Mum, on the other hand, had loved the chance to make herself over. She wasn’t dramatic or drastic with her efforts. But she certainly had a few nice outfits to hand; ones that I’d made every effort to steal from her in my youth. I sometimes wondered whether that was why I steered so hard against being ‘dressed up’ when I was finally old enough to wear what I wanted. Mum, flash with her clothing to pair neatly against what could only be described as natural beauty – no make-up required – was his type. They’d all been beautiful; they’d all made good cover girls when the papers printed their obituaries.
I sat in front of the vanity mirror in the hotel room and started with a make-up wipe. The shade of my skin was naturally a little darker than Mum’s. I’d bought foundation a shade lighter than I might normally choose. All the make-up I’d brought with me was lighter, in fact, to create the image of having not tried to look beautiful – when the truth was that was exactly what I was aiming for: easy pretty. I dragged the wet wipe first across my forehead and then each cheek, rubbing hard to scrub away the tan colour and leave behind a blemish of red. It looked a little like I was blushing.
In the bathroom I washed my face clean of the soft chemicals from the wipe and took a hard look at my blank face. This is stupid, I thought and then nodded as though agreeing with myself. But I knew the man was a planner. Whoever he was targeting in Oxford, he already knew her; her habits, where she was going to be for the next few days. He’d told me when to be in every city and this one was no different; a red circle on the map with a month written next to it. The specific dates were a given between us by then. He always attacked in the middle of a month; between the thirteenth and sixteenth and I relished the thought at being able to ask him why – why then? But to create the opportunity to ask him, I knew I was going to have to get his attention away from whoever the woman was. And if I was going to distract a creature of habit, it had to be with something he couldn’t resist.
I landed hard in the cradle of the seat in front of the mirror and started. I skipped eyeliner entirely and moved straight to long-lash mascara, giving me a bright-eyed look. There were two light shade eye shadows to choose from in the collection I’d brought with me and I opted for the one with a little sparkle, because he wasn’t completely opposed to it. Every decision I made in the minutes after taking my own face off and applying another was strategic; I wanted to make myself into someone he might kill. No, I shook my head and corrected the thought. I wanted to make myself into someone he had killed. In his letters he made no secret of knowing that I was in the same cities at the same time as him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t resist,’ he’d said once, and he’d been right. He’d left clues for each city in each letter; a breadcrumb trail to crack. It was a journey that had never taken me further than a two-hour drive out of Birmingham. And if he knew I was tracking him, I wondered whether maybe he knew where I was – or rather, where I was staying. Maybe he even knew the name I was using. This wasn’t the first time I’d checked in as someone else. But it was the first time I’d checked in as Mum.
I traced my lips with a pale lip-liner as a guide and then drew on a smile with a pale lipstick. After I’d applied a topcoat of gloss I puckered a kiss at myself, and I saw Mum.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, almost, but I grabbed my phone then and pulled up a blank text to Madison’s number: ‘Made it to the city safe. Free for a call?’ It delivered straight away and I held on for the blue dots to appear to indicate an incoming reply but nothing came. It hadn’t been an emergency. But something had turned over in my stomach at the sight of myself, and the longing for home – a reminder of home – had been instant. I could have called Landon or Jessie, Tyler even, but it wouldn’t have been quite the motherly touch I’d needed. She’ll call, I reminded myself, because she always did. Madison was better at calling back than Mum had been. I frowned at the comparison and pushed the thought away. I threw my phone in my bag and went back to the last of the makeover. I was nearly there – only one more step – and Mum hadn’t raised a quitter.
The squeal of the room phone ringing behind me made me jump. I hadn’t given the hotel details to anyone at home, though, so there were limited possibilities about who might be calling. When the phone didn’t let up, I crossed the room and approached the handset with measured caution – as though it might somehow lash out at me itself.
‘Hello?’
‘Miss Wainwright, it’s Sean from the front desk.’ The kid who’d checked me in. ‘I hope this isn’t a bad time.’
He let the statement hang like he’d asked a question. ‘Not at all. Is there a problem?’
‘You told me to call through to you if anyone called the hotel.’
I felt an uncomfortable clench in my abdomen, so fierce that it stretched down to the tops of my thighs. ‘There was a phone call about fifteen minutes ago now. I’m sorry I’m only just calling, you see, there was this really tricky situation down here with a woman who’d followed her husband and he didn’t know–’
‘The phone call, Sean.’
‘The phone call,’ he repeated, as though it were a trigger phrase. ‘It was a man. He asked whether there was a Wainwright booked at the hotel.’
I wondered whether he’d done this for every city I’d visited; called the hotels, asked for a Wainwright on the off-chance. But if he’d watched me well enough he’d know the right hotel, I reasoned. The name, though, the name was always different…
‘And you said?’
‘I said, yes, a Miss Evelyn Wainwright, just like you told me.’
I smiled. ‘Perfect. That’s great, Sean, thanks so much for letting me know.’
‘Anything else you need, Miss Wainwright, you just call. I’m here until midnight.’
I decided that I’d tip him on my way back to the hotel. Because if I didn’t make it back then he’d be the only person with something worthwhile to tell the police. I took a hard look in the mirror and noted all the similarities, and then I pulled out the last weapon in the arsenal: a mid-length wig styled into a bob, in a deep chestnut kind of colour.
36
The restaurant was about as busy as expected, for a major city on a Saturday night. I’d requested a table for two, though, preferably by a window; I wanted to be seen. When I’d pushed my way through the smokers out front – taking in greedy mouthfuls of their pollution as I went – I announced my booking to the woman who was working front of house.
‘Wainwright,’ she repeated, looking down the list in front of her.
‘That’s right. Evelyn.’
‘Ah,’ she raised a finger, ‘got you.’ She snatched a menu from the stack alongside her and said, ‘Follow me, Miss Wainwright. We’ve given you a window seat, as requested, with a beautiful view of the outdoor courts at the front of the building.’
I didn’t care what my view was. I was more interested in the view I’d make. ‘Thank you.’ I took the menu and dropped into a seat. ‘I’ll take a large glass of dry white wine, if you don’t mind,’ I said before she had the chance to ask. I flashed a tight smile and looked at the menu, to signal we were finished, and she graciously took the hint and slipped away. It wasn’t that I wanted to be rude; I just didn’t want the small talk. It wasn’t easy to say whether this was an evening out for business or for pleasure, so it was best to avoid the question. I kept my head buried in the pages of the menu so when the waitress arrived, with my wine glass perfectly centred on her tray, I was ready to order.
‘Fregola puttanesca, please.’ I waited while she jotted down my main. ‘If I could get a black coffee, after the meal not part of the meal, that would be great. Keep the wine coming, too, would you?’ I gave her a soft smile. ‘I better make the most of a night away from the family, hadn’t I?’
She laughed. ‘I won’t let that glass go dry.’
‘You’re a star.’ That’ll cost me another tip, I thought as I handed back my menu. ‘That’s everything for now, thank you.’
In my bag I had everything I might need for a
night out alone. There was my e-reader, for a less suspicious choice of reading material. But there was also a cardboard wallet crammed with photocopies of the most recent letters. I felt around in my bag for a highlighter and a pen, but the first thing I came across was my phone. I pulled that out and rested it on the table, and then dived back in. The letters were colour-coded from the time I’d spent with them already. The blue details were location-based; the yellow was person specific to women he’d mentioned; the orange, I uncapped to catch any miscellaneous details I’d missed along the way. I skimmed to the back of the folder. The papers were organised in chronological order, with the oldest letters at the back. At least a night alone gave me a good opportunity to start reading through them all again, without Marcus wandering into the office or Landon knocking on the front door with a bottle of rum in hand. There had been times where their interruptions were exactly what I’d needed. But the closer we got to the anniversary months, the more I needed the solitude to work.
I’d started to imagine it as work, too, as the letters became more frequent. This might be the sequel you’ve been waiting for, I’d thought more than once, as though I could legitimise my behaviours as being something to do with creative licence. I knew I was sailing close to something dangerous though; not so much an average wind as a thunderstorm, rumbling and cracking overhead. ‘You’re asking for trouble,’ Mum would have said, if she were able to.
I circled the date of the first letter in orange to remind me what colour-coded read-through I was on. I was hardly through the first paragraph when my mobile pulsed on the table: Incoming… Madison.
‘Miss Wainwright speaking,’ I said, using my best posh voice.
Madison spluttered with laughter at the other end of the phone. ‘Darling girl, like you don’t check your caller ID before you decide whether to answer every call.’ She knew me too well. ‘I saw that I’d got a text from you?’
‘It was just for a chat. No reason.’
There was a beat of silence. ‘Try again, darling, but give it more feeling.’
I let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a huff. ‘I missed home.’
‘Good! Why don’t you come back, and we can have a girls’ night?’
‘Because I haven’t even been here a night yet. I’m booked for the weekend.’
‘Work won’t mind. Marcus loves you.’ Madison was another person who believed these little trips to be work-related. I never thought far enough ahead to imagine what I’d do if the people in my life were to have a conversation with each other. ‘Or I can come to you? Where are you this time? Is it far?’
I imagined I could hear her already grabbing her car keys. ‘Mad, really, I was just – I don’t know. I was having a moment. I’m honestly okay.’
‘You said you’re there for the weekend?’
‘All being well.’ I’d paid for three nights but I’d stay longer if I needed to. I never managed much sleep in the nights I was away. Most of my time was spent fixed to social media channels and news outlets, to try to catch the first whispers of anything sinister taking place. ‘I should be home by Monday lunchtime if all goes to plan.’ If he sticks to a weekend schedule, I edited my explanation but held it to myself.
‘And you’ll make time to see me, will you?’ She sounded sceptical.
‘Mad, don’t I always?’
She hesitated. ‘Not lately, darling girl, no, and that’s okay.’ She hurried through the second part of her explanation, as though she needed me to know that it really was okay. ‘You’re busy and I’m busy, and there have been times when I’ve cancelled, too. But let’s do it soon? I don’t want our contact to be restricted down to birthdays and anniversaries.’
Mum’s anniversary was only around the corner; two months away. But for something like the death of a loved one, I’d found that anniversaries came in months, sometimes, or seasons: ‘This is the month that I lost Mum…’ like it was a thirty-day event, which always made them feel a little closer than they actually were.
‘Why don’t I come over when I’m back?’ I suggested.
‘In the evening, after work?’
‘If that suits you?’
‘Oh, darling, absolutely. If you’re sure? I imagine you’ll come home to a lot of work.’
I laughed. ‘Has there been a lot of crime in the day I’ve been away?’
‘No, silly,’ she shared a half-laugh, ‘I meant writing up the notes from – from whatever it is you’re doing while you’re away. I don’t want to get in the way of that.’
It was the first time I’d felt a stab of guilt for the lies I was telling. Madison hadn’t pushed for details. But as the trips became more frequent there’d been a growing nag in the back of my mind that she maybe didn’t believe my reasons for being out of the city. There wasn’t much that I kept from her. In the style of a typical child, though, I kept this from her because I knew what her reaction would be. It was dangerous, and to most people, I suspected it would seem unnecessary. But this wasn’t a petty squabble with a school-friend; this was a life-long grudge. And habits that long-standing were hard to break.
‘Maybe I can talk to you about my work? I know I’m a bit cagey about it.’ If I felt brave enough to tell her the truth, at least I’d made an opening, I decided. If I changed my mind, there was enough crime in the world for me to bluff my way through half an hour of talking about it. ‘Not too much, because, snore.’ I tried to lighten the offer.
She laughed. ‘Darling girl, nothing about your work is boring to me.’ I felt that same stab of guilt again, then. ‘If you’d like to talk about work,’ I heard a smile crack through her words, ‘but we can talk about anything at all, always. You can even tell me about your romance life, if you’re feeling that brave when you get home.’
I rested my forehead in the cup of my palm and realised I was sweating. ‘Who did you talk to?’
‘Well, you’re an attractive young woman. How could you not have a man?’ She rushed to add, ‘Or a woman. A woman would be fine, too. Maybe even better, in my experience. I mean, not in my personal experience of women, but, in my experience of–’
‘Why don’t we talk when I get home?’ I cut through her embarrassment. It may have been a day away from home, but Madison was right about how long it had been since we’d seen each other. In her fumbling monologue on my maybe-romantic life, I missed her so much it made my belly ache. ‘I’ll call as soon as I’m back.’
‘Okay, darling girl. Take care of yourself while you’re away.’
‘You take care, too, Mad.’
‘Always, darling. Love you.’
I sucked in hard before I rushed my reply. ‘I love you, too.’
It was always hard to say; to anyone. But especially to Madison. I loved her like I might love a mother, and that’s what made it difficult. No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn’t escape the worry that each phone call might be the last time I talked to anyone. It wasn’t anything to do with the visits out of town. It was everything to do with my last night of talking and laughing with Mum about clothes that I was about to steal from her. Those final moments had carried me through especially dark and painful points. Since then, I’d always wanted my last conversations with people to count. Morbid though it may seem, these trips away weren’t exactly risk-free. If I was putting my life on the line – a life I owed so much of to Madison already – the least I owed her was a reminder that I loved her.
37
The drive home took longer than I’d expected it to. I left Oxford late morning, on the misguided idea – or rather, ideal – that that would mean missing the work traffic in and around the area. But no such luck. It took even longer to make my way back into Birmingham, but at least I hadn’t been accosted or criticised along the way – even if I had been smoking out of my car window for most of the journey. I sandwiched cigarettes and Polos around each other, as though that might ease the stress of there not having been so much as a flicker of action while I was away. I must have missed it.
But I didn’t know how, when I’d spent each evening with the news on the television – albeit muted – and the radio playing so loud that I wouldn’t sleep through any breaking bulletins. The local newspapers had updated their websites, with very few changes to the crime sections across them all. Not only had there not been a murder in the city – or, if there had, it had miraculously gone unreported on – but it looked as though there hadn’t been much crime full stop.
When I pulled up in the safety of the garage underneath my building, I grabbed my phone to set up a search engine alert: ‘murder’ + ‘woman’ + ‘Oxford’. There were two missed calls from Marcus and a voicemail. Getting out of the car felt too much like admitting defeat for the journey, so I stayed put and connected to the message.
‘Hi, Sarah. Elliot has been asking questions about the– what do you call them – ah – the break-in stuff, the things he’s meant to talk to the police about. Anyway, I know you’re not in but give me a call, would you? I don’t know what to tell the kid.’ There was a long pause, then, when I thought the message might have ended without a farewell. ‘I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re safe. Bye now.’
I hit redial and pressed the phone to my ear. Marcus answered after two rings.
‘Talk of the devil.’
‘Have I caught you with Elliot?’ I let my head drop back against the seat behind me. ‘Maybe I can just talk to him? I don’t know why he didn’t call me himself if he’d–’
Sincerely, Yours Page 15
