Talking to Strangers, page 6
She wondered how long she’d have to live here before she stopped being an outsider. Or if she even wanted that. She could end up like Ronnie.
As she reached the homestretch, she tried to unpack her plans for the day. The media were all about Karen’s online dating, but Elise wanted to focus on Karen’s immediate circle. The statistics showed that most victims knew their killer. Despite what the papers said, the streets were far safer for women than their front rooms. Their attackers were overwhelmingly jealous boyfriends, violent husbands, angry exes, or, occasionally, controlling fathers. Not strangers.
Elise had sat across from these men in interview rooms over the years, listening to their self-serving excuses. “She knew she was winding me up. She wanted to provoke me,” one fifteen-stone laborer had said after stabbing his seventeen-year-old former girlfriend to death with a kitchen knife. He’d got a life sentence. But then, so had his victim.
The team was looking at all of Karen’s known connections, but the waters were muddied by the online strangers in her life. This could end up an electronic needle-in-a-haystack job. She crammed her hat back down over her mad hair. She’d better get on with it, then.
She was on her way home to change when she remembered she’d meant to pick up milk and popped into the supermarket.
The assistant at the till was talking about the case, her face creased with concern. “I’m not walking home from work on my own after dark. My eldest comes and gets me.”
Her customer, a tired-looking woman in a dirty anorak and old leggings, stopped packing her shopping and settled on one hip to consider the matter. “I know. He could still be out there, watching us.”
“Don’t,” the assistant breathed. “Mind you, she was asking for trouble, wasn’t she? Doing that online stuff. Everyone knows it’s just for sex.”
Elise sighed loudly and picked up a Snickers that was winking at her from the display. She looked at her watch. She was due at the hospital morgue for the postmortem in an hour, and she couldn’t turn up in her sweaty tracksuit bottoms.
“I know,” the customer said. “What the hell was she thinking? At her age?”
Elise gritted her teeth. She wanted to shout that Karen was only forty-five. Not past it by any stretch of the imagination. That middle age was not some sort of cutoff point for desire or falling in love. She hated that kind of knee-jerk victim blaming. Who were these two—or anyone—to judge Karen for dating online? It was the default way to meet anyone now. The new normal.
Not that Elise was in the market herself since her ex Hugh’s departure three years ago. No way. She should never have hooked up with another copper in the first place, but he’d seemed so perfect for her—and the only other men she seemed to meet were criminals.
And, for almost ten years, she’d thought she and DI Hugh Ward were a team. She didn’t want kids, and he didn’t see the need to get married—they were both ambitious and happy to skip a cozy family life for their careers. But at some point, without her noticing, he’d changed his mind and dumped her for a younger woman he’d met jogging in the park.
For weeks, they’d managed to avoid each other at work, until Hugh had been seconded to another force for a project and Elise had stopped having to check rooms before entering. She’d thought she was over it, but six months later she’d learned on the grapevine that Hugh and the jogger had got engaged, and she’d spent a week sleeping and weeping. And then she’d put him away.
She’d really thought she had. But Hugh had sent a “get well” card when he’d heard about her cancer a year ago, and Elise had kept it under her pillow for weeks. They’d bumped into each other during an investigation last year, and it had floored her, but she’d managed to style it out. Better than he had, in fact. She was so over him. At least, that was what she told her mum and Ronnie when they breached all norms of privacy to inquire about her love life.
“I’m perfectly happy on my own. I don’t need a man,” she snapped. “I’ve got a career that fulfills me. I haven’t got time for all that flirting and nonsense now.”
But they weren’t fooled. They’d somehow joined forces to find her a new partner. She should never have introduced them when her mum had come for a visit last year. She suspected they now spoke on the phone.
“Everyone needs someone,” Ronnie had said. “You haven’t even got a goldfish.”
“You’re hardly an advert for domestic bliss!” Elise had laughed. “The first time we met, you were devising ways to murder your husband.”
“I’m still working on it. Anyway, I’m not talking about Ted—you need a real man.”
Back in the shop, the woman in the anorak was fishing half-heartedly for her purse, and Elise edged forward, trying to pressure her into action.
“Some women are their own worst enemies,” the shop assistant said, folding the long receipt slowly and unnecessarily. “Throwing themselves at men. My friend saw her that night. At the pub. She was making a complete spectacle of herself.”
Elise cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Can I pay?”
The two women glared at her. “No need to be rude,” the customer muttered under her breath.
“I need to get to work,” Elise muttered back as she waved her contactless card and grabbed the milk.
When she got outside she realized she’d left the Snickers behind and marched back in.
“She’s the one with cancer,” she heard the assistant say.
“Well, that can make you go funny, can’t it?” the customer said.
“It can,” Elise snapped as she whisked up the bar and left them open-mouthed.
* * *
—
Caro and Aoife Mortimer were waiting when she pushed through the door to the viewing gallery.
Below, Karen’s body lay on its back, chest and arms marbled by death.
“Sorry, I got held up,” Elise said to Caro and repeated it over the gallery microphone.
“It’s okay. Let’s get on.” Aoife adjusted her visor and turned to begin work.
Elise sat back and tried not to breathe too deeply. The first PM she’d ever attended had made her gag, and she’d never got past it. She’d tried everything—vapor rub under her nose (which only made it worse), a relaxation tape, and herbal remedies—but nothing worked. She had learned not to make a fuss, though; she breathed slowly and evenly through her mouth. The technique had worked well, but chemotherapy had heightened her sense of smell, and every note still hit her like a slap to the face.
Aoife glanced up at the gallery and caught her eye. “Okay?” she mouthed. Elise nodded and looked across at Caro. Her sergeant loved postmortems and leaned forward to watch every move, her nose practically on the glass.
The pathologist’s commentary as she explored and exposed the body was brisk and to the point.
“There are superficial abrasions and scratches on the face and nose, possibly from vegetation,” she said, carefully removing soil from the nostrils and then opening the mouth. “A laceration of the frenulum.” Elise found herself automatically touching her tongue to the ridge of tissue between her teeth and lip. “Abrasions and scratches on the knees. All evidence of a struggle with the victim on her front.”
Elise nodded to herself and watched as the pathologist moved down the body. “There’s deep bruising to the muscles of the back and sides of the chest. I would say the assailant put their full weight on her.”
“You mean they sat on her?” Caro asked.
Aoife looked up and nodded. “Or lay. I’ll have to wait for the samples to come back, but it looks very likely she suffocated.”
“What about sexual assault?” Elise said.
“Well, I’ll send sex swabs to check for recent activity, but I’m not seeing any evidence of an assault. No bruising or tearing of the perineum.”
“It could be a sex game that went wrong?” Elise muttered.
“They don’t go much wronger than this, do they?” Caro replied.
“But who was she playing it with?” Elise murmured. “Let’s clear the ground in Ebbing first. Starting with the men in the Free Spirits. Have you looked at Kiki’s video again?”
Caro opened it on her phone.
“See!” Elise jabbed her finger at the screen. “Look at that body language between Ash Woodward and our victim. He looks frozen in front of the camera until she touches him. Then he relaxes and smiles for the first time. And that look on his face when she turns away to Barry Sherman.”
“Never mind that,” Caro said, and paused the clip. “Watch Karen’s hand.”
Elise peered closer and saw the hairdresser’s hand secretly snake round behind Sherman. “Look at his eyes light up!” she gasped. “She’s touching his arse.”
“I wouldn’t do that to a man I didn’t want to sleep with,” Caro muttered. “Or wasn’t already.”
FOURTEEN
KIKI
Sunday, February 16, 2020
We’re meeting in a pub I know, next to the railway station. I’m not taking any chances in case he’s a weirdo. Or Karen’s killer, my head whispers. It’s big and busy with a ladies near the exit and a taxi rank right outside. Just in case I need to make my escape. The nerves are making my heart drum against my ribs, and I feel a bit lightheaded as I scan the room.
“Hello, Kiki, I hope I’m not late.” A man who looks like he could be my date’s dad is standing a fraction too close to me at the bar. He’s never forty-nine.
“Er, Eamonn? Hello. I was just about to get a drink—what would you like?”
“A woman who takes charge.” Eamonn grins and lets another customer push him even closer. “But I’ll get these.”
I ask for a white wine spritzer and grit my teeth. It’s going to be a long afternoon.
“So,” I say, once we find a table and I’ve shifted my stool back another foot. “This is all a bit new for me. Have you been dating online long?”
“Awhile. I split up with my wife a couple of years ago, you see. What’s your story?”
I’m sensing Eamonn doesn’t really do foreplay.
“I moved down from London recently and I’m just finding my feet, really.”
“Right, well, you should try the singles nights in town,” Eamonn offers. “They’re brilliant. No one comes away disappointed.”
I look at the man sitting opposite me—the bed-hair rosette on the side of his head, T-shirt with radiator creases across the stomach—and try to imagine his home life. Microwave meals on the sofa in front of bad porn. I bet he sends dick pics.
“Not sure about nightclubs, to be honest,” I say. “They’re not really my scene—it’s so hard to talk against that loud music, isn’t it?”
“I’m not much of a talker, if you know what I mean?” He leers. “Man of action, me.”
My stomach clenches, and I take a restorative gulp of warm spritzer.
“Right,” I say. “But it’s a bit risky, isn’t it? I’m definitely nervous about leaving with someone I know nothing about, late at night.”
He shrugs. “But that’s part of the fun. I love a lucky-dip date. A bad experience can still be worth it.”
“Right, but look what happened to that poor woman in Ebbing. What was her name?” I say, pretending to struggle. “Was it Karen something?”
“Karen Simmons,” Eamonn mumbles, and then takes a long slurp of his beer and belches quietly. I try not to hold my breath. Did he know her? I shudder despite myself.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks. “We could move to a table away from the door?”
I shake my head.
“Anyway, you don’t need to worry about ending up like her,” he carries on. “She liked a drink a bit too much, by all accounts. She was the sort who always said yes to a date. Asking for it, really.”
“What? Being murdered?” I say a bit too loudly. It’s an outrageous comment, but that’s not what’s raising the hairs on my arms. How the hell does he know if Karen liked a drink or not? I look at that doughy face, searching for something that reveals his hidden nature. But there’s nothing.
Eamonn loses the leer.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend,” he says, then smiles apologetically, picks up his empty glass, and waggles it in front of my face. “Another?”
My stomach is churning and I desperately want to say no but I nod. There’s no way I’m leaving now.
When he sits back down, I’m ready. “You seem to know quite a lot about Karen,” I say and lean in. “How did you meet her?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t. But other people did. They’ve been talking about her online.”
“Who’s talking about her?” I push.
“Oh, just some blokes I chat to sometimes. We share an interest—in meeting women and such. And swap info. You know, if someone is a bunny boiler or doesn’t wash.”
I realize my mouth is hanging open and clamp it shut.
“I’m sure the girls do it, too,” he adds quickly.
“Really?” I mutter. “As I say, I’m a bit too new to all this to have plugged into that sort of circle. Sounds useful, though.” I coax him onward. “How did you find them?”
“I spend a lot of time online, in dating chat rooms and forums. I got talking to X-Man—he’s another Brighton football club supporter. And he introduced me to some of the others—Lenny, Deadpool, the Captain, and Bear and the rest. They’re a good bunch of blokes. It’s funny, we talk most days but we’ve never actually met.”
“So X-Man talked about Karen?”
“Yeah, turned out he’d had a date with her once. He gave it a three out of five.”
“When?” I blurt, and Eamonn looks startled. I feel the rush of adrenaline turn on the heat in my chest and curse my treacherous hormones. I wonder if I can possibly be as red as I feel and put a hand to my cheek. Eamonn doesn’t seem to notice that I’m on fire, so I stumble on. “Sorry, I mean, it must have been a terrible shock for him when she died,” I mumble.
Eamonn nods slowly. “Him and the others,” he murmurs. “Some of them had a go, too. She was a popular girl, it turned out.”
I gulp down my wine as fast as I can so I can begin my search for this vile brotherhood. I reach behind me for my coat. “Look, it has been nice to meet you,” I say, “but I really need to get going now. Good luck with everything.”
“Go?” he splutters. “But I’ve bought you two drinks.”
Outside, I walk fast to the taxi rank and check behind me before getting into a cab.
I sit scrolling through possible fake superheroes on my phone. There are loads, and I need to make a proper list and plan. I rest my head on the window and replay the conversation.
Three out of five. And I find myself wondering what X-Man deducted points for. What I would score. I shudder. I’m truly in Karen’s world now.
FIFTEEN
ELISE
Sunday, February 16, 2020
The Lobster Shack car park was only half-full when Elise and Caro drew up. The Sunday lunch crowd had dribbled away, and inside, Barry Sherman was sitting on a stool on the customers’ side of the bar. Elise took in the heavily muscled shoulders, the carefully curated stubble, the luminous veneers, and the tattooed dragon tail creeping out of his rolled-up shirtsleeve. And wondered how often he looked in a mirror…
“Life can be funny, can’t it?” he was musing, legs wide, hands on thighs, holding forth loudly to a couple of wide-eyed girls. “It was meant to be a three-week gig here, minding the pub while the owners went on holiday. But”—he shrugged and allowed himself a small smirk—“things went a bit tits up— Oops, sorry, ladies. Got complicated, I mean.”
Elise risked a glance at Caro. “Ladies!” her sergeant mouthed. “What is this—1950?”
“Mr. Sherman,” Elise cut in, “can we have a word? We’re investigating Karen Simmons’s death, and I understand you were part of her singles group.”
One of the girls gasped and nudged her friend, and Barry quickly hopped off his stool to take the officers farther down the bar.
“No need to tell everyone,” he hissed.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was a secret,” Elise said crisply.
“Well, it isn’t, but I just dabble. I’ve met some nice girls, actually.”
Girls, not women, then, Elise noted.
“Was Karen Simmons one of those girls?” she asked, and Sherman’s charmer mask slipped a couple of inches.
“No,” he muttered. “Course not. I just went to a few things Karen put on—pub nights and bowling, that kind of thing. I thought it would be a good way to meet new people. It can be tricky to have a social life when you work in the hospitality game.”
“So, was it always in a group?” Elise pushed on. “Or did the two of you meet on your own? You looked very friendly at the last Free Spirits do at the Neptune.”
“Were you there?” Sherman mumbled. “I didn’t see you.”
“No, but a reporter with a camera was. I can show you the video if you like.”
Sherman glared. “Karen had had a drink,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she could be a bit handsy when she was pissed. So, like I said, no. I’ve never been on a date—or on my own with her. Karen wasn’t my type. I don’t really go for the older woman.”
Elise’s hackles rose. “How old are you, Mr. Sherman?”
“Er, thirty-nine.”
“So she was only six years older,” she countered.
“Well, yeah, but, as I say, not my type.”
Elise looked down the bar at the twentysomething blondes he would doubtless revisit as soon as she and Caro left.
“It was a good night, though,” Sherman added. “I went on somewhere with someone I met in the pub.”
“I see. Did Karen ever talk to you about who she was seeing?”
