‘Jealousy?’ Joseph asked. ‘Crime of passion?’
Logan nodded. ‘It came out in the case that Jennifer had been trying to break up with Lance, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and had started to get obsessed with her, following her home from school, standing outside her house at night. Jennifer got sick of it and her and this older man – Grant Lee – made a plan to get rid of him.’
Miller looked around. There was a wooden plaque attached to a small pole to the right of the last oak tree. She read the inscription: ‘To our precious boy, taken too soon. You will always be in our hearts.’ Not for the first time that day, Miller felt she shouldn’t be here, with Logan.
‘Grant Lee was older, but only in his mid-twenties. He and Jennifer had no idea what they were doing when they were planning the murder. They didn’t think too much about hiding their tracks. Grant had been in trouble before, had spent a couple of years in prison for theft. The police managed to get prints off the piece of wood he used to beat Lance to death. It was found lying on the banks of the river, just here. I think he assumed he’d thrown it in.’ Logan shook his head, a small smile on his face.
‘Excuse me? What’s going on here?’ The woman had come up behind the small group so silently none of them realised she was there.
Miller turned, took in the tall woman in her late fifties, the bunch of flowers in her hand. Her stomach sank. Lance’s mum. She felt as though she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have.
Nobody spoke. Li stared at the ground. Mary stepped closer to Joseph.
‘I asked what you were doing here. You,’ she turned to Miller. ‘You’re the journalist, aren’t you? You work for the paper.’
‘I do, yes,’ Miller said, separating herself from the group, catching Li’s eye.
‘This has nothing to do with Lance, does it?’ she asked.
‘It does actually,’ Logan said, stepping forward.
Oh god, thought Miller as she watched Logan stand up straighter.
‘My name is Logan Dodds and this is a true crime tour.’
The woman’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’
‘This tour takes people to various sites where the act of murder has taken place. I talk about the crime and give information on what happened.’
The woman stepped back, horrified. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to find the right words.
Shit, thought Miller. Why the fuck am I here? Why am I giving someone like Logan Dodds publicity when it causes this much pain?
The bunch of flowers in the woman’s hand trembled. Her lips disappeared into a thin line. ‘You think just because my son was murdered twenty years ago it’s forgotten? Like it’s not personal anymore? That just because it didn’t happen last week or last year it can be treated as a bit of general knowledge or trivia? You think there’s a set amount of time that the pain and grief just dissipate until it was just a thing that happened all this time ago?’
Logan shook his head. ‘Of course not. We also cover murders a lot more recent than your son’s.’
Jesus Christ, thought Miller, does he actually think that is her issue?
The woman looked at Logan in disbelief, the anger gone, confusion flooding her face. She walked to the plaque, placed the flowers down, and laid a hand on the plaque – lichen-covered and split after years baking in the sun and swelling from winter rain. She took a moment and Miller saw her breathe in deeply. She returned to the group, looking at each of them as she spoke. ‘We are not gossip. We are not a headline. We are not to be stood in front of and gawped at. My son was more than the way he died. I bet you know nothing about him other than the way he was killed, do you? Did you know he was beaten? It took hours to die from his injuries – out here, alone,’ she sobbed, cutting her sentence short. ‘You didn’t bother to learn he was a loving big brother, loved reading and English and music, dreamed of being a songwriter, could play any song on the guitar. You didn’t know that – did you?’
They all watched her walk back to her car. Miller turned from the others and walked over to Lance’s memorial. She touched the swollen, sun-baked wood, whispered an apology and joined the others. Li looked distressed. Miller thought she could see tears in her eyes. Miller caught her eye, mouthed ‘Are you okay?’ Li nodded and glanced at Logan, then shook her head.
‘Logan, I’m going to make my own way back home from here,’ Miller said. ‘Li, you coming?’
Li nodded.
‘We still have one more stop,’ said Logan. ‘I was going to take you to where Amelia was murdered.’
‘You put your sister’s murder on your tour?’ asked Li, incredulous.
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks for your time, Logan,’ Miller said, uncertain how he’d react to them leaving.
‘Do you have enough for your article?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes. Heaps.’ She was now wondering if she wanted to write the damn thing at all. She had thought it would make a good story, but being a part of today had left a bad taste in her mouth. She could put another spin on it, but then she remembered Beatrice Dodds asking her not to make Logan out to be some kind of crazy.
Except he is.
Chapter 25
Madison Nilson left the cycleway and running path and turned into her street. It was too hot to run after work, so she’d left it till later. It was almost eight-thirty and only now was it starting to get dark. She reckoned she’d lost half her body weight by sweating. It was cooler down by the river. Her mum hated her running down there; she’d rung a few days ago telling her about the two murdered women, as if Madison had no idea two women had been killed in the town she lived in.
‘Mum, they were murdered in their homes. Not down by the river,’ she said.
‘Still,’ her mother argued, ‘the papers are saying they both lived alone. You need to be careful.’
Her parents, both devout Catholics, Sunday church-goers, hated the fact she lived an independent life, supporting herself. Her mother had always needed a man to look after her and she couldn’t understand why Madison had chosen such a ‘hard road’ for herself. After uni and travel, she’d wanted to stay up in Auckland, but her parents had talked her into taking an accounting job in Lentford. To her surprise, she enjoyed the more laid-back lifestyle. Plus, she’d just bought into the partnership in town, something her mother was in parts proud of and concerned about. ‘It’s just such a big responsibility, Madi.’ Which translated to ‘Wouldn’t it be better to just get yourself a husband and have a few kids?’
After her shower Madison sat on the old leather sofa in her lounge and eyed up the latest Lee Child novel she wanted to get stuck into. She struck a deal with herself: Ring your mother. Reward: Lee Child.
She poured a glass of wine to fortify herself. Her parents were teetotal, always had been, and they thought Madison was the same. It was a silly secret to keep. But some things were easier to not bring up. It had just gone nine o’clock. Their dinner would be long over and the dishes done. The news would’ve been viewed with grumbling from her dad and tut-tutting from her mum. After the news the television was always turned off, because, according to her dad, ‘everything else on TV is rot’. She’d been eighteen and at uni before she got a chance to watch Shortland Street and Survivor for the first time. Madison had remembered the advent of reality TV had nearly sent her father to an early grave. ‘People prancing around, expecting us to care about their silly lives, broadcasting their relationships for all to see. Imagine what their parents think.’
Her dad would be comfortably ensconced in his thirty-year-old La-Z-Boy, reaching for his pipe. Her mum would’ve made them both a cup of chamomile tea (no caffeine after three) and her knitting would be ready and waiting at her slippered feet.
She punched in her parents’ number and her mum answered on the fourth ring. As always, she was happy to hear from Madison, but the questions came fast. ‘Ho
w’s work? You’re not working too hard, are you? You know your Uncle Richard died from a heart attack and he was in a highly stressful job like yours.’
‘Mum, my job’s not highly stressful, and Uncle Richard was a librarian.’ She held the receiver away from her ear and took a sip of wine while her mum carried on talking.
‘... supermarket today and she told me to say hello to you.’
‘Lovely,’ Madison said, having missed the first part.
‘What’s happening with those poor girls? There wasn’t anything on the news about it tonight.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Madison said. And she didn’t. It was all that was talked about in town, at work, down the main street, in the pub and cafes. But it was just rumour and supposition, a chance for some people to air grievances and gossip.
‘You be careful. I don’t want you to wind up in a ditch somewhere.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ she said. ‘But you know the girls were murdered in their houses, right?’
There was a loud knock at the door and Madison took it as her chance to say goodbye.
‘Someone’s at the door, Mum. I better go. Love to Dad.’
‘Ask who it is before you open the door,’ her mum said hurriedly.
‘Yes, Mum,’ Madison laughed and hung up.
Wine glass in hand, still smiling, she crossed the lounge and opened the door.
Chapter 26
Miller woke from a sound sleep on Friday. After her morning with Logan yesterday, she had gone back into work after lunch and finished up a story about the need for people to think before they took on pets around Christmas time – one of those stories that get churned out every year but she doubted whether people paid attention. She’d visited a place in Lentford which took in abandoned animals – mostly cats – and talked to the woman there. She didn’t get home till after six. She’d had a quick bite to eat and beat the shit out of her punching bag till she lay, spent on the floor, hardly able to move.
She got ready for work, relieved it was Friday, but aware that something could have happened last night. Would there be a letter for her at work? Had Kahu already been called out? Would he let her know? He knew this was on her mind as much as his. She felt her jaw tense as the thoughts careened round her head, and she slapped it gently with both hands.
Miller walked down the hallway, satchel over her shoulder, phone in her hand, still trying to decide what to do with Logan’s story. She came to a standstill a few metres from the door.
There was an envelope, off-white, lying on the mat, half-visible where it had been pushed under the front door.
She felt her legs buckle; her satchel slid down her leg and onto the floor and her phone fell to the ground with a thud. Miller walked to the door cautiously, as if the letter could do her physical harm. She picked it up and held it in her sweating palms, the idea of fingerprints or any kind of trace being garnered from the envelope the furthest thing from her mind.
She tore it open and read:
Miller, surprised? I know where you live. In Lentford, everyone knows everyone. It makes what I’m doing easier. Easier to destroy families. To destroy this shithole town. I hear the gossip. I see the fear in women’s eyes. And I’m doing that.
Her name is Madison Nilson. Madi to her friends.
Miller groaned. She knew Madi. Not well, but Ngaire had put on welcome drinks when Miller had arrived at the Lentford Leader. Tate Accountants were big advertisers and Madi had come along. Miller had chatted to her – they’d both attended AUT. She was looking to become partner and Miller knew she’d just bought into the firm. She kept reading.
She has the day off today. She’s lonely, Miller. Go to her. Who knows? Maybe there’s still time.
You love to help, don’t you? You love to save people who can’t save themselves, the weak ones. 52 Thomson St, Miller.
‘Fuck,’ Miller said. ‘Fuck!’ She grabbed her bag and ran out the door. She’d ring Kahu on the way.
She started her car, it coughed into life and she backed out the driveway. Thomson Street was only a couple of streets over, towards the river. The roads at this time of day were empty. With one eye on the road, she rummaged in her satchel for her phone. ‘Fuck!’ she screamed, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. She’d left it at home. It was too late. If there was even a slim possibility Madi was still alive she needed to get to her.
Miller swung into the driveway of number fifty-two, wincing as the bottom of her car grated over the bump. She left the engine idling as she jumped out of the car. She found herself unable to catch her breath. Taking deep breaths of stale muggy air didn’t help so she charged up the terracotta steps and turned the door handle. Unlocked.
She walked straight into the lounge room and looked around.
Could he be here? Waiting for her? Was this part of his plan?
She walked through the house, footsteps uncertain, making her way through an unknown floorplan, positive she could hear her heart, slamming against her chest. Her top was soaked through with sweat. She walked down the hallway. Toilet and bathroom on her left. She opened a door on her right. ‘Madi,’ she whispered, her voice coming out in a rasp. She cleared her throat. ‘Madi?’
It was an office, with a desk and boxes piled high in one corner.
She moved to the next door, opened it, peered around the corner.
And there she was, lying on the bedroom floor. She looked as though she was asleep, but she wasn’t, of course she wasn’t.
Miller put a hand over her mouth, willing her toast and coffee not to come up. Her vision blurred as she stepped towards Madi and lowered herself onto her knees. Madi was dressed in a white singlet and blue-and-white check boxer shorts. She noticed her painted red toenails but willed herself to look at her face. Her eyes were closed. Her skin looked reddish pink. As if in slow motion, Miller pushed the scarf that was wrapped around her neck so tight the skin had puckered and tried to find a pulse. Nothing. She watched her chest, waiting, expecting some kind of movement. Nothing.
Kahu’s words came to mind: ligature strangulation.
A fly had entered the bedroom and buzzed around Miller’s head. She waved at it and it settled on Madi’s cheek. Miller screamed, her arms flailing. The fly took flight and landed on the curtain. Miller felt like opening the curtains and windows – as though a bit of fresh air would bring Madi back to life. But she knew she shouldn’t touch anything else.
She closed the door to Madi’s bedroom and made her way to the phone. With hands that seemed unwilling to work, she found the station’s number in the thin local phonebook by the phone and dialled, asking for Detective Sergeant Parata, telling them it was an emergency. She was put straight through.
‘Detective Sergeant Kahu Parata.’
‘Kahu...’ Miller said, perching on the couch before her legs gave way altogether.
‘Miller? That you?’
‘There’s been another one. Madi Nilson. Fifty-two Thomson Street.’ Miller lowered her head onto her knees.
‘Shit,’ Kahu muttered. ‘Are you there?’
‘Yeah. Can you come? Now? She’s... she’s dead.’
‘We’re on our way.’
Kahu turned up five minutes later. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
Miller shook her head.
He laid a hand on her shoulder and walked up the steps to the house.
‘Second door on the right down the hallway,’ she called as he disappeared inside.
Kahu appeared a few minutes later, walked to the end of the driveway and made a call.
When the rest of Kahu’s team had turned up he guided Miller to a wooden bench seat to the left of the front door. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You’re probably in shock.’ He stared down at her, his forehead creased.
‘Kahu, I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t seen a dead body before.’ She said this as if
it was no big deal, but they both knew it was.
‘Just a few questions, okay?’ Kahu pulled his notebook out of his back pocket.
Miller sipped on water and watched as the white crime-scene tape was stretched across the driveway of Madi’s property. A uniformed police officer, one of Ash’s constables, Miller didn’t know his name, stood in front of the tape, clipboard in hand. Miller wondered for a second where Ash was. The officer ignored the neighbours who came out of their houses, some still in their dressing gowns, walking up to the tape, muttering between themselves, before asking him what had happened. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Miller watched as people on their way to work slowed down in their cars, necks straining as their cars crawled past. That bright white tape with the red words POLICE EMERGENCY spread across it attracted gawkers the way a flame attracted moths, Miller thought. Astonished, worried, excited expressions met hers as eyes darted around the scene.
‘How did you find out about this?’ Kahu asked. ‘Another letter?’
Miller nodded. ‘Delivered to my house.’
Kahu swore, shaking his head as he made notes.
‘He gave me her name and address. He was pleased about how everything was going. The way he was destroying families.’
‘Can you tell me what you touched inside the house?’
She took another sip of water as she thought. ‘The front door handle, the door handle to the office and Madi’s bedroom.’ She closed her eyes, back in Madi’s house. ‘Her neck. I checked for a pulse. I had to push the scarf away. Then maybe the walls down the hallway – I felt kind of dizzy. And the phonebook and phone.’ Miller nodded, sure she’d remembered everything.
‘We’ll need to take your fingerprints and DNA for elimination. I need to get inside. Can I meet you down at the police station this afternoon to do that and take your statement?’
The Murder Club (A Miller Hatcher Novel Book 2) Page 17
