Talking to Strangers, page 8
“Nothing can replace Archie,” he’d whispered, holding her so close she could hardly breathe. “But we need to find a reason to keep going.”
Gavin had been born before the first anniversary. Annie had wept for hours—her grief for her lost son still so raw she couldn’t bear to be touched. Or to touch her new, unnamed baby. The nurses had had to feed him bottles when he woke and only brought him back to the cot beside Annie’s bed when he went to sleep. And she’d lain with her back to him. But on the fourth day, he’d murmured and there’d been no nurses when Annie had called. She’d rolled over and looked at him. Seen that face she felt she’d always known. Breathed in his beautiful sweet, milky smell. Finally, she’d reached for him.
But, of course, poor Gavin hadn’t made everything better. Nothing could.
* * *
—
During the first lull of the morning, Annie volunteered to walk up to the post office with the appointment letters. She told herself it was for some fresh air, but she knew it was so she could check on the current account. There was nothing out of place that she could see and guiltily clicked out of the app. And onto the local news site. She’d told Henry she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t help scrolling quickly through the updates about the killing. Annie was halted by a photograph of Karen laughing wildly at the camera. It had been taken by a reporter called Kiki Nunn, who’d apparently interviewed Karen just days before she died. It was all about her love life. Exposing her loneliness and search for a partner. Annie pored over the tiny, tragic details and felt herself being pulled further into Karen’s story.
There was no harm in it, she told herself as she set up an alert for Karen’s name. And Henry didn’t need to know.
NINETEEN
KIKI
Monday, February 17, 2020
“What?” Miles barks as I try to hover discreetly.
“Morning,” I say, ignoring the tantrum warning. “Where are we with the toxic crew?”
“Who?” He feigns bewilderment and I count to ten in my head. “Oh, is that what you’re calling these jokers?” he mutters. “Look, I’m under pressure from the top boss. There’s been a dip in online traffic.” I know I’m being dismissed, but I don’t move. He’s not getting away from me. “Okay, I’ll work the information when I have time. And you need to find some stories to boost the audience. Can you have a look at TikTok?”
“If we find these men, we’ll have a brilliant story,” I growl. “I’m going back to Ebbing. There’s a police briefing this morning.” And I make my exit.
I’m early, so I make a detour and cruise past Karen’s salon to see if the police are still there. Might be a helpful SOCO I can talk to. The lights are on—someone’s in there—but the door’s locked when I try it. I knock on the window, and a weeping teen drifts out of the back room, pale and skinny in a cropped T-shirt and leggings.
“Are you the police? They told me to bring the keys and wait for them.” The girl sniffs. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to let anyone else in.”
“I’m a reporter covering Karen’s death,” I say. “I’d love to talk to you about her? You must have known her better than most.”
The girl stops crying and pulls the door open. “I did,” she says. “I’m Destinee. I only started just before Christmas, but Karen let me lock up and everything.” Her teeth chatter.
“Are you cold?” I say. “It’s freezing in here.”
Destinee wraps her arms around herself and shakes her head. “I can’t believe this is happening to me,” she whispers.
Well, it happened to Karen, really, didn’t it? I want to say, but instead go with “It must be such a shock for you.”
She nods.
“But perhaps you can help find the person who attacked Karen?”
Destinee’s eyes widen, and I catch her glancing at herself in the mirror. Star of her own true crime drama.
“Who was she seeing? Did she mention any names? People use nicknames on some of the dating apps, don’t they? Did she talk about someone called X-Man or Captain? Or Lenny?”
Destinee mouths each name silently and shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. But you should ask Mina. They were best buds.”
“Okay. Maybe she put something in the diary? On the computer?” I push us forward. Karen’s dates could be sitting there on the screen.
Destinee types in a password, and I crane forward to scan the entries.
“There were lots of appointments on Friday,” I say as I scribble down the names.
“Yeah, well, it was Valentine’s, wasn’t it?”
“Course. I didn’t get any cards—I bet you did,” I say, keeping it light.
She gives me a watery smile. “Three,” she says, unable to hide her triumph.
“Lucky you,” I say, scrolling back and forth. “Did Karen?”
Destinee shakes her head sorrowfully.
I flick back through the diary, and the initials AW reappear more than any other name. “Who is Karen’s three o’clock on Tuesdays?” I ask.
“That’s Ash Woodward,” Destinee says. “He comes in every week for a trim.”
It’s the shy man who was standing next to Karen at the Free Spirits do.
“His hair must grow fast,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t think he came for the haircut,” Destinee says, all serious. “He just loved chatting to Karen. Well, she did the chatting, to be fair. He lives on his own in a caravan. I dunno, he gives me the creeps, but Karen liked him.”
“Right,” I say and underline his name in my notebook.
Destinee sniffles noisily, and I pull a tissue out of a box on the counter and hand it to her.
“Are you on Karen’s social media?” I ask.
“Twitter and Instagram. We post pictures of wedding hair and stuff.”
“What about other platforms? Not the work ones.”
Destinee shook her head. “Nah, it’d be like following my mum. Don’t want to see that.”
I can practically hear Pip saying exactly the same thing to her mates about me.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask, and Destinee sniffs again.
“I’ll have to get another job, won’t I?” she says, Karen seemingly forgotten.
I get back in my car and wonder how long it will be before everyone else forgets about her, too. But not me. Karen Simmons could be my ticket out of mind-numbing local news. I’m not about to let her fade away.
TWENTY
ELISE
Monday, February 17, 2020
One of the young detectives was peering sulkily at his screen in the incident room. Elise hovered by the door, fumbling for his name. She remembered that he was new to the team. He’d been assigned because he was from the area, originally. And HQ thought she could use someone with local knowledge. DC…? Did it begin with P?
“Andy,” someone called across the room, and the sulker looked up.
Thank you. Elise walked over.
“How are you doing, Andy?” she asked, hoping his full name would come to her. “Are you working Ash Woodward?”
The young detective straightened his face to full attention. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“I prefer ‘boss,’ ” Elise said. “ ‘Ma’am’ makes me sound like the Queen Mother.” DC Andy Thomson suddenly pinged into her brain, and she acknowledged it with a nod of relief. “Have you found any bird clubs Ash belongs to yet?” she went on.
“I’m just having a look, boss,” he said. “They’re all nutters, aren’t they? Sitting in bushes in their waterproofs, waiting for some crow or something to fly past. Where’s the enjoyment in that?”
“Well, be sure to ask when you speak to them.”
Elise retreated to her office to look at the sex offenders who lived among the unsuspecting people of Ebbing. They were everywhere—more than sixty thousand nationwide, hidden in communities like this one. Flashers, voyeurs, and pedophiles. Quietly joining in, being good neighbors, picking up milk and bread for the pensioner next door. Until they weren’t. Like Nicky Donovan.
Caro had already combed through the names, and a couple of the DCs were out knocking on doors.
She wondered when Mal next door would knock on hers. She’d have to get some beers for the fridge in case he didn’t drink wine. And buy some new lipstick.
Elise was still doing her shopping list when Andy Thomson tapped and came in, his face flushed and already talking.
“One of the old birders says Ash Woodward was in trouble when he was a teenager,” he blurted.
Elise frowned. “There’s nothing on him on the Police National Computer. What sort of trouble?”
“It was something about stealing women’s underwear. It must have been hushed up.”
It was just a crumb, but he’d been nervous when they spoke to him and had clearly been besotted with Karen. Elise stood, her pulse quickening.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s chase it down. Ash is—what?” She looked at her notes. “Thirty-nine? So in his teens in the mid-nineties. Is there anyone still around from this station who might remember?”
“The nineties? That’s thirty years ago. They’re probably all dead.” Thomson grinned.
“Hardly,” Elise bristled, trying not to take it personally. The young DC blushed. “Sorry, boss,” he muttered as she dialed the duty inspector.
“You want Bill,” he said when he’d picked up and she’d told him what she needed to know. “He’s a legend here—retired but still living in Southfold. Actually, I think it’s the old-timers’ lunch at the station today. I’ll find his address, but he might be in the canteen. Oh, and can you tell whoever has parked in the chief super’s space to move sharpish? He’ll go apeshit if that vehicle is still there when he gets in.”
“Absolutely,” Elise said. Relations with the local force always needed careful handling when the Major Crime Team arrived to run an inquiry. They didn’t want to be seen stomping all over Southfold’s turf—she’d have to have a word with the team.
* * *
—
Bill was sitting at a table of old boys at the back of the canteen, pushing a plant-based fry-up around his plate.
“Be a love and take this horrible slop away,” he said to a passing female officer.
“DC Thomson can do that,” Elise said, adding, “can’t you, Andy?” when the young detective constable hesitated.
“Right, well, now then,” Bill muttered, starting to roll a cigarette for outside. “What can I do you for?”
“We’re interested in a local called Ash Woodward,” Elise said.
“Ash? Up at the caravan park? He’s Gus Woodward’s grandson. Gus was desk sergeant here back in the day. He died yonks ago. Had a great send-off. Anyway, why are you asking?”
“He knew our murder victim, Karen Simmons,” Elise replied. “He was part of her singles group.”
“Was he? Well, I wouldn’t figure him for hurting anyone. Ash is soft as lights—he saves birds with broken wings.”
“Yes, he said when I spoke to him yesterday. But we’ve heard something about Ash stealing women’s underwear when he was young,” Elise said.
Bill licked the gum on the Rizla cigarette paper thoughtfully. “It was nothing,” he said. “Stealing underwear off washing lines—a knicker nicker, we called them. You don’t get it now, do you? Not now everyone’s got a tumble dryer. Anyway, he was caught in the act. Clothes pegs in his mouth.”
“And on his nipples, I bet,” another old copper at the table snorted. Elise rolled her eyes.
“No, Ash was just a lad—fourteen or fifteen,” Bill said. “And everyone liked his granddad, so it was made to disappear.” He fluttered his hands like a magician and grinned, but Elise didn’t smile back.
“Come on,” the old copper said. “He never did it again.”
“That we know of,” Elise muttered.
TWENTY-ONE
ELISE
Monday, February 17, 2020
“Right. Come on, DC Thomson, we’ll go and talk to the lad at reception first,” Elise said to her new sidekick as they arrived at Sunny Sands. She marched into the hut at the gate, and the sullen boy remained scowling at his phone. But he brightened a bit when he caught sight of Thomson and nodded a greeting.
“All right, Andy?” he said.
“Yep. How about you, Luke?” the DC replied, all matey. “How’s your rugby training going?”
“Good.”
“Is Ash Woodward about?”
“No, he cycled off this morning and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Hasn’t he got a car?” Andy Thomson said, leaning on the counter.
“Nope. He hates them.”
“Eco-warrior, is he?”
“Dunno. He’s a bit of a pain in the arse, though—him and his birds. He feeds the gulls, you know? They’re like rats with wings. And then they crap all over the statics and I have to scrape it off. It sets like concrete, you know.”
Elise cleared her throat to break up the lad fest. “Any idea where he went?” she growled.
Luke shrugged without bothering to look at her. “Hey,” Elise snapped, exasperated. “I’m talking to you. Ring us when he comes back. This is the number. Okay?” The lad nodded.
“Friend of yours, DC Thomson?” Elise muttered when they got outside.
“Nah, he’s just a kid,” Andy said. “I used to help with the junior rugby coaching. He’s not a bad lad, really.”
“Right,” she murmured.
She didn’t speak when they got back in the car, but as they drove through Ebbing town center, she suddenly instructed DC Thomson to park up. Ash Woodward might return quickly, and Elise didn’t want to be driving back and forth all day.
“Okay,” Andy chirped. “I’m starving—how about you, boss?”
Andy disappeared into the bakery on the High Street and Elise waited, eyes straying to Mal’s house, willing him to come out.
Lines of inquiry were forming a tangled mess in her head. She was trying to unpick and prioritize while fighting off random thoughts of her new neighbor and a fizz of anticipation. Stop! she commanded herself and hoped she hadn’t said it out loud. She wished she had brought Caro with her instead of Andy Thomson. He was all right, but she couldn’t talk to him like her real oppo. But Caro was busy directing the house-to-house. Andy would have to do. She looked around for him.
“Come on, Andy,” she said as he emerged from the bakery with a sausage roll. “We’re walking Karen’s route from the Neptune to her flat. You can eat as we go.”
Karen had turned right out of the pub—the newsagent’s had CCTV of her leaning her head against their window—and then she must have walked past the fish-and-chips shop, then right, up Shore Drive, where the new houses had been built, and finally left into Creek End. A fifteen-minute walk. Maybe twenty if you were a bit pissed, thought Elise. It was all residential—many of the front windows were only feet from the pavement, and there were plenty of streetlights. Karen must have stood out in her red disco dress. But only two witnesses had come forward so far. Both were dog walkers, dragging their pets out in the drizzle for a last pee. They had placed Karen halfway home, on her own, and looking “a bit worse for wear,” according to the owner of the golden retriever. “Pebbles was getting wet,” the dachshund’s mummy had explained, “so we didn’t stop.”
But had someone else? Had someone offered her a lift? Someone she knew? Would Karen have got into a stranger’s car? To get out of the rain? Or because she’d been lonely? She’d had a lot of cocktails, and when you’re drunk everyone can look like a friend—or a prospect.
“What do you think happened to Karen?” Elise asked DC Thomson when they stood in front of the salon, looking up at the drawn curtains of the flat.
He swallowed hard, trying to clear a wodge of flaky pastry and pink meat. “My money’s on her reaching home safely and picking up her car to drive to Brighton. Because it’s disappeared, hasn’t it?”
“True. But we haven’t picked it up on any of the cameras on the main roads. And where the hell is it now? And if she went to Brighton, why did she end up back in a wood in Ebbing?”
Thomson nodded thoughtfully and stuffed the last inch of his snack into his mouth.
“Maybe she got a lift back with the killer,” he mumbled.
TWENTY-TWO
KIKI
Monday, February 17, 2020
I slam my car door shut, my frustration mounting. The so-called briefing was a complete waste of time. The press officer wasn’t making eye contact with anyone as she reeled off a series of “no news on this at the moment” to our questions.
“Why have you called this press conference if you haven’t got anything new to say?” I complained finally, and she glared at me.
“Because the media wanted one,” she snapped. “And we are making a fresh appeal for sightings of the victim’s car.”
I stomped off afterward. I didn’t even bother with the invitation from a couple of reporters to go for a quick drink at the pub. Everything felt like it was being held at the gate: my investigation and the police’s. I can hear the rasping growl of my first news editor—a sixty-a-day man with nicotine-stained eyebrows—imparting his wisdom: “When in doubt, go back to the beginning.” Might as well, I think gloomily. And then pick up speed. Isn’t the scene of the crime where killers return? Maybe he’s been back? I’ve heard of murderers laying flowers, to revisit the moment. My energy is back full bore, and I roar off like I’m in bloody Happy Valley or something. The tires on my ancient VW Golf squeal to the evident alarm of my compadres. “Shit! Where’s she going?” I hear the diva from the telly shout to her cameraman.
