No Good Comes When You Dig Up the Dead, page 19
“Where was he likely to have gone taking photos at night?” Jack asks.
“He could’ve gone anywhere, but he liked city shots… bokeh lights. Or he’d set up on a motorway bridge to do long exposure car light trails… stuff like that. Why?”
“Just trying to paint a fuller picture,” Jack says. “If Derek did come back that night, it would be useful to know when and where your grandfather was to get a time frame for when the incident occurred, and whether it’s likely that Derek hung around long enough to have still been in the area when you were killed.”
“He puts his photos up online, so check the dates. He usually puts them up within a couple of days when he takes digital shots, but… Well, he might not have been in the mood after he got the news.” I grab a pen and post-it and write down Grandad’s username. “Each photo should have data on it, so you can tell when it was taken.”
“That data could be edited, though,” Jack says.
“I know that.” I get that it’s their job to check everyone’s alibi, but it’s annoying me that Grandad is still their focus. “But he pretty much uses his photo stream to remind himself where he was on any given day.”
“I’ll look into it,” Jack promises. “The coat, the photos, Derek’s disappearance.”
I don’t much care about the ins and outs of it. I’m too stunned by the idea that Derek might have killed me. Derek who gives blood. Derek whose only crimes, as far as I know, are the ownership of half a dozen identically boring coats and a half-arsed comb-over. Or maybe Grandad was right, and those people Derek worked with were wrong ‘uns. Maybe I got in the way of them attacking him. And maybe they came for me next.
35
Facing Margo
POV: Erin
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ophelia grumbles as I unlatch the gate of Grace King’s house.
“Too late now,” I say. “Look, I promised Theo, and I’m not backing out, but if you want to wait in the car, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Liar.” Ophelia follows me up the garden path. “Your hair looks shit, by the way.”
I laugh. “Bitch.” I dyed it an ordinary shade of brown for this. If I want to pass myself off as a solicitor, I can’t be parading around with blue hair.
“Don’t slip up and call him the wrong name,” Ophelia reminds me, nudging me aside to ring the doorbell.
“I won’t.”
I pin a smile to my face when Theo’s aunt opens the door, taken aback for a moment because he really does look like her. I hold out my hand. “Mrs King? I’m Rosie Knowles. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, right. From the solicitors.” She opens the door wider. “Come in.”
“This is my colleague, Willa Burke.” I gesture to Ophelia, who’s choking in the doorway. The inspiration to name her after one of Scotland’s most notorious bodysnatchers struck me in the car, and despite already having our covers planned, I couldn’t resist. Luckily, Theo’s aunt only gives my fake ID a cursory glance, and doesn’t bother asking to see Ophelia’s at all.
“Sorry. Frog in my throat,” Ophelia croaks, glaring daggers at me.
“Let’s get you a glass of water, then,” Grace says, shutting the door behind us and leading the way to the kitchen. “Any other drinks?”
“Water’s fine for both of us,” I tell her.
We sit at the kitchen table, glasses of water in front of us as we wait for Grace to get settled.
“You said you found something of Stephen’s?”
“Yes. As you know, the police were treating his flat as a secondary crime scene since his wallet and phone were found there, but they’ve done all they need to, so our crew has been able to get in there and pack up his things.”
“I can’t believe he instructed solicitors to do this… like he knew something was going to happen.”
“Lots of young people do this nowadays,” I say. “They don’t want their families burdened with such tasks, particularly when timing is critical. For instance, when they’re in a rented place. Families can sometimes find it difficult to deal with things as quickly as landlords would like. Not a problem in Stephen’s case of course, since he owned the flat, but that’s the idea.”
“I see.” Grace nods, her eyes growing red and watery. “He was always a thoughtful lad, so it shouldn’t surprise me really… if that’s what the young ones are doing these days.”
“We found… Well, it wasn’t quite a will, but he was in the process of making one. It’s not likely to be contested since you’re all the family he has. We’re committed to making sure Stephen’s wishes are carried out even though they weren’t formalised.”
“That’s good to hear,” she says. “We’ve been kept in the dark since everything happened.”
“Hopefully, we’ll be able to keep you updated a little better now that we have access to his belongings. There was a very specific request regarding a batch of t-shirts that he wanted Margo to have, so we brought them with us today. There’s a letter for her here as well.”
Theo got the idea last night after speaking to Jack about his grandad’s photos. He made an online photo album, altering the date stamp for the uploads so it looks like he made it months ago, and was updating it until he died. It includes memes, photos of the family together, and silly photos Theo took on his travels to make Margo laugh.
“We always go through books looking for documents since people tend to stuff all sorts in them.” I dig into my bag and pull out a basic white envelope. “It didn’t have an envelope of its own. We found it tucked into a copy of The Colour of Magic, which we also brought along for Margo. He didn’t specify, but…”
“It was his favourite book,” a small voice says from the doorway.
Grace rises from her chair, its rubber feet squeaking on the kitchen floor. “Margo, love. I didn’t hear you get in.” She glances at her watch. “You’re early.”
“Wasn’t feeling well, so Miss Powell sent me home.”
Grace lays a palm on her daughter’s forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.”
“‘Cause I walked home and it’s hot out,” Margo says. “Just a headache, that’s all.”
“Paracetamol?”
I share a look with Ophelia. Margo looks so much like Theo, it’s impossible not to notice.
She nods, eyes cutting sideways to look at us. “Who are they?”
“We’re from the solicitors,” I say. “Stephen had some things in his flat that he wanted you to have.”
Ophelia takes over because I know too much about the meaning behind the t-shirts and I’m not sure I can be objective enough about the bequests to not get mushy. “It’s mostly t-shirts. The letter’s for you.”
Margo lunges at the table, snatching the letter up like it will disappear if she doesn’t get to it fast enough. Once it’s in her hands, she holds it against her chest without opening it. She sits down. “And the book’s for me?”
“It’s where we found the letter, so we think so,” Ophelia says.
“We can’t imagine it will mean as much to anyone else,” I add.
Margo gives me a look that makes me want to bawl my eyes out.
“The t-shirts are mostly Star Wars and Doctor Who. The rest are references to something or other. Not sure what this one’s about,” Ophelia says, eyeing the shirt on top of the pile, which reads, “SOD YOU, THEN.”
Margo smiles, reaching for the t-shirt. “It’s a Death quote. From this book.” She taps on the cover of the Pratchett novel.
Ophelia eyes the next t-shirt in the stack. “Inn-sewer-ants-polly-sea?”
I can’t hold in my smile. “Also from that book.”
Margo smiles back, though it’s a sad little thing. “You like Terry Pratchett?”
“Who doesn’t like Pratchett?” I reply. “If we come across anything else, we’ll bring it over, alright?”
Margo nods, her suddenly solemn face crumpling as tears fill her eyes. She squeezes the Death t-shirt between her fingers. “He told me I’d have to prise this from his cold, dead hands.” She lets out an awkward laugh, then pushes away from the table, grabbing the letter and the book before running out of the kitchen door and thundering up the stairs.
Grace watches her go. “She’ll be happy about this with a bit of distance. The gifts, I mean. It’s still just a bit raw for all of us.”
“We understand,” I say. “I’m sorry our visit is so upsetting.”
“Oh, don’t apologise. This side of the job can’t be pleasant for you either, and I really appreciate you bringing this lot over.” She pats the stack of t-shirts, smoothing the fabric with a wistful smile. “He was such a good boy… so easy to read compared to my other children. He used to hide in his wardrobe if he thought he was in trouble, but if he was upset, he’d climb into the kitchen cupboard, so he could be surrounded by food smells. We always knew what we were dealing with depending on where we found him.”
I recall how Theo sat in the kitchen cupboard when he saw his phone and keys on the table, how he rocked and cried… how he thought there must be something wrong with him. Because why else would someone who knew him murder him in cold blood? My throat tightens, and all I want to do is get home to Theo and hug him.
“Is that everything?” Grace asks.
“For now.”
I make a silent vow to come back if Theo has anything else to get off his chest. It didn’t escape my notice that his aunt talked about him as if he were just another of her own children. I’m sure Theo would like to know that.
Grace nods. “I don’t mean to rush you, it’s just that I’ve got Stephen’s grandfather coming for dinner, and I don’t even have anything ready to go in the freezer.”
Ophelia gives her a confused look, but I know exactly what she means. Theo told me his aunt batch-cooks everything, and always has meals in the freezer. This must’ve hit her so hard.
I rise, taking Ophelia with me. “Of course. We’ll get out of your hair.”
“Thanks again,” Grace says when we’re at the door.
I smile. “You’re welcome, Mrs King.”
“Well, that was awful,” Ophelia says, as I latch the garden gate behind us.
I glance up and down the road. “I wish I could do more for them.”
Sensing that my mood is not quite on the upswing yet, Ophelia lets out a small growl. “Willa fucking Burke? How dare you?”
I cackle as we cross the road. “If the deerskin cap fits, Bodysnatcher.”
36
Theo’ New Theory
POV: Theo
Since the revelation that I can still see through things, I’ve been paranoid about my x-ray vision accidentally making me see underwear, or worse, no underwear. Turns out, I can keep my eyes to myself. There were zero seeing through clothes incidents at work, so at least I can relax on that front.
When I get home on Wednesday, I’m knackered, but I’ve been neglecting Erin’s case, so I pull the stack of notes out from beneath my bed, and sit against the headboard with my laptop.
I’ve been making my own notes, trying to connect the other murdered women, trying to find any link between them and Erin, but I’m beginning to think her murder was truly anomalous.
Then there are the three women murdered by Robert Winters, all within sixty miles of the original spate of murders. Surely they have to be connected.
I’ve been looking into other unsolved murders too, looking for patterns. Amelia Genevieve Martin is on that list alongside Erin’s old name—Paula Johnson.
There’s a reason this happened to me, a link between Erin’s murder and mine. Because what are the chances of me finding the phone of a murderer who targeted women who were cheating on their partners on the same day I called the police claiming to know who killed the woman whose body I found so many years ago? A woman who had both a husband and a lover because the news article mentions both were suspects at one point or another.
The police connected another murder to Amelia’s—that of Pippa Copsey—because they briefly attended the same book club. She was dumped in a quarry, wearing clothes that suggested she was a sex worker. So, now I have eleven women, all potential victims of the same man.
With decades between Erin’s murder, and the murders perpetrated by Robert Winters, maybe we’re looking at a vampire. Just because the bodies weren’t drained or anything, doesn’t mean it couldn’t be a vampire or some other kind of immortal.
Erin said the man was very strong for his size. And how likely is it that if Erin’s murderer and Robert Winters are the same person, that the man is strong enough in his eighties to subdue women? Is he drugging them? Relying on his little old man persona to throw them off guard? Or is he a man in his fifties, forever frozen in time just like any other vampire?
When I told Erin I wished I had access to the Robert Winters murder files, she had them by the next day—regular police files since CasID isn’t investigating. I didn’t ask how she got them.
Turns out the most recent victims weren’t posed the same way as the earlier ones—no customised underwear or any sign that they’d been changed into different clothes, but since the women were all under the impression they were hooking up with someone, I assume they were already dressed up. The unifying factor this time is the bright red lipstick, which had been carelessly applied in all three cases, presumably by Robert Winters himself, right on top of the lipstick they were already wearing.
Is it a coincidence? Some kind of copycat crime? Or is the same man switching up his modus operandi to draw attention away from the similarities of his victims?
Erin shakes my shoulder, jostling me awake. I wasn’t even aware I’d drifted off.
“What’s all this?”
“Just working out some things.” I stuff the notes back in the box. “How was Margo?”
“She was upset, but I could tell she liked the presents.”
“Yeah?”
She smiles softly. “Especially the Death t-shirt.”
My eyes prickle. “I told her—”
“Yeah, I know. She said. She’ll be alright, Teddy.”
I nod, wiping my stupid leaky eyes. “I know. Let me paint your nails.”
“What?”
“I want to paint your nails. Margo used to like me doing hers.”
She leans forward and kisses my hair—my fucking hair—like I’m a child to her. “Fuck, you’re adorable. Come on, then.”
With all the bottles of nail varnish laid out on the dining table beside us, we sit knee to knee. I choose a dark purplish cherry.
“I’m not sure that goes with my hair,” Erin grumbles.
I glance up with a smirk. “You’re really offended by natural hair colours, aren’t you? Anyway, don’t worry because it will match. You wanted black cherry hair for Friday night, right?”
“Yeah, but I told you it was out of stock. I got something mermaidy instead. Should be here tomorrow.”
“You can save it for next time.” I brush the polish along Erin’s thumbnail. “There’s a place in town, so I got you some.”
“You are a legend.”
“I know. And I saw a poster in the shop… The model had cerise tips. It looked amazing, so I got that colour as well, just in case you wanted me to replicate it. I asked the guy behind the counter how to do it… Sounded easy enough.”
“Can we make a start tonight?” she asks. “Finish up tomorrow? I should have enough Vaseline.”
“Why do you need Vaseline?”
She side-eyes me. “I’m not sure I want you anywhere near my hair if you don’t know what the Vaseline’s for.”
I grin. “It acts as a barrier so the dye doesn’t run down your face. See? I listened to the man in the shop. And yes, we can do it tonight, but pizza first.”
“Deal.”
37
The Surprise Guest at Carrie’s Birthday Drinks
POV: Erin
Theo’s team are already seated in a large booth in the bay window when I arrive at The Crescent, talking noisily with animated hands and faces. Theo is smiling at the short girl beside him, and another leans into them to say something. Then the three of them look at me, because I’m staring at them, practically frozen in the act of heading towards the bar.
Theo jumps up the moment he sees me, a massive smile stretching across his face as he waves me over. “Come and meet everyone.”
Shit, just how drunk is he already?
“Or, I should get you a drink first,” he blathers on,
“I’ll get the drinks in,” I say. “What’s everyone having?”
“I like you already,” the short girl says. “Love your hair.”
I smile, and it almost feels like a real one, not the fake ones I lay on for people because my job requires it. “Thanks. Theo did it for me,” I manage to get out, just as Theo lunges, pecking me on the cheek. “How much have you had?”
He grins. “Haven’t even finished my first pint.”
“Might wanna ease up there, Teddy,” I whisper. “Your body’s not used to it.”
Give him a year, and he won’t be able to get drunk on twenty pints—not of regular beer anyway.
He nods, not looking too pissed off about it. “Everyone, this is my best mate, Erin.” He introduces everyone. A soft pudding of a man called Gary gives me a shy smile, and the bloke next to him offers an imperious wave like he’s the King. That’s Adrian, who Theo already told me was a bit of a dickhead. The birthday girl, Carrie, is wearing a plastic tiara and a sash, though her embarrassment at the fact suggests the accessories weren’t her idea. Theo only met Marina on Wednesday, and said his shift dragged because she has no conversational skills, so I make a mental note to sit beside someone else. I already heard all about Shona and Azra, who are Theo’s favourites.
I wait patiently for their orders, then head to the bar, overhearing Adrian say, “Blimey, mate, she’s got a memory like yours.”
