Talking to Strangers, page 3
There’d be someone. There always was. Small seaside towns absorbed all sorts with their shifting populations of weekenders and out-of-season cash rentals.
“There are three in Ebbing on the sex offenders’ register and a dozen in Southfold and the surrounding villages,” Caro said, “but no one’s popping. They’re low-level perverts—flashing and hands up skirts, that sort of thing—plus a couple of online offenders. Downloading images of women being sexually assaulted.”
Elise swallowed hard, the memory of the shocked eyes of a weeping teenager silencing her. Unknown Victim 639. It was the first sexual abuse victim image Elise had seen as a young officer. There’d been hundreds since, but that face had burned its way through all her professional defenses into her core. She’d hated the fact that the girl had been just a number.
“Perhaps one of them has dipped his toe into the real world to try his luck?” Elise muttered, blinking to blot 639 out. “Send me their details and let’s get the team together at Southfold police station and see where we are.”
“On it,” Caro said. “God, I’m starving. I didn’t have time for breakfast at silly o’clock this morning.”
“I made a sandwich—you can have that if you like.” Elise rummaged about in the depths of her coat pocket. “Shit. I’ve left it on the worktop.”
“Never mind. There’s a lot going on. We could pick up a cheeky Big Mac en route?”
Elise’s stomach turned at the thought.
“No, thanks. You go and poison your system,” she said, fishing in her bag again for her car key. “I’ll swing by mine and rescue my lunch. See you at the station.”
* * *
—
“Is it her?” Elise’s neighbor Ronnie poked her head around Elise’s door, making her jump. “Everyone’s saying it’s Karen.”
“Ronnie! I’ve just dived back to pick up a sandwich. I haven’t got time to hold a briefing for casual callers.”
Her neighbor followed her into the kitchen, as Elise had known she would. Ronnie wasn’t about to stop her probing—and Elise had no one to blame but herself. She had created a monster when she’d done some extracurricular detective work during her convalescence from cancer surgery and Ronnie, a retired librarian with an unhealthy interest in other people’s lives, had inserted herself as her number two. In her head, she was still Watson to Elise’s Sherlock.
“Go on, then, what else are they saying in the Co-op?” Elise asked, looking for a semi-decent apple in the fruit bowl.
“That she was probably killed by someone she picked up,” Ronnie said, perching a buttock on the high stool she’d made her own in Elise’s kitchen. “A stranger. You know that Karen was on the hunt for a man, right? Well, everyone in Ebbing knew. Last time I had my hair done, she was joking about shaving eight years off her age. Everyone does it, apparently. We were laughing about it, but it’s like getting a tin without a label out of the cupboard for your dinner. You think you’re getting peaches, but it turns out to be dog food. I imagine it can make people turn nasty. If they think they’re being conned.”
SIX
KIKI
Saturday, February 15, 2020
I bloody love police stations—the institutional, disinfected-lino smell of them, the edgy tension, the terrible chipped green-and-cream paintwork you only ever see in public buildings, the alkies hanging around the entrance. It brings back happier times. When I was a real reporter covering crime, not some online avatar copying and pasting schlock from the internet.
Back then my byline was my actual name, Erica Nunn. “Kiki” was invented by a paunchy male features executive when I ended up writing about women wearing the wrong size bras. “It sounds younger—more relatable, don’t you think?” he said, and to be honest, I was happy to hide behind a new identity. I didn’t want my peers to know this was what I’d been reduced to.
It was mortifying stepping back from the front line, but having a baby meant being on the road was no longer an option. Not with Danny, my other half, being a photographer for another paper. We couldn’t both be sent off at a moment’s notice with no idea when we’d be back. One of us had to be the still point in our chaotic lives. And it was never going to be Danny. So, features. I told myself it would be great—in-depth interviews and big reads. And it was for a bit, but a change on the desk brought in women journalists panting to write about themselves in increasingly humiliating situations. And I was shuffled off to the tampon beat and Kiki-dom.
I stuck it out for a few years, as the money was too good to walk away—“the mink-lined coffin,” we used to joke. But Danny didn’t last the course. “We never see each other,” I explained to our journo friends when he moved out. And they shrugged. Like they’d always known that a reporter and a photographer working for rival publications was no basis for a long-term relationship. Danny found a bachelor pad in Notting Hill, and Pip and I moved to Brighton to be near my mum and free childcare.
I freelanced from my kitchen while Pip went through the terrible twos, easier threes, fours, fives…all the way up to the currently tricky early teens, but it was a precarious existence. Danny kept disappearing, off on jobs when it was his weekend to have his daughter. And making a living is often down to who answers the phone on the features desk on the day—and whether they’ve had sex, a row, or their first coffee of the morning. Like Roman emperors at the Colosseum: thumbs-up/thumbs-down. I might bad-mouth it, but the job at Sussex Today was a lifeline. The owner, a start-up entrepreneur, had told me to call him Ali as he skimmed my CV and smiled patronizingly over Zoom. “We’re going to need at least one proper journalist on board,” he said. “When can you start?”
But I feel a jolt of excitement at the thought that this story might be the way back. I’m going to make Miles use my real name on this one.
I take it all in as I’m led to an interview room, glancing through half-open doors, listening to snatches of conversations. Stashing material.
“The boss will just be a minute,” my uniformed guide says reverentially. Newbie.
I hear a woman’s voice saying: “She’s in here.” And in they sweep. DS Caro Brennan leads the way.
Which is a shame. I know from our last encounter that DS Brennan has no time for the media. But Elise King does. And she’s in charge. And they need me onside. So Caro Brennan can sod off.
“Can we get you a cup of tea?” Elise asks. Good Cop.
“Lovely. Milk, no sugar, please.”
The newbie officer is tasked with the drinks-machine run, and Elise, Caro, and I sit looking at one another for a moment.
“As you know, we are investigating the death of Karen Simmons,” Elise plunges in finally. “How did you know her?”
“As I said, I spent an evening with her last week and we had a couple of phone calls before that,” I reply. “I contacted her because I’m writing about the dating scene for women in their forties and fifties.”
“I see,” Elise says.
I find myself wondering if she’s on the scene. I try not to smile.
“And Karen was very helpful,” I go on. “I found her singles group on Facebook, and I met a few of them at the Neptune last Monday.”
“Were you invited?” DS Brennan mutters.
“Oh, yes,” I say smoothly, refusing to rise to the bait. “Karen was very keen—she thought the publicity would bring in new people.”
“So who was there?” Elise asks.
“Karen’s friend Mina Ryan came—single mum in her late thirties. Nice woman. And there was Barry Sherman—he’s the temporary manager at the Lobster Shack gastropub on the harbor. Loud. Ordering cocktails in the Neptune—the landlady was a bit short with him when he asked for a Slow Screw on the Beach. You know the sort. And Ash Woodward—quiet guy. He didn’t want to be interviewed, but Karen said he’s a handyman at the caravan park on the edge of town. Look, you can see them—I did a short video to go with my piece.”
I turn up the sound on my phone and pass it to Elise. DS Brennan leans into her shoulder to watch. I’ve caught the group still getting their expressions ready before posing and raising their glasses to the camera, shouting, “Cheers!” and laughing.
“Was Karen seeing either of these men?” Caro Brennan says, reaching to pause the clip and enlarging their faces on the screen.
“She said not. Said she was casting her net wider.”
“Where was she looking?” Elise asks as the constable comes in balancing three plastic cups.
“Various dating sites—I’ve written them down.” I push across the list. “These are the ones where everyone is checked out. Karen didn’t say, but I bet she was also using the hookup apps where you can be anyone you want.”
“Did Karen use her real name?” Elise says, stirring her tea.
“You have to on most of the sites. But on hookup apps, well…It can be pretty anonymous, that scene, isn’t it? People can call themselves all sorts of things. Fantasy stuff. It’s all part of the game. Although research shows that Hannah is the most swiped name.”
“Right. You seem to know a lot about it…” DS Brennan says.
“I’m writing about it,” I say, shutting her down. “I make sure I do my research.”
“Did Karen say how many men she’d met?” Elise steers us all back to calmer waters.
“No. It wasn’t about numbers. She was definitely looking seriously for Mr. Right—she was talking about wedding dresses and starting a family.”
“Right. Had Karen ever been to Knapton Wood to meet a date?” Elise asks.
“Not that I know of,” I say firmly. “I looked through my notes right away, but she didn’t mention it. Maybe she was abducted and taken there?”
“Shall we leave the police work to us?” DS Brennan snaps. “Can you email a copy of your notes and photos? We need to check for any dates and places mentioned.”
“Have you got a cause of death?” I ask, deliberately ignoring the request. I’m not sharing my notes with anyone—especially when she’s being so rude.
“The investigation is ongoing,” Elise responds quickly. “This is really useful info, Kiki. Thanks for coming in. Look, I’ve got to get ready for the press briefing. Are you sticking around for that?”
* * *
—
I sit in the waiting area afterward and get out my laptop. If the police are going to be difficult when I’ve been super helpful, I’ll just have to do my own thing. Why should I do the cops any favors?
I have a quick look through Karen’s emails to me after the interview. She’d sent links to success stories—Tash and Kent raising flutes of champagne in a marquee, somebody else’s fifth-anniversary story—for the feature. She’d also sent me her online profile photo. I click on it to enlarge it, and a caption comes up, too.
“Hi there! I love nights out, slow dancing on the beach, and walks in the woods. Do you want to join me?”
I breathe out slowly. Did Karen’s killer see this playful invitation and use it to lure her to some horrific encounter? I wonder if snarky Caro Brennan has seen this. She will when she reads my exclusive interview.
My intro is already writing itself, but last-minute doubts about the ethics of my decision crowd in, making my fingers fumble the keys. But when I look up, the opposition has started to gather for the press conference. The rest of the reporters will be all over the story, combing out the locals about Karen’s hunt for men.
I start typing again.
SEVEN
ELISE
Saturday, February 15, 2020
Elise flexed her shoulders and tried to stop her mind meandering. But the press briefing had gone on too long. The reporters were circling back to the questions she’d already declined to answer.
“Okay,” the district commander at her side said loudly. “That’s all we have for you at the moment. We’ve released a photograph of Karen Simmons that was taken at the start of the evening—please get that out there. We want to hear from anyone who saw her last night. Where was she during the hours between leaving the Neptune pub and her body being discovered? How did she get to Knapton Wood?”
“DI King,” someone called from her left-hand side, “is Karen’s online dating history the focus of your investigation?”
“As I’ve said, we are following several lines of inquiry at this stage,” Elise said and stood up. “Thank you for coming.”
“Bloody hell! That didn’t take long to get out, did it?” Caro hissed when they reached the other side of the swing doors. “Who asked the last question? Bet it was Kiki Nunn—I thought we’d warned her off?”
“I did, but it wasn’t her—it was the woman from South Coast News. In fact, I’m not sure Kiki was even there. Did you see her?”
“Don’t think so. She must have had more important things to do,” Caro growled.
“Or she’s avoiding us,” Elise said, and the two women stared at each other.
“Shit,” Elise spat. She quickly punched “Sussex Today” into her phone and found herself staring straight into Karen Simmons’s eyes. It wasn’t the image the police had released—a carefully cropped full-length photo taken by her friend Mina as they left home for their night out. This was a selfie with Kiki Nunn, taken close up and, by the look of it, several drinks into a night out. Karen’s dark eyes were shining and she was laughing wildly. She’d been so full of life. It stopped Elise in her tracks. She was so busy dealing with Karen’s death that she’d forgotten the living human being. Elise stroked the face with a finger as she tried to reconcile this Karen with the gray, frozen face she’d seen in the woods. Her gesture made the image disappear off the screen, and Caro tutted loudly. “Give me that,” she said, and pulled Karen back.
Elise let her gaze slip to the headline beneath and gaped. “Caro!” she yelped. “Look at this…” She read on. “Karen’s dating profile mentions walks in the woods! Why didn’t we know about that? Get the bloody reporter on the phone.”
* * *
—
An hour later, Elise felt like a limp rag. She’d spent too much time and energy bollocking Kiki’s idiot news editor about the use of potentially crucial details, warning the family liaison officer sitting with Karen’s parents, and briefing her boss, Detective Chief Inspector McBride, about the situation. And not enough getting into the victim’s head.
Elise stood at her desk, thinking about Karen—the woman Ronnie had known, joking about online dating tips above the roar of the hair dryer. And the woman who’d confided in Kiki about the weddings and babies she was planning. She just needed to find the right man. But Elise knew that hope could blind you to all sorts of things. She should have known her ex-partner was straying—she was a detective, for Christ’s sake—but she had ignored any flickers of unease in pursuit of happiness. Had Karen’s unshakable optimism blinded her to online predators? Or had her attacker been closer to home?
She pulled up the Free Spirits video Kiki had shared. Elise recognized some of the members. Mina worked for the estate agency that had sold Elise her house in Ebbing back in 2018; Barry was from the Lobster on the seafront; and she’d seen Ash’s face around the town. She watched the short clip several times, focusing on the two men. Ash Woodward, fair-haired, with sad eyes, was saying something into Karen’s ear, but Elise couldn’t make it out above the noise of the pub. She watched Karen put her hand on Ash’s shoulder. He smiled, but his face went blank when she turned to put an arm around Barry. Barry himself didn’t seem to notice—he was too busy smoldering straight at the reporter’s camera, giving it his all and showing off some expensive-looking dental work.
Karen had told Kiki Nunn she wasn’t seeing either of the men, but she’d also said she was leaving no stone unturned…
Elise’s gaze drifted beyond the Free Spirits and into the Neptune. It’d been a busy night for a Monday. The tables were full, and she could see the backs of people lining the bar. She wondered if someone had been watching Karen then. And making their plan.
EIGHT
KIKI
Saturday, February 15, 2020
“Did you know she was going to ring me?” Miles splutters, rounding on me. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I say. “A hard word from the cops is all part of the job. It means we’ve got something right.”
“What are you even talking about?” he barks. “I could be locked up or something for what you wrote.”
“That’s bullshit!” I snap back. What a baby. And then I remember he’s never worked in a real newsroom, where bollockings are the soundtrack of your day. Miles is one of the new generation of media hires. Where being master of social media trumps news sense—and being young means they don’t have to pay him much.
“No one’s going to put you in a cell,” I say firmly. “The police have got far more important things to do. And so have I. I’m going to try to talk to the victim’s parents.”
The prospect doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. I’ve never liked death knocks. That lurch of nerves as you approach the house, questions bunching in your head. But I’ve found over the years that most bereaved people welcome the chance to talk about their loved ones. Reporters are like the stranger on a train you can open up to about personal feelings because they are not involved. They won’t cry or wail. They just listen and let you talk.
“Will the police be okay with that?” he mutters.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miles,” I call over my shoulder. “We have a free press in this country. Haven’t you heard?”
He puts his head down, and I hear him ringing his mum as I shut the door.
