to tell me? is all I can think about.
“I’m going to grab a coffee and a warm-up,” I say gently. “You look like you could do with one, too. Come with me?”
* * *
—
“Are you okay? You seem a bit on edge,” I say when we are sitting knee to knee in a tiny seafront café.
Ash looks at me over the dusty plastic plant in the middle of the table. “A bit,” he murmurs. “People have been banging on the side of my static. Shouting horrible things about me being a weirdo and a pervert. I don’t know who has been saying these things.”
I wonder if it’s Barry Sherman and his band.
“And I haven’t got Karen to tell now,” he adds.
“No, you must really miss her,” I say softly. And his lips tremble.
“Every day,” he whispers.
“You can talk to me,” I coax gently and quietly turn my phone to record. And he nods to himself.
“You were saying about Karen’s car,” I say, pushing a plate of biscuits his way. “How do you know it wasn’t Karen driving the car?”
“She couldn’t have,” he sighs. “She was already dead.”
I fight to keep calm, but my hands are shaking so hard I have to hide them in my lap. Ash doesn’t seem to register the effect his words are having. He is deep inside himself. He automatically tears open a packet of sugar, tips it onto the table, and makes paths through the crystals with his finger as he thinks. Until I can bear the silence no more.
“How do you know, Ash?” I murmur.
His finger stops moving and he lifts his head. “I saw,” he says. “Karen was dead when I found her in the wood.”
“You found her?” My voice squeaks with the effort not to shout, and I look round to see who might have heard. “But why were you there? What were you doing in the wood at that time of night, Ash?”
“I saw her drive off from her flat,” he mumbles. “I was just making sure she got home safely from the Neptune and I tried to follow her. She shouldn’t have been driving and I was worried. But I lost her. I cycled around for a bit, and around midnight I thought I saw headlights up at the wood. I just went to see. She’d parked up.”
“Was Karen alone?” I urge.
He shakes his head, eyes blank. “There was someone else in the car with her.”
My stomach flips.
“Who was it, Ash?”
I can hear the saliva in his mouth rattling against his breath.
“Ash?”
“I think it was Barry Sherman,” he says, and I can feel the flush racing up from my chest.
“Did you see Barry Sherman in the car?” Have I got the final piece of the jigsaw? My fingers are digging into my thighs so hard I can feel bruises beginning to bloom.
“She was having a secret affair with him—it must have been him.”
“But did you see him? Did you follow them into the trees?”
He shakes his head wearily. “I should have done, but I told myself not to get involved and I went home. But I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. I went back out about one o’clock—I couldn’t help it. I just wanted to make sure she was home safely,” he murmurs. “But her car wasn’t parked outside the salon. And the windows of the flat were dark.”
“So you went back to the wood?” I press him quietly.
“Just to check,” he says, his voice flat. “Her car was gone. But she wasn’t. She was just sitting there against a tree when I found her.”
“Can you tell me what you saw?”
Ash closes his eyes for a moment and describes the scene in detail, mentioning the false nails and the bare legs. It’s what I saw, too. He was definitely there. But was it as a guardian angel, or a killer?
“I didn’t touch her,” Ash blurts, as if I’ve said it out loud. “I just left.”
“But why didn’t you call the police?” I say, knowing that is what I should do as soon as I leave.
“Because I knew I’d be the main suspect if I did. Mum always told me not to put myself in the picture.”
“Can I get you anything else?” a young waitress suddenly asks, breaking the spell, and Ash immediately shoves his chair backward, away from me and my questions.
“Ash,” I say. But he shakes his head and ricochets through the café tables before I can stop him. I sit in stunned silence while the waitress removes the empty cups and tuts loudly at the mound of sugar.
SIXTY-FIVE
ELISE
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Elise had Andy Thomson in the shopping center’s security office, collecting the recordings from ten different cameras in the public areas, plus one from each exit.
“I’m going thirty minutes either side of Kiki Nunn’s timeline to start with, but there is a ton of it,” he phoned in to tell her. “And it was busy this lunchtime. So…”
“Okay,” Elise sighed heavily. “Let’s get it over here and sit Kiki Nunn in front of it for a couple of hours. See if we can find his face in the crowd.”
She tried to rally her spirits. This man was hiding in plain sight in the dating community. Changing his name and small details as he moved between apps. But not his face. He would be out there.
And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have other things to do. Elise busied herself deleting the critical mass of emails cluttering her inbox. She checked daily but flicked over the dross—the memos sent to her and what appeared to be every officer on the force, for no discernible reason. She was binning them by the dozen, enjoying the quiet thrill of a deep clean, when she saw the name Ash Woodward on a vanishing mail. She had to dig around in the junk folder to hook it out. He’d sent it to Crimestoppers, and it had been forwarded to her by one of the team.
Dear DI King, I have spoken to Annie Curtis about this and I want you to know what I saw in Knapton Wood in 2004. It was a boy. And a man, he’d written. They were just standing with their arms around each other and I thought it was a boy and his dad.
She could hear Ash’s whispery voice in every word. Elise moved forward onto the edge of her seat as she read, as if she could disappear inside the screen and enter Ash’s world.
But the man put his hand on the boy’s bottom and rubbed it slowly. Not like a dad. And the boy shouted something and they broke apart. The man crashed through the trees to the car park and I heard a motorcycle roar off. The boy disappeared the other way—in the direction of the houses. It was over so quickly and I wasn’t sure what I’d seen. I was still watching the blue tits when I heard a woman screaming and I ran toward the sound. Mrs. Curtis was carrying a child, and the boy from earlier was beside her but I could see there were loads of people gathering and I never liked crowds. So I turned around and went and got my bike and cycled home.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell the police when they came to the house. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. And I didn’t see anything, really. Did I?
But he had. Elise shut her eyes and let out a low groan. Nicky Donovan had run away, just as he’d told his mother, and been on the other side of the wood, climbing onto his motorbike, when Archie Curtis was killed.
And Ash had seen and heard it all. He’d given Donovan an alibi, sixteen years too late.
The blood flow to her legs was being cut off by her sitting to attention, and Elise rubbed her thighs and shuffled back onto her chair. She frowned in concentration as she analyzed the text.
Of course, he’s also placed himself within yards of the crime scene. Is that what he’s really telling me? That he had something to do with little Archie Curtis’s death?
SIXTY-SIX
KIKI
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
The salt is eating Ash Woodward’s caravan from the outside; the metal seams and window frames are rusting, and the windows are streaked with seagull shit. It is the most depressing door I’ve ever knocked on. In a film, it would have “ax murderer” written all over it.
I pull my coat collar up against the howling wind, mount the concrete-block steps to the door, and rap loudly. Nothing. Harder the second time. But the only sound is the wind battering the trees at the back. I’ve got to be quick—Pip has gone swim training for a couple of hours. But when I transcribed Ash’s confession in my car, parts of the recording were too muffled to hear. I want to get it all straight before I ring Elise. And write my exclusive.
Maybe he’s asleep? I go round the back and clamber onto a planter full of weeds to peer through a grimy window.
“Kiki?” a voice says sharply, making me startle and nearly lose my footing.
Elise King is standing only a few feet away, scowling up at me. “What are you doing?” she barks.
Bloody hell. I curse my luck. Why is she here, anyway?
“Just trying to see if Ash Woodward is in,” I say, determined to stand my ground. I can knock on anyone’s door I like.
“And is he?” Elise says, hoicking herself up beside me to have a quick look, too. She’s on her own—no Caro Brennan today.
“Nope,” I mutter, hoping she’ll leave. Fat chance.
Elise goes round to the door and bangs hard. “It’s DI King, Mr. Woodward. Please open the door.”
In the end, she fetches Gordon, the owner of the caravan site. Gordon comes with his jailer’s bunch of keys and lets us in. I hear his gasp from outside and rush up the steps behind Elise. The acid stink of vomit makes me gag, and I clamp my hand over my nose and mouth. Ash is lying face down on the floor under the table. Elise pushes Gordon back outside and scrambles to feel for a pulse in Ash’s neck while I help turn him onto his side. It’s freezing in here—the gas bottle in his heater must have run out—but he is colder. I can feel it, even through his clothes, and my eyes fill with tears.
