Any One of Us, page 4
Though, even at the best of times, sleep was a precarious commodity. The one aspect of life that can’t be conquered with effort. How cruel, she thought, that the most desirable thing exists utterly outside of her control. Worse than that, relaxation rejects endeavour. The harder she tries, the more she fails. The more she fails, the harder she tries. And on she goes into the night.
She kept thinking about all those people from the school year photo. But more than any, she thought about herself. Standing there in the middle, on the left, all those teenage insecurities she’d tried to hide.
These uniformed children were adults now. Married. Kids. Careers. But still, those red Xs mounting up, scattershot over the coming decades – it’d be a neat crosshatch pattern before too long. That little red cross is going to get us all, she thought, echoing her own words as her mind’s favourite topic took hold yet again.
And out there in all this death and shame, the seagulls circled, hours passed and, somehow, it was suddenly loud. Her internal clock had dropped the ball. The morning alarm was like a siren, guttural and deep under the pillow – a movie trailer foghorn announcing that the day is ready. Wake. The. Hell. Up. So she did.
Day one. Morning routine. Horrifying buffet breakfast in the hotel’s sprawling, soulless restaurant. Haunted eyes of elderly staff who looked both alarmed and grateful to have guests.
Outside. Fresh light. Fog gone. Gulls. The sun adding a glow to half of the overcast sky. Huge beach puddles on the flat sand, so still, perfect reflections indistinguishable from the clouds above. Like portals down into the earth. And she walked along the pavement, the seawall rails. Turned left, across the road. And up. Always up. Her thighs soon aching. They used to joke that, no matter which way you were going, every route in Missbrook Bay would take you up a hill.
Half a mile later and she was turning into the car park at the side of the police station. Or, rather, the office that remained. The reception was long gone. Budget cuts had closed the door to members of the public years ago.
It was an old building. Taller than it needed to be. Lichen on every brick, crumbling moss between. Overgrown plant life on the back walls, thick ivy hanging down to crawl – like some ancient ruin. Tree roots bulged beneath paving slabs at the front, nature shrugging the town off its back, reclaiming what we stole.
Ruby had arrived fifteen minutes early. She typed the code into the side door, which beeped and clunked open. She was simply never late for anything. So, as she went in through the corridor, she was annoyed to hear Jay’s voice coming from the briefing room. He’d already started. Had she misremembered the time? Was her memory failing her right out of the gates? These concerns disappeared when she checked the email. Instant vindication – 10am. Her phone had even added it to the calendar automatically.
The door was propped open, so she slipped in and stood against the wall. Jay, mid-sentence, gave her a quick nod and an expression that could have meant, “Oh, shit, yeah, I told you 10am, sorry about that.” But she was probably reading too much into it. Especially as she knew Jay well enough to bet that he wasn’t sorry.
There was a long table, with ten or so detectives sitting around it. White shirts, lanyards hanging from their necks. Between them, coffee mugs, watercooler cups, paper and folders strewn across the pale wooden surface. She vaguely recognised a few of the officers. Though, like everyone in this town, there was always a glimmer of familiarity.
“—Missbrook Heights alums,” Jay was saying, in his low monotone voice. “And all attended the recent reunion.” He was sitting at the head of the table, a laptop in front of him, the screen beamed up onto the wall for all to see. “As are some of us.” He made brief eye contact with Ruby again. “Inquiries at the school are ongoing but there is still plenty more to be done.”
The screen behind him changed. A close-up photograph of what looked like blue string. But, zoomed in, the tiny fibres were as thick as rope.
“Forensically, we have been running a bit thin on the ground,” he said. “However, we have now firmed up the clothing fibres, which you can see here. These appear not to belong to the victims or, it seems, their close relatives. As long as that remains the case, it’s reasonably safe to assume a dark-blue jacket is all we’ve really got.” Jay still spoke like a robot, no intonation, no up and down – just a constant flow of words, like he was reading from an autocue. “Fibres were found near Scott Hopkins’ and Elizabeth Gregory’s bodies, though no similar trace on Mary Talbot. Nevertheless, we are proceeding as though they’re connected.”
The recap that followed seemed to be for Ruby’s benefit. Or maybe other people at this table were also fresh. Either way, she listened intently, even though she knew this story well.
It went like this. Thirty-six-year-old Mary Talbot was walking home across the Sammer’s Lodge park grounds on the night of the Missbrook Heights class of ’99 school reunion. She was approached, most likely from behind, and was struck eight times with a blunt instrument. Her death occurred around 1am with an elderly hiker discovering her body five and a half hours later.
Four days passed and then almost precisely the same thing happened to Scott Hopkins. Out near his family’s farmhouse, he was alone, walking at least three dogs. Again, the attack appeared to come from behind. Which meant either he did not see the assailant or, more likely as it was still daylight, he trusted them enough to turn his back. He too was hit in the head, though how many times remained a mystery. The damage was described in the notes as “catastrophic and comprehensive”, which, while unusually descriptive for a coroner, painted an adequate picture.
Elizabeth, the third victim, was jogging through the woods just five hundred metres from her home and, unfortunately, wasn’t killed quite as efficiently as the other two. There was evidence of a struggle. At any rate, something blunt. Something fast.
Despite what may well have been noisy encounters, there were no witnesses, no suggestion of sadism, nothing sexual and no obvious evidence had been left behind. Which meant whoever did it wanted them dead as quickly and as discreetly as possible.
A new slide appeared. A photograph of Elizabeth, lying face down on the woodland floor, in the mulch and twigs, leaves clinging to her scuffed, muddied clothes. Black leggings, white trainers, a fluorescent pink gym top – dressed for her evening run. The wire from her headphones snaking off into the undergrowth.
“Interestingly,” Jay said, “the head injuries are consistent across all three. However, it appears going from the overview that some of the damage to Elizabeth Gregory’s skull was inflicted posthumously. This, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, is strange. Sufficient time had elapsed after the first few strikes, which were to the face and neck, and appear to be the primary cause of death. It seems the perpetrator waited, turned her over, and then struck her repeatedly. Perhaps they hadn’t realised she was dead? Perhaps they had second thoughts? Either way, it seems that the ferocity came a little later. Hesitance would be consistent with the idea that the suspect knew these people well.”
Ruby looked at the photograph, at poor Elizabeth on the ground. Then she pictured someone smashing the back of her skull with a blunt object. A hammer? Caved in like a coconut. Blood streaming off over their shoulder on the backswing. It had speckled all the way up to the tree branches above. Bad, hey, she thought. Emotionally, though, Ruby felt nothing. Less than numb. This information was simply part of a larger problem that she had to solve. The most efficient thing now would be to listen, absorb the details and set aside any negative emotions associated with her friend’s death. Gentle, kind, loving Elizabeth. Thud, thud, thud.
It was hard enough with strangers, but this? Ruby did wonder whether she would be able to navigate such vivid imagery with a sober mind. Or would those rambling thoughts take hold and drag her down into some panicky place filled with all the horror any rational person should feel? Probably.
Good job she was absolutely wired, then. Very much online, despite the jetlag, which lingered somewhere behind her wide, stinging eyes.
“In other recent developments,” Jay gestured towards Ruby, “the NCA has been kind enough to lend us one of its best and I’m sure Ruby’s unique insight on this will be welcomed around the table. We’d love some behavioural science advice. Big-picture stuff.”
She stepped forwards, notepad clutched to her chest, and sat down at one of the empty chairs, between two older male officers. After an awkward introduction, with a few polite waves and smiles, she looked around the room.
There was a long pause. And Ruby realised that all eyes were on her. As though she was going to provide a well-rehearsed speech about the offender. What kind of person they are. What gets them off. The type of creatures they probably hurt when they were young.
But, having read through every single piece of evidence, made reams of notes and speculated for days, she had found no answers. Nothing aside from the obvious conclusions they’d no doubt spotted themselves. The perpetrator was violent, the kind of person capable of smashing three human skulls in a series of evidently premeditated attacks. But this was not exactly news.
So, she just slowly shook her head. She wanted them to understand that she really didn’t have anything extra to add. Not yet. There was nothing firm enough to be any more than good old-fashioned conjecture.
“I have no idea,” Ruby said, eyes on her notepad in front of her. She looked up, around the room again. “It would be difficult to overstate how unusual this is.” Another silence, they wanted her to at least have a go. “But . . .” she took a breath, “if I were to bet, then . . .”
She echoed what she’d shared with Will – the basics. Someone local, someone who attended the reunion, someone who appears to be both lucky and alarmingly competent, judging by the lack of evidence and eyewitnesses.
Jay clicked the mouse and now the full school year photo she’d emailed him last night was glowing on the screen above his head. Though this version did not include Ruby’s red crosses.
“So,” Jay said. “The class of ’99.” His eyes always half-dipped like he didn’t have the energy to care. “Thanks to our collective knowledge of offender behaviour, the many decades of experience we have in this very room, we have narrowed it down to one hundred and sixty people.”
There were a few smiles – this was said in jest, an amicable jab. If anything, it seemed to be camaraderie; Jay was relieved that Ruby had reached the same empty conclusions as them. They really hadn’t missed anything. At least, nothing obvious to her.
She knew it wouldn’t help the situation much, but still felt compelled to add, “No. Nine of the students in the photograph are dead, including the three victims. A further three members of staff are also deceased. There are approximately twenty others we can firmly rule out. Some who live abroad, for example.”
“So, one hundred and, say, thirty?” Jay asked. “That’s a lot of work. Any other patterns or theories? No judgement, go wild.”
“I was thinking,” another voice, “Mary, Elizabeth. Names of queens.”
The officer opposite Ruby snorted, a stifled laugh that ironically sounded deliberate.
“Queen Scott?” Jay shook his head.
“Mary, Queen of Scots?” someone else suggested.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jay said. “This is embarrassing.”
“Sounds like judgement.”
Enough, Ruby thought. Business. “If I had to pick a priority, it would be anyone with a history of violence from that school year, which could get us a viable shortlist.”
“How short?” Jay wondered.
Ruby checked her notes, read out a few names. Among them was Frank Enfield. She made a point of pronouncing his full name. Frank Enfield, or Frankenfield, as he was known at school, was Scott’s best friend. And, although he lacked the intelligence, Frank was equally unpleasant.
She could tell that some of the detectives had heard of these people. Particularly Frank.
But, “Listen,” Jay added, “not everyone here has the benefit of attending the school, can we . . .” he drew a few circles with his hand in the air, “simplify the name situation.”
“Yeah.” A younger officer opposite nodded, pen in hand, notebook out. “I’m losing track.”
“Sure,” Ruby said. “Speak to Gavin Monroe.”
“He wasn’t on your first list.” Jay frowned.
Ruby sighed. She felt slightly uncomfortable with this. For her, motive mattered more than almost any other consideration. What, when, where and how are usually clear from the outset. The question mark hangs over who. But that often falls into place if you can just crack why. Even when the job is done, it’s always enlightening to know. Allowing people to explain themselves in their own words is invaluable. Justice is not satisfying if you don’t understand reason. Something all too often left out of crime and media reports.
The question, “Yes, but why?” should follow any guilty plea.
And this was why the idea that someone would kill fellow classmates based on something as arbitrary, to coin Will’s phrase, as every other person in a line of their school year photograph seemed . . . well . . . ludicrous.
Still . . . “If we look at the photograph,” Ruby said, turning in her chair. All eyes followed hers to the screen. “The three victims are positioned on the same row, in the order of their deaths.”
“Oh yeah,” Jay said, frowning into his laptop. “So they are. Every other person.”
“If this is an explanation,” Ruby added, holding up a tentative hand, suggesting a pinch of salt, “then Gavin Monroe would be next.”
“And after that?” Jay said to himself, squinting and then leaning back, slight surprise in his eyes. “Well, if I’m not mistaken,” he dragged out a square with the mouse pointer, framing Ruby’s face in the photo, “this young lady is you.” And he looked up over his laptop, across the table, making eye contact with her again.
“Yep.” Ruby nodded. “There I am.”
The female officer opposite shuffled in her seat. “Why are you so sure it’s someone from this year, someone in the photograph?” she asked.
“I’m not.” Ruby sighed. “I’m not sure of anything.”
“Enlightening,” Jay said. “Anything else?”
“The only other thing I would say is that given the nature of Missbrook Bay and the school itself, it would be wise to keep your ears open to rumours. These victims are connected in some critical way we haven’t seen yet. People like to talk. Let them.”
Jay wrapped things up, allocating some tasks across the table. Then people started gathering their things, closing folders, laying pens flat on the table, putting phones into pockets as small talk broke out either side of her. They all seemed to know each other. But Ruby, as always, stood alone and felt like an outsider. Like she did not belong.
“Ruby, hey, hi,” a man said from behind. She turned. “I’m Ian, from the press office.”
He was standing slightly too close to her; she stepped back, slid her chair under the table.
“Hello.” They shook hands.
He was young, mid-twenties, dressed in dark chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, a little more casual than others in the room.
“Can I grab a quick picture of you?” He held his phone, landscape, index finger ready to start snapping. “We’re putting together a press release, want to highlight the NCA’s involvement.”
“Why?” Ruby asked, following Ian towards the wall.
“There’s an impression that the lack of progress is because we’re not taking it seriously.”
“Is that the reason?” Ruby smiled. “As opposed to?”
“Incompetence,” Jay called out, standing now at the head of the table, placing paper in a folder.
“No, no,” Ian said, waving his hand and looking at Ruby again for a third, stern, “No.”
His job was, of course, public relations, which almost always boiled down to giving the impression the police were doing their best and were worth every penny of taxpayer money or, ideally, more.
“It’s just to keep things ticking over,” Ian added. “Getting national interest now.” He winced. “We just need to engage a little bit. Investigation ongoing, witnesses welcome. You know the kind of thing.”
“OK, sure.” Ruby stood against the white wall, holding her notepad and a neutral expression – the professional, objective arrangement of facial muscles she’d chosen years earlier. Now was not the time to show teeth.
Ian took a few pictures. “I’ll email it over shortly,” he said, swiping to check he’d got a good one. “Maybe you could tag on a quote?”
“Why don’t you write what you think I’m going to say, and I’ll let you know how close you get?”
Ian laughed. “Good idea.”
Once the room had cleared, Jay approached and gave Ruby a more formal welcome.
“I realised I mixed up the timings,” he added.
Ruby noted that he hadn’t apologised. But, still, “I forgive you.”
“Here’s a swipe card for the door.” He handed her a laminated piece of plastic. “Your details are already on it.”
Ruby pocketed the ID card.
“Got a workstation set aside through there,” he said, pointing towards the main office. “Should have everything you need. Excuse the mess, we’re winding it all down, building’s closing later this month. Leaves us two weeks. Plenty of time, right?”
Police forces selling off their estates was not exactly a new concept, but Ruby was still surprised to hear this place would remain the base of operations. Given the farcical theme of that briefing, fourteen days seemed an ambitious timeline.
The desk, directly opposite Jay’s, was obviously a temporary measure, cleared for the occasion. Old boxes and clutter piled up either side. The surreal and eclectic items that inexplicably appear in the untouched corners of any office space: a single shoe, a coat hanger, a peacock feather, a Christmas biscuit tin full of spent printer cartridges and all the dust and crumbs between.
Ruby sat down and plugged in her laptop. Then she poured herself a cup of ice-cold water from the glugging cooler, which she could reach without standing up, and took her second dose of Adderall.
