Killing Kate

by Alex Lake

  But the one that stuck with her was the presence of ritual.

  Was the appearance of the victims part of the ritual in this case? She wasn’t sure, but it certainly seemed possible.

  Which gave her an idea. A way to put a stop to all this.

  The next morning she made some phone calls. Most places were busy, but eventually she found one that had an open slot.

  ‘Mum,’ she called, sipping the last of her tea. ‘I’m just popping out. I’ll be back for lunch.’

  Her mum came into the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out. And then at three I’m meeting Gem to go to the Trafford Centre.’

  ‘But where are you going now?’

  She didn’t want to tell her mum. She couldn’t face the conversation, didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing and then listen to her mum’s objections. It was easier to do it and deal with the fallout later.

  Gemma had a saying: Beg forgiveness, don’t ask permission. Kate thought it applied here.

  ‘Out. Maybe go grab a coffee somewhere. But mainly anything to get out of the house.’

  ‘Go and grab,’ her mum said. ‘Not go grab. You aren’t American, darling. I know you like to watch those television shows, but you don’t need to speak like them.’

  God, her mother annoyed her sometimes.

  ‘And anyway,’ her mum continued, her expression sceptical. ‘You had a cup of tea five minutes ago.’

  ‘Mum! I’m old enough to go out for a coffee!’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I could do with an outing.’

  ‘Mum, please. I’m only popping out. OK?’

  Her mum shrugged, evidently not believing a word she said. ‘See you at lunch, then.’

  She was back shortly after midday. Her dad was sitting in the living room, watching the news. She walked in and stood, waiting for his reaction. He studied her before he spoke.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell.’ He called into the kitchen. ‘Margaret, come and see your daughter.’

  Her mum appeared in the door frame. She blinked a few times, then smiled.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That’s quite a change.’

  17

  It was. Kate had explained what she wanted to the hairdresser; he had asked if she was sure, absolutely sure, and she said yes, she was. So he went ahead. He cut her long, black hair into a close-cropped fuzz, which he dyed a dark red.

  She hated it. Hated seeing her hair on the floor, hated how big her head looked, hated seeing herself shorn in this way. She was not vain, but she had always been proud of her hair. She had been told a million times that it was gorgeous and lovely and the compliments had stuck. Some portion of her self-esteem was wrapped up in her hair, and now it was gone. But she had a good reason for having done this, and, when it was safe to do so, she could always grow it back.

  On her way home she went to a costume shop. It was a place she’d used before, when she and Phil had gone to a Halloween party in fancy dress. That time she’d bought bright red contact lenses; this time, she got green ones.

  With them in she looked nothing like herself. More importantly, she looked nothing like Jenna Taylor or Audra Collins.

  Gemma’s reaction was far less muted than her parents’ had been. She screamed, clapped her hand over her mouth, then burst into laughter.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ she said. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘That’s a nice reaction,’ Kate said. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Gemma said. ‘I suppose so. It’s – well, it’s a pretty big change, Kate. It’s not your usual style. It’s not what you do. I mean, it’s kind of like if Kate Middleton did it. A bit of a surprise.’

  ‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘And I hate it. Not as much as I did this afternoon – I suppose it’s growing on me …’

  ‘Literally,’ Gemma said. ‘Although it’s still got some growing to do.’

  ‘… But I have my reasons.’ She took out her phone and typed a search into Google. A picture of the two murdered women came up. ‘They look like me,’ she said, handing her phone to her friend. ‘Remember you guys teasing me about that? We laughed, but it’s not so funny now.’

  Gemma studied it for a second or two. When she looked at Kate she was pale.

  ‘They don’t look like you now,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘And it’s going to stay that way until this is over.’

  They spent the afternoon at the Trafford Centre. Kate had never noticed before, but it was a place that, between the glass shopfronts and the mirrors inside the shops, was full of reflections. She saw herself everywhere, saw this stranger with the short, red hair and green eyes walking side by side with the familiar form of her friend, and each time was surprised anew at the realization that it was her.

  It was interesting to see how the shop assistants treated her. When they suggested clothes for her they were different to the clothes she was used to being offered: more urban, more punk, more edgy.

  She wasn’t quite ready to embrace her new style fully yet, not least because those scruffy-looking punk clothes came at designer prices. It cost as much to dress down as to dress up.

  She was glad, though, that they saw her that way. It meant that the transformation had been a success. Whatever the type was that the killer was targeting, she no longer fit it.

  That evening they went out for dinner, and then for a drink at a wine bar. Gemma had agreed to stay over, and they had drunk a bottle of wine with their meal. They were now drinking gin and tonics, and Kate was feeling the effects.

  It was a nice feeling, though. Relaxing and warm. A great way to end a difficult week.

  ‘Well,’ Gemma said. ‘I’m starting to get used to your new look. And I have to say, I kind of like it.’

  ‘You’re only saying that,’ Kate replied. ‘And there’s no need. This is temporary. You don’t have to make me feel good about it.’

  ‘I’m not, I promise. It’s cool. And you’re so pretty that you can get away with it. Especially with those green eyes. I might get some myself.’ She sipped her drink; it was getting low. ‘One more?’

  ‘Why not?’ Kate stood up. ‘It’s my round. And I need the loo.’

  In the Ladies she used the toilet, then, after washing her hands, took a small bottle of eye drops from her purse. The contact lenses were irritating her eyes. She wasn’t used to wearing them and she was looking forward to taking them out when she got home.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a different person. She smiled, and headed to the bar.

  As she waited her turn, someone bumped into her back.

  ‘Sorry,’ a voice said. ‘Excuse me.’

  The voice was familiar, and she turned round. It took her a moment to realize who it was.

  It was Mike, the guy from Turkey.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a tight squeeze.’

  She grinned; it was clear he didn’t recognize her, which was exactly what she wanted. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘No problems.’ Then she added: ‘Mike.’

  He paused. ‘Do I know you?’ he said. He stared at her, then his mouth opened. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘It’s you! It’s Kate?’

  It was half-question, half-exclamation.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Same as usual. Nothing new.’ He gestured at her hair. ‘Can’t say the same for you. It looks great, by the way. You look great.’

  ‘Thanks, but I didn’t do it for looks.’ The wine and the gin and tonic were making her more loose-lipped than usual. ‘I did it for tactical reasons.’

  ‘Oh? Like what? You joining the SAS?’

  She laughed. ‘No, not exactly. It’s kind of a disguise.’

  ‘It’s a pretty good one. Can I ask why?’

  She took out her phone and showed him the picture she’d showed to Gemma earlier.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.
‘I see. Good idea. It’s a bonus that it looks pretty awesome too.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  He pointed to a group of men at the end of the bar. ‘Cricket club. I used to play and I came to watch a game today. Been having a few beers with the boys.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But I have to go.’

  ‘Hot date?’ She was surprised at her forwardness; maybe she’d think again about another drink.

  ‘Something like that.’

  She was intrigued to find that she was – a little – jealous.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Enjoy. And I’ll maybe see you around?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘See you around.’

  When she got back to the table, Gemma gave her a knowing look. ‘Was that who I think it was?’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘The guy? From Kalkan? What was his name?’

  ‘Mike. And yes, it was. And guess what? He didn’t recognize me.’

  ‘He’s kind of cute. In an older way.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you obviously thought so when we were on holiday.’

  ‘He’s OK. But I’m not interested. Not at the moment.’

  ‘At the moment,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Ever,’ Kate replied, although she wasn’t sure that she meant it.

  18

  Gemma gestured around the pub.

  ‘It’s so weird,’ she said. ‘Look. This place is full of people talking, drinking, falling in love. There are probably people meeting each other tonight who’ll get married. Others are having affairs. It’s full of life and warmth and fun …’ She paused and leaned forward. ‘And any one of these people could be a serial killer. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It makes me sick,’ Kate said.

  ‘I mean, it could be anyone,’ Gemma said. ‘It doesn’t have to be some oddball loner. It could be someone’s husband, or father, or a teacher or a judge. You have no way of knowing.’

  That was the reason serial killers were so fascinating, Kate thought. An ordinary killer – if there was such a thing – was easily explained, banal almost. It was a matter of normal emotions or situations that got out of hand. Someone screwed his wife and a husband got jealous; a robbery went wrong; a brother wanted all of an inheritance to himself. Grubby human life, writ large: jealousy, lust, greed.

  And then there was gangland stuff, revenge killings, assassinations. That was more interesting, but it was a different world. It didn’t spill over into most people’s lives.

  Not so with a serial killer. They were there, amongst us, monsters in our midst, hidden in plain sight. They were one of us, but also separate, and we could be their next victim. It was both terrifying and utterly compelling.

  ‘It might be him,’ Gemma said, pointing to a tall man with long, wavy red hair who was drinking alone at the bar. ‘Maybe he’s angry at the world for teasing him about his hair colour.’

  Kate knew that her friend was joking, but she felt suddenly uneasy. It really was the case that one of these people could have killed Jenna Taylor and Audra Collins, and the thought made her want to get out of there.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine at home – Phil brought it round the day we got back from holiday – we can drink that.’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Gemma said. ‘Are you looking for a new boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kate said. She sipped her wine, then balanced the glass on the arm of the couch. ‘I don’t want anything serious. Maybe date a bit. Meet some people. See what happens. But I don’t want to go straight into another relationship. I’ve been with Phil for over ten years.’ She shook her head. ‘More than a decade. It’s hard to believe. It’ll be nice to be single for a while.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘Yeah. Sometimes a lot, but that’s inevitable, I think. The weird thing is that sometimes I don’t miss him at all. I feel the opposite: I’m glad we broke up. I feel almost like I had a narrow escape, like I was blindly following a path without ever considering any other options. I could have been making a terrible mistake without even knowing it. At least now I’ll find out.’

  ‘And you can always go back to him.’

  ‘You know, that’s what I thought, but I don’t think I would. It’s strange: I can hardly picture us together now.’

  ‘It’s funny how that happens,’ Gemma said. ‘My mum and dad were together for twenty-five years before they got separated. For a month or so I hoped they’d get back together, but pretty soon it was obvious that they wouldn’t. They were so different. I stopped wondering whether they’d get back together and started wondering how they’d ever got together in the first place.’

  ‘That’s kind of how I feel.’

  Gemma grinned. ‘Then it looks like you are ready to start dating,’ she said. ‘You should try an Internet dating site. Let’s set up a profile.’

  ‘No. I don’t need that right now.’

  ‘Why not? It can’t do any harm. You can check it out, then, when the time comes, you’ll know what to do. And you don’t have to accept any invitations. Come on. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kate said.

  ‘What’s the harm? And you never know, you might meet your dream man. A sensitive, caring dolphin trainer. Or a rugged fireman.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Then find out. And I won’t take no for an answer.’

  She wouldn’t. Gemma was, if nothing else, persistent. They had all learned over the years that once she had an idea she would never give it up. It was why they had ended up stuck in the snow on Snake Pass one New Year’s Eve: Gemma had heard that there was some nightclub in Sheffield that they absolutely had to go to. Never mind the weather, never mind the distance, never mind the old Mini Metro that she drove. They were going to that nightclub. So go they did. Except they never actually got there, instead spending the evening waiting for a tow truck to come and rescue them.

  And now she had that look in her eyes again.

  ‘Fine,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll try it.’

  19

  Phil stood in the kitchen, filling two wineglasses – one for himself, one for Michelle – and wondered how the hell he’d let himself get into this situation.

  It had started on Friday night, after he got back from staking out Kate’s house. He was alone – Andy was away at his brother’s house in Lancaster – and feeling sorry for himself, so he’d called Michelle. He’d also had a large portion of a bottle of malt whisky that his sister had bought for his last birthday – a twelve-year-old Macallan – before he did so, which, looking back was a larger part of the reason for the call. Until recently, he hadn’t been much of a drinker; his father had been more than partial to a drink, a fact which had contributed to his seemingly unending anger. He had taken out his frustration on their mother, at first by belittling her with his words and then, when that wasn’t enough, by bringing her down to his level with his fists.

  Phil heard it many times, heard the thuds as his father threw his wife around the living room, heard her sobs when he stomped off to bed or to the drinks cabinet for some more anaesthetic. He heard it, but it was never spoken about. It was as though his mum thought that, by taking the punishment but not acknowledging it, the damage done would only be to her, and not to her family.

  It was a vain hope, and it ended one day when Phil walked into the bathroom as she was getting out of the shower.

  Her stomach and ribs were dark with bruises.

  Was that Dad? he said.

  His mum shook her head. I fell.

  I hear him, Mummy, Phil said, aware even at eight years old that he was crossing into dangerous territory. I hear him a lot. Why does he hit you? Is that what dads do to mums?

  She didn’t reply for a long time. When she did, she had tears in her eyes. No, she said, it isn’t. And he won’t ever do it again.

  A week lat
er he was gone. Phil was pretty sure that his mum found a way – and the strength – to get rid of her husband because she didn’t want whatever it was that drove him to violence passing to her son any more than it already had. Phil saw him once, maybe six months after that, when he showed up on a Sunday afternoon with a bunch of flowers and a sheepish grin. He was there for five minutes, and then he was gone for ever.

  So Phil had avoided alcohol, largely. Avoided the binge-drinking at university, avoided the casual slurping of a glass or two or three on a weeknight. He saw what it could do if it took hold in someone, and he feared that he had inherited his father’s propensity to let it take hold in him.

  But Friday night, he needed it, so he had opened the Macallan and accepted the numbness it offered.

  And then at some point he had called Michelle and suggested she come over for dinner Saturday night. When he woke up, he had forgotten; it was only when she sent a text message asking what time she should come to his house and whether she should bring anything – wine, maybe? – that he remembered calling her.

  She came over, with a bottle of red wine and a hopeful look in her eyes. They’d eaten the lamb tagine he’d made, and had moved to the couch to discuss whether they had room for ice cream.

  Michelle had made it clear that she had other plans, too, sliding closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. They’d had sex the night they met, but not the second time they’d gone out, the night that Phil had fled the pub. Now he wanted to flee again, but he couldn’t: he was already in the place he would flee to.

  And now, to buy time, he was refilling her wineglass in the kitchen. He walked back into the living room and handed her the glass. She glanced at the empty space next to her on the couch; at the last second, Phil went to sit in the armchair.