Killing Kate

11

Kate watched him leave from the window, saw him glance back at the bags on the front step.

It was a kind gesture – typical of him, in many ways. He was thoughtful and caring and she loved him, she did, but not enough. Not in the way she once had. And, more to the point, the more this went on, the more she lost respect for him. She understood that he was hurting – she was, too, she missed him – but he needed to accept it and move on.

And so she hadn’t taken his bags of food; if she did, she worried that it would create an expectation on Phil’s part that she owed him something. But now they were sitting on her front step.

This is stupid, she thought, there’s no point wasting it. And I can’t leave it outside, littering the street. It’ll end up attracting foxes.

She opened the door and picked up the bags. In the kitchen, she texted Phil.

Sorry if I was short. I’m really tired. Thanks for the stuff – it’s very kind.

Then she unpacked the bags, poured a glass of wine and switched on the television. It was the local news, and they were reporting on Audra Collins.

Kate hadn’t seen much of Audra for a few years. She was a nurse, and, with her boyfriend, had a three-year-old daughter, so she wasn’t out and about all that much.

God, her daughter. Kate had met her once. A sweet, blonde, curly-haired girl called Chrissie with large, soulful eyes and a quiet smile.

She would never see her mum again. She’d grow up knowing that her mum had been out running early one morning before her shift started, and had been killed – dragged into the bushes and strangled to death – by some sick bastard. She would learn from an early age that the world was not safe, that she could never be sure that someone would not reach out and grab her and put her life to an end like they’d done to the woman – who she would barely remember – who had brought her into this sick world.

The police were pursuing all lines of inquiry, and asked that if anyone had seen anything, however small, that might be of interest to them, they should come forward.

Which meant that they had no idea what was going on.

A reporter was on location at the reservoir, speaking to camera. She turned up the television so she could hear.

Tonight, people are left wondering whether these two brutal murders are linked. The police are not confirming this, yet, but it certainly seems to be a strong possibility, especially when the similarity in the way the two women were killed is taken into consideration. It is also notable that the victims share some physical resemblances …

So the media had picked up on it too. It was hard not to. On the screen there was a photo of Jenna Taylor alongside one of Audra Collins. They shared the same appearance: long, straight, near-black hair, dark eyes, pretty. Slender build. A slightly exotic, ethereal look.

Her grandma – who was from Youghal, in County Cork – had called it the ‘Irish look’. She said it came from the old country.

She said Kate had it.

And looking at the photos of Jenna Taylor and Audra Collins, they had it too.

Kate picked up her phone and called May. She needed to find out what was going on. May’s fiancé, Gus, was a newly minted police constable, and would have the inside scoop.

‘Hey,’ she said, when May picked up. ‘I’m watching the news. About the latest murder.’

‘God, I know,’ May said. ‘It’s horrendous. I feel so sorry for Chrissie.’

‘Do they have any idea who’s behind it? Did Gus hear anything?’

‘He was telling me about it earlier. After the first one, they thought it was the boyfriend – it normally is – but he’s off the hook now. He has an alibi for this one.’

‘Do the police think they’re linked? Is this a serial killer?’

‘They’re not saying so publicly. Gus said that they don’t like to start throwing around words like “serial killer” until they’re absolutely sure, but privately they’re working on the assumption that it’s the same person. There were a lot of similarities between them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Both strangled. Gus said that there was a lot of bruising on the bodies, which suggests there was a high degree of violence. And they were both raped …’ May hesitated. ‘Post-mortem.’

‘Oh my God. You mean he had sex with their corpses?’

‘Seems so. Sick bastard.’

Kate tried to clear the image from her mind. She sipped her wine. This kind of thing was both repellent and fascinating at the same time; she had the kind of morbid curiosity that she always had when there was some disaster in the news, only this time it was all the more intense – and came with a frisson of worry and fear – because it was right on her doorstep.

‘If it is a serial killer,’ she said. ‘There might be more.’

‘That’s what they’re worried about.’ May paused. ‘It’s so fucking weird that there’s someone out there right now who’s raping and killing women of our age in our town. I mean, it could be anybody. It could be your neighbour, the barman, your boyfriend. You just don’t know.’

‘And the next victim could be anybody.’

‘Not according to Gus. He – they assume it’s a he – will have a pattern. A type that he goes after. There’ll be some kind of thing that links them all.’

‘Jesus, May,’ she said, her phone to her ear. ‘Don’t say that. They both look like me. You know everyone always used to say that about Audra.’

May hesitated. ‘She’d changed over the years,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she looked so much like you now.’

‘I saw the photo on TV, May. She’s not changed at all.’

‘Well,’ May said, her hesitation a clear indication that she agreed. ‘The first one wasn’t that much like you.’

‘May!’ Kate said. ‘It was you who said Jenna Taylor looked like me in the first place!’

‘I know, but that was a – look, it’s a coincidence, nothing more. You don’t need to worry. Honestly.’

She was not convincing, and her discomfort was all the proof Kate needed that May did not think it was a coincidence at all, not for a minute. And, for that matter, neither did Kate.

Which meant she did need to worry.

‘Holy shit,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.’ She was only half-joking. In fact, she wasn’t joking at all. She would make sure that the door was locked before she went to bed – and thank God that Carl had got his friend to fix the kitchen window – although even so she doubted she’d get much sleep.

‘You can come over here, if you like,’ May said.

Kate hesitated. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I might take you up on that later. But for now, I’ll stay here.’

‘You’re welcome anytime,’ May said. ‘But maybe you need to take some precautions.’ Gus bought me a personal alarm. And some cans of mace. You spray it in someone’s face and it stings. Blinds them. He bought me a few, said it was a good idea to keep one in every bag I use, so I’ll always have one. I’ll bring some over. OK? I’ll come over now.’

Kate thanked her and hung up. As she did, May’s words rang in her ears.

He’ll have a type, she’d said, and it seemed he did.

A type that Kate recognized.

She recognized it because she was it.

12

Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Kate pushed the curtains aside and peered through the window: it was May. She let her in and they sat on the couch. May took a canister with a nozzle from her bag and passed it to Kate.

‘Mace,’ she said. ‘Be careful with it. And there’s this as well.’ She reached in and pulled out an alarm that looked like a tiny megaphone. ‘Rape alarm. The mace is not exactly legal, so don’t tell anyone where it came from, but if either of us do end up spraying some serial killer with it, I doubt anyone will be bothered about that.’

Kate pushed the button on the alarm; she jumped back. The sound was deafening. She imagined using it, on a lonely, dark street, the sound echoing into nothing.

She wouldn’t be on a lonely, dark street anytime soon. Ever, probably.

‘You sure you don’t want to stay with us?’ May said. ‘You’re welcome, if you do. I can make up the spare bed.’

Kate shook her head, in part because she didn’t want to put her friend to the trouble and in part because to run to her house would be to accept that this was real, and once she did that, what came next? Live with May for ever? Move back to her parents’ house? No: she would stay in her home.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

She was, sort of. If waking up every hour at the slightest noise – the creak of a radiator, the pop of floorboards settling, the bark of a neighbour’s dog – and then being unable to get back to sleep because of the adrenaline coursing through her body, was fine, then she was fine.

At work the next morning her eyes were puffy, dark circles underneath them.

‘You OK?’ Gary said, as he sipped his coffee. ‘You look like me. Big night last night? Out giving it fucking large? Hitting the clubs?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I wish. Bad night’s sleep, sadly.’

She sincerely wished that all she was dealing with was a hangover, and not the prospect of more sleepless, terrified nights. This was a bad time to be newly single. Trust her luck: the moment she broke up with Phil, someone started killing women who looked like her. There would be no boyfriend when she got home from work, no peck on the cheek, no enquires about how her day had been, no cuddling on the sofa, no shared bottle of wine followed by an early bedtime and leisurely sex. No comforting presence next to her in the bed at night.

Just silence, and insomnia, and a sense of worry, an unsettling feeling that she was vulnerable, and not only when she was home alone. On her way to work that morning she had found herself checking her rear-view mirror as she drove so she could make sure no one was following her. To be on the safe side, she was planning to stop at a supermarket in a different town on the way home. Paranoid, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. Everyone was a potential threat; the world was no longer a safe place. It was going to be a long week.

And it was, but thankfully, as the week went on, the fear diminished. It didn’t disappear, but normal life intruded and staked a claim on her attention. She, like most people, was a creature of habit. She had her routines: wake up, coffee, toast, upstairs to shower and brush teeth, dress. She did them in that order, every day. It meant she didn’t have to think. She just did. It was easy, reassuring. Most people were like that: it was why, the first time someone stayed in a hotel they were unsettled; the next time, it was familiar, almost like home.

On Friday afternoon, she was wrapping up a meeting with a client. It had been a difficult few hours. The client had been sued for continuing to make a toaster despite having been given reports that it could catch fire and they were not happy with the work Kate and her colleagues had done. Michaela was there – probably enjoying Kate’s discomfort – along with a woman, Claire, whom she had worked with before, and a man, Nate, who she had seen around, but not met. He was a contract specialist who had been drafted in to answer some specific questions.

The client had spent most of the meeting pointing out what they considered to be mistakes. At first Kate had gently tried to argue that she had done the best she could, given the circumstances – they were in the wrong and they were going to have to pay a large sum of money – but there was no point. They were upset and, rather than look at themselves, they were blaming their lawyer, and all Kate and her colleagues could do was to take it.

At the end of the meeting she headed for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup of black coffee and leaned against the wall. She had not been looking forward to the weekend – she had no plans – but now she was glad it was Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday could take care of themselves; all she wanted now was to get out of here and go and have a drink.

‘Tough meeting.’ Nate appeared in the doorway. ‘Not the most pleasant bunch.’

‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘They were so unreasonable.’

‘Ach,’ Nate said. ‘They were pissed off because they’re going to lose. That’s all.’

‘I mean, what do they expect from us?’ Kate said. ‘We’re lawyers, not miracle workers. They’re in the wrong: nothing we can do will change that. If they want someone who can do that then they need to go to Hogwarts and see if Harry Potter wants to work for them when he leaves school.’

Nate laughed. He was thin, with high cheekbones and sharp features. His wore gold-rimmed, delicate glasses, and had an intense, searching gaze. ‘You should have suggested that as a strategy.’

‘Right. Michaela would have loved that.’

He nodded. ‘You have a point. Perhaps better that you kept it to yourself.’

‘It’s a shitty case,’ Kate said. ‘How did you get roped in?’

‘I asked if I could,’ Nate said. ‘I wanted to work on it.’

‘Seriously?’

He smiled at her. ‘Seriously.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s interesting. And I’ve heard that you do good work.’

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ she said. ‘What I do is pretty bog-standard stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Not what I heard.’

She rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure Nate was telling the whole truth, but still, it was flattering to hear that she had a good reputation. Kate blew out her cheeks. ‘Well, it’s been quite a week. And that was the perfect end.’

Nate nodded at the coffee mug in her hands. ‘Sounds like you could do with something stronger.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Sounds like you could do with something stronger,’ he said, then laughed. ‘Sorry, couldn’t help it. I’m famous for my crap jokes.’

‘With good reason, it seems,’ Kate said. ‘I’m not sure what’s worse – that client or your sense of humour.’

‘You want to get out of here? Go for a drink?’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s pretty much clocking-off time.’

Kate hesitated. Was he asking her out on a date? It was a long time since she’d been single, and the etiquette of dating – even of what passed for a date – was a mystery to her. Could you go out innocently with a colleague you barely knew? Or was there more to it?

She glanced at his hand. No wedding ring. Not that she was interested. He was not her type.

She shrugged.

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Where do you have in mind?’

They went to a tapas bar in a converted cellar under a railway station. They ordered some chorizo, a smoked mackerel paste of some kind and a plate of Spanish cheeses, none of which she knew the name of. She had a glass of Ribera del Duero; he had two bottles of Spanish beer. He was – when he was not indulging his passion for crap jokes – witty and engaging and good company, but she knew immediately that it was going nowhere, at least not in a romantic sense. Although she liked him and would have happily done it again some other Friday, there was no spark, no frisson of excitement. She didn’t have any sense of being intrigued by him, of wanting to know him better, of wanting to impress him, to make him like her.

But still, it was fun, and great to get out. She couldn’t see herself with Nate, but she could see herself in places like this with other people.

She looked back at him. He was staring at her; he blinked, caught out, and a pink flush spread up from under his collar. There was an awkward silence. For a moment she wondered whether he was going to comment on it, but then he smiled, although the smile did not quite reach his eyes. They looked a little sheepish; nervous, even.

‘Another drink?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘No. I’m driving. Aren’t you?’

‘Nope. I bike in on Fridays.’

‘Oh? Is that new?’

He patted his stomach. ‘Need to keep an eye on this. So I got myself a bike and some tight shorts.’

‘I don’t know what you’re worried about,’ Kate said. ‘You’re hardly carrying a lot of weight.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All the sitting around in meetings, at the computer – it’s starting to bother me. It might be as much in my mind as anything else, but still – I want to nip it in the bud.’

‘Well,’ Kate said. ‘I’m impressed. Where is it you live?’

‘Sale. Not too far.’

Kate looked at her phone. She was planning to curl up in front of the TV with a glass of wine. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks. This was fun.’

She signalled the waiter. When he brought the bill. Kate reached for her bag.

He put his hand over the bill. ‘I’ll get it.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to split it.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Your call.’

She opened her bag and took out her purse. As she did, the canister of mace fell out onto the table.

Nate looked at it. ‘Is that the stuff you spray on people?’ he said. ‘It would have come in handy today. You could have used it on the clients. That would have shut them up.’

‘I wish I’d thought of it.’

He picked it up. ‘Why do you have it? Are you worried about something?’

‘I live in Stockton Heath.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’

‘I’ve got an alarm too.’ She tapped her fingers against the table. ‘Although – touch wood – I hope I’ll never need them.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope so. Are you parked at the office? I’ll walk you back.’

13

She was on the M56 near the airport when Gemma called. She answered on her hands-free.

‘Hi,’ Gemma said. ‘Are you in the car?’

‘Coming back from work.’

‘At this time! It’s nearly nine p.m. It’s Friday night, for God’s sake. You need to take it easy.’

Kate laughed. ‘I went out for a drink after work.’

‘Oh? With who?’

‘Nate.’

‘Who’s Nate?’ she said. ‘Someone special?’

‘No. Just a colleague.’

‘But you went out for a drink with him.’

‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘I did! He asked and I thought, why not? And it was only a drink.’

‘It’s never only a drink.’

‘OK,’ Kate said. ‘I admit it. When he asked I did wonder if there might be something there, but there isn’t. He’s lovely, but he’s not my type. Apart from anything else he tells awful, goofy jokes. Sweet, but awful.’

‘Fine,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll believe you. Millions wouldn’t, but I will. So, have you got plans for the weekend?’

‘I’m getting an early night tonight,’ Kate said. ‘I’m exhausted. And I haven’t thought beyond that.’

‘Want to get together tomorrow? Matt’s going to Anfield – a friend of his got some tickets for the game – and they’ll be going out in Liverpool afterwards.’

‘Sure,’ Kate said. ‘I was thinking of going to the Trafford Centre. I need an autumn coat.’

‘And then we could go out. Maybe eat in the Thai place in the village?’

‘Sounds great. I’ll pick you up? Three?’

Arrangements made, she hung up, and pulled off the motorway onto the A49. Ten minutes to home, a bath, pour that glass of wine, then bed and sleep, a sleep that would not be interrupted by a six a.m. alarm, a sleep that would leave her fresh and invigorated and restored.

Half a mile from her house she turned off the main road onto a street lined with red-brick Victorian terraced houses. A left, a right, a left and she’d be home.

A car pulled out from one of the narrow alleys that ran behind the warren of terraced houses. It was moving quickly and, within a second or two, it was only feet from her rear bumper. She looked in the rear-view mirror and, before she could make out the driver’s face, the high beams came on.

They were dazzling; the reflections from the wing-mirrors blinded her and she narrowed her eyes to shield them from the brightness.

She sounded her horn; the car behind came closer.

Her first thought was that she had done something wrong, cut the guy up – she assumed it was a guy – or was driving too slowly, or had committed some other offence, but she hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t. He’d pulled out behind her, at speed, and quite deliberately.

And now he was trying to intimidate her. It was almost as though he had been waiting for her to pass so he could follow her, lights blazing, to her house.

She felt the first fluttering of panic, and then, shortly afterwards, the real thing: heart-racing, palms sweaty, mind struggling to focus.

It was him. The killer. No one else would be waiting for her like this. She was the next victim. She scrabbled in her bag for the alarm. If he ran her off the road, she would open the door and press it as hard as she could.

Had he done this to the other victims, too? Was this part of his sick routine? She knew from TV shows and films and books that these kinds of people did things in a certain way, a way that allowed them to reap the full pleasure they got from their twisted activities.

She was approaching her street, but she couldn’t go home. Even in the panic, she knew that. She couldn’t lead him straight to her door.

She carried on past her street, then turned towards the village centre.

Where there were people. Pubs. Restaurants.

And a police station.

She wasn’t going to take this. She wasn’t about to let this bastard – serial killer or drunk fool or casual bully – intimidate her. The station would be closed at this time, but there would be cops around, policing the village. She’d park right outside it and go and find one.

The car behind her flashed its lights, on and off, on and off. She tried to make out what type of car it was, but it was impossible to see through the dazzle of the high beams. She turned right, back onto the main road. For a moment she thought about accelerating, about putting some distance between her and the other car, but she decided not to. She was not going to show fear. She was going to drive at a steady, measured pace to a safe location.

But God, she was frightened. It was all she could do to stop herself dissolving into a tearful, gibbering wreck.

And then, the lights went out. She looked in the rear-view mirror. The car – a dark saloon of some description – was turning into a residential street, and then it was gone.