by Alex Lake
‘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.
She parked by the police station – closed, as she had thought – and dialled 999. The operator picked up and Kate asked for the police.
‘I’ve been followed,’ she said, when the dispatcher came on the line. ‘In my car.’
‘Where are you now, madam?’ asked the dispatcher, a woman with a neutral BBC accent.
‘I’m outside the police station in Stockton Heath,’ Kate said.
‘And can you explain what happened?’
Kate took her through it: the car pulling out, dazzling her with its high beams, and then leaving her alone when she headed for the village.
‘I think he was hoping I’d go home,’ she said. ‘So he could follow me there. I live alone,’ she added.
‘You did the right thing not to return to your residence,’ the dispatcher said. ‘Are you going home now?’
‘I think so. Should I?’
‘That’s up to you. But if you do plan to, let me know. We’ll send an officer round to take a statement. They’ll be with you shortly.’
‘Like five minutes?’
‘Maybe thirty minutes,’ the dispatcher said. ‘And try not to worry. I’m sure it will all be fine.’
‘Thanks,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll meet them there.’ She recited her address, and hung up.
14
She had driven the route from the village to the house hundreds – maybe thousands – of times, but it had never felt like it did this time. It looked the same, but every turning, every house, every alley was now a threat, a possible hiding place for a faceless man who wanted to kill her. As she passed each one she glanced at it, waiting for a car to pull out.
None did.
She parked outside the house. Fortunately, the spot right outside her front door was free so she did not have to walk far from the car to the house. She opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.
And realized someone was watching her.
She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. She’d read once that the feeling you got when you were being watched or followed was the result of your subconscious picking up clues that your conscious mind didn’t notice. It felt like it was a sixth sense, a paranormal or telepathic ability, but it wasn’t. It was simply that the mind took in a great deal more information than it could process at the conscious level and, when some of that information represented a threat, it made itself known by creating the uneasy feeling of a prickle on the back of the neck that said You are not alone.
Whatever her subconscious had noticed was at the end of the street. There was a large yew tree – some said that it meant there had once been a graveyard there – at the corner, under which there was a bench. It was mossy now, and rotten, so nobody ever sat on it, but there was someone on it now, hiding in the shadows.
She turned and looked. It was hard to make out anything specific, but she was sure that there was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest, a kind of stillness under the tree which was different from what surrounded it.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted. ‘Who are you?’
There was no answer. ‘Leave me alone!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know what you want, but leave me alone!’
The door to the house next door opened. Carl stood there, framed in the light.
‘You OK?’ he said. ‘What’s all the shouting about?’
The relief at seeing him, at not being alone, left her dizzy.
‘There’s someone out here,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Under the tree. They’ve been following me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Totally sure. They were driving close to me, flashing their lights. And now they’re stalking me.’
Carl gave her a sceptical look, then shrugged.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check it out.’
He walked outside. As he did, there was a metallic noise from under the tree, then, seconds later, a hooded figure appeared, pushing a bike. It jumped on and rode away, legs pumping.
‘Bloody hell,’ Carl said. ‘You were right.’
Ten minutes later the police – two male officers, one in his twenties, the other late thirties – were sitting in her front room, taking notes as she told them what had happened. Carl was home; he’d sat with her until they arrived, then left her to it. They were going to talk to him afterwards and get his account.
‘It sounds
very unusual,’ the older one said, when Kate had finished. ‘Although we don’t know at this point that the two episodes are linked. It could have been nothing more than an aggressive driver, and maybe a teenager hiding away to have a smoke. You can’t be sure it was the same person both times.’
‘I know,’ Kate said, totally convinced that it was the same person. ‘But what if it is? What if it’s the man who’s killed two young women? If there’s a serial killer out there, I think I need to bear that in mind.’
‘It’s not officially a serial killer,’ the police officer said. ‘We’re still not sure about that.’
‘Serial killer or not, two women are dead,’ Kate said. ‘Which is enough for me. I don’t want to be next.’
‘Of course,’ the younger cop said. ‘We understand that, madam.’
The older officer got to his feet. ‘I think we have all we need,’ he said. ‘There isn’t all that much we can do, I’m afraid. We’ll circulate the details of both incidents to see if they match any others. And I’m pretty sure that a detective is going to want to talk to you about what happened, in case it does have any bearing on the murder investigations. Do you have a number they could call? Perhaps a mobile?’
Kate gave her number. ‘Who should I expect to call? So I know it’s the real thing?’
‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ the older cop said. ‘It’ll probably be her. And if there’s anywhere you can go tonight – a friend, maybe – you might want to think about doing that. Just in case. It’ll be nice to have company, especially if you’re a bit shaken up.’
‘My parents,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll go to them.’
‘Good idea,’ the officer said. ‘We’ll be in touch if anything comes up, Ms Armstrong.’
Kate showed them to the door. Then she picked up her car keys. There was no way she was staying alone in the house for the night, no way.
15
He couldn’t believe he’d been seen.
He was sure that he was invisible under the tree; he’d looked from every angle before choosing it as his hiding place, but somehow she’d known he was there.
He’d hoped that she would go inside, so he could sneak away, but then Carl – his old neighbour – had come out and he’d had no choice but to flee.
Which meant that he would no longer be able to use the tree if he wanted to watch what his ex-girlfriend was up to. He’d have to find another place to hide, but for the moment he couldn’t think where.
He’d find somewhere, though, if he had to.
He biked along the canal towpath in the direction of the London Bridge pub. He needed a beer to calm his nerves, and maybe a cigarette. It had been years since he’d smoked, but all of a sudden the craving was back.
He had to get a grip of himself. He was falling apart: all day long all he could think of was Kate. He had a constant low-level nausea, a sinking sensation in his stomach that was part anxiety and part disbelief that this was happening. Even worse was the feeling of lacking control; sometimes he felt like he wasn’t himself, that he wasn’t there, that it wasn’t him making decisions.
Like that evening. He’d decided to go and see her after work. He needed to explain what he was going through, not in a desperate, please-have-me-back way, but so that she would know how bad this was for him.
She needed to know: if this was a temporary thing, a break while she lived her life a little, then she had to understand the price he was paying for that break. If it was permanent, then so be it. But they needed to talk.
Except she wasn’t there. And then he started to wonder where she was. Out with someone else? Another man? He couldn’t bear the thought of that, couldn’t accept it. He had to know, and in the end, like an addict with his dope, that need took over.
So he ended up hiding under the tree, waiting for her to come home, imagining her walking down the street with her arm around another man, kissing him on the front step, then unlocking the door and going into the house.
He was frantic the entire time, drumming his fingers on his knees, tapping his shoes on the ground, jiggling his legs, standing up and sitting down. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was hiding, he would have paced the street.
And then she came, alone, and he was caught out, and he fled.
Now it was over, he couldn’t believe he’d done it. Couldn’t believe that he’d acted so crazily. It scared him; the whole thing felt like a dream, like it was a different person. He thought about the time he’d spent under the tree. It was almost like he’d been watching it all unfold, an observer, but now, afterwards, he knew this was not the case. He had done it. He shuddered. It was very troubling.
He walked into the pub and stood at the bar. The pub was warm and busy with the Friday-night crowd. He waited his turn. He ordered a pint of strong bitter and a double whisky, Bells. He felt faint, and dizzy.
The barman looked at him. ‘You all right, mate?’
‘Yeah,’ Phil said. ‘I think so.’
‘You think so? You look a bit pale.’
‘I had a rough day.’
‘All right. Well, let me know if you need anything.’
He paid and took his drinks to a table in the corner. He drank the whisky in one swallow, then swigged the beer.
Even now, he couldn’t stop the thoughts coming. Where had she been? Was she planning on going out tonight? Alone? He wanted to go and see, go and knock on her door and lay himself at her feet, pour out everything he was going through, throw himself on her mercy.
It wouldn’t work. He needed to pull himself together.
But he couldn’t. He knew that she was there, that she was in the house, that she was available. All he had to do was go and knock on the door and he’d be with her. And knowing that – well, it was impossible to resist. He had to go and see her. It didn’t matter if it was a good idea or a terrible idea. He had to do it.
He finished the last of the beer and got to his feet. His legs felt weak, drained. No wonder; he’d barely eaten all week. Most of his calories had come from the wine he’d been drinking himself to sleep with every night.
He got on his bike and retraced the route to their – Kate’s, he had to stop thinking of it as theirs – house. He felt a mounting excitement: for the first time in days he felt almost happy. He was going to see her, face to face. They could sort this out, once and for all.
A few minutes later, he turned into her street, and stopped dead.
There was a police car outside the house.
She’d called the cops. What had she done that for? Because he’d been under the tree? It was a bit of an overreaction, surely. Whatever – he couldn’t go there now.
As he watched, the door opened and two cops came out. He turned and pedalled back towards the pub. The last thing he needed was to be spotted again. He shook his head. Seeing the police at the house brought things into focus: this wasn’t a game.
He had to stop this. He absolutely had to stop this.
The only problem was that he wasn’t sure he could.
16
Her parents, of course, overreacted.
‘Move in with us,’ her mum said. ‘Don’t go back to that house. You mustn’t go back there. It’s not safe.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Kate said, her teenage self bridling at her mum’s attempt to limit her freedom, to suggest that she couldn’t take care of herself.
‘Then why are you here?’ her dad said. ‘Your mum has a point, Kate.’
‘I need to stay tonight,’ Kate said. ‘That’s all.’
Her dad didn’t reply, which was what he did when he didn’t agree but didn’t want to say so and risk being accused – as he often had been – of imposing his views on everyone else. He was a man of strong opinions, and at some point had realized that one of his more unattractive traits was his inability to change them. In an attempt to mitigate this, he had developed the strategy of remaining silent when he disagreed with someone, which, in many ways was worse. Kate had been on the receiving end many ti
mes. She remembered when she had declared that she was planning to buy her Mini, a plan that required getting a car loan.
You should never borrow to buy something, unless it’s a house, her dad said.
Dad, it’s fine. Everyone does it. I can afford the payments.
No response. Not a Well, I’m sure you’ll be OK, no doubt you’ve thought it through. Just silence, which – ironically, since it was an attempt to say nothing – said a great deal. It said You’re totally and utterly wrong and probably not even functionally intelligent, but it’s your funeral and don’t come crying to me when it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
Which was what the silent treatment she was now getting meant. Fortunately, her mum had no such inhibition about expressing an opinion.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re staying here. And that’s it.’
‘We’ll talk more tomorrow,’ Kate said. ‘But I’ll probably get Gemma to stay with me, or something like that.’
Her mum shook her head. ‘Under no circ—’
‘Mum!’ Kate said. ‘Please!’
‘I’m only trying to do what’s best for you, darling.’
‘I know, and I’m grateful. But can we discuss this later? I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.’
‘Do you want something to eat?’ her mum said, which was her default question.
‘A drink?’ her dad said, which was his default question. ‘There’s white in the fridge. I think there’s a red open as well.’
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have a bath, then bed.’
Lying in the bath, she googled serial killers. There was a lot of material out there on them. She scanned it, clicking between websites. It varied, but there were some key themes, one of which she found particularly troubling.
There was, a lot of experts claimed, a strong ritualistic element in the activities of most serial killers. Often they were repeating the same murder over and over, each time trying to perfect it, each time getting a greater and greater thrill from it.
There were other themes that emerged: many serial killers liked to engage in a game of cat-and-mouse with law enforcement agencies – often trying to insert themselves into the investigation in some way – in an attempt to prove their superior intelligence; the level of violence towards the victims often increased as the killer’s confidence grew; the serial killer would purge the desire to kill before it started to build again to the point where they needed release.
