Killing Kate

by Alex Lake

  Phil blinked. He felt weak and had to struggle to focus. He could guess – in fact, he knew – what it would show.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Stick to the facts,’ DS Chan said. ‘What do you think that footage shows?’

  The detective held up his hands. ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’ll answer for you. It’s you. It’s you, on your bike, stopping for some water. But you said you were at home. That you didn’t go out. Help us understand, Mr Flanagan. Because a bike is a good way – stealthy, quiet – for a killer to get about.’

  Phil nodded. He put his hands on his thighs so the cops wouldn’t see them shaking. ‘I followed her,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want her to walk home alone. Because of the killings.’

  ‘Very noble of you, Mr Flanagan,’ DS Chan said.

  DI Wynne gestured to her partner to let Phil speak. ‘Go on, Mr Flanagan,’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to be sure she was OK, so I followed her. But she stopped to make a call, so I hid. By the time I looked again, she’d gone. I rode around for a while, but I couldn’t find her.’

  ‘Why did you lie?’ DI Wynne said. ‘If it was as innocent as you say? Help me to understand that.’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  DS Chan laughed. ‘You don’t want to know what I think.’

  ‘Listen,’ Phil said. ‘I’d hardly have gone to an all-night garage, would I? If I’d killed someone a few minutes earlier.’

  ‘Mr Flanagan,’ DI Wynne said, ‘would you be prepared to give a DNA sample?’

  ‘Have you found DNA on the bodies?’

  ‘We may do.’

  ‘Then yes, I would. Because you won’t find mine. Maybe on Michelle’s body, but not the others. When would you like it?’

  ‘Now? As you can imagine, we are very busy, so the sooner the better.’

  ‘Fine. Now is fine. Where?’

  DI Wynne gave him an address.

  ‘I’ll be right there. I’d like to have a quick shower before I come, if that’s OK.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ DI Wynne said. ‘But be sure you do come.’

  ‘I will,’ Phil said. ‘I have nothing to hide, Detective.’

  ‘I hope so,’ DI Wynne said. ‘For your sake, I hope so.’

  3

  POLICE: WE ARE LOOKING FOR A SERIAL KILLER

  Cheshire police confirmed yesterday that they believe the recent murders in Stockton Heath were all committed by the same person.

  A third body, that of Michelle Clarke, 28, was found on Sunday morning near to Ackers Pond, a local beauty spot. As with the earlier victims, Ms Clarke had been strangled and sexually assaulted. The police did not confirm whether the sexual assault was pre- or post-mortem.

  The manner of the murders has led to the killer being given the name ‘The Stockton Heath Strangler’. Dr Michael Groton, an academic who has written extensively about serial killers, said that the pattern of the killings is typical of such cases.

  ‘There is a strong compulsive element to many serial killers,’ Dr Groton said. ‘This means that the killing itself is only part of what they do: the selection of the victim, the planning, reading about it afterwards – all of these give the killer pleasure and form part of what they view as their work. These murders show all the hallmarks of a typical serial killer: the victims are all women, all in their mid to late twenties, all of similar appearance, and the method is the same in each case. There will be some significance to the selection of victims of this type, but what that is is hard to say.’

  The detective in charge of the case, DI Wynne, said that they have no one in custody, but there are a number of leads which they are currently following up.

  Kate closed the browser. She felt sick, both because this was happening and because Phil was one of those leads.

  There was a tap on the divider that separated her desk from her neighbour. It was Nate; in one hand he held a file, in the other, his wallet.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. He gestured at her hair. ‘I know we have an HR policy that we shouldn’t comment on people’s personal appearance, but – wow. You really went for it.’

  It was a reaction she had already experienced many times that morning: from the receptionist, the security guard, her colleagues.

  ‘I wanted a change.’

  ‘You certainly got one.’ He shrugged. ‘I like it. It’s modern. Bold. Something like that. Anyway, I’m going to get some coffee. We’ll need it before our Monday-morning meeting with the compliance folks. Takes a big jolt to keep awake through that one. Want to join me?’

  ‘I already have one,’ Kate said, pointing to the large Styrofoam cup on her desk. ‘But I’ll come down for the walk.’

  They crossed the office to the lifts. There was one open and they took it down to the ground floor, where Costa Coffee had set up a franchise. Nate went to get a coffee; Kate found a seat by the plate-glass window that separated them from Manchester’s busy Deansgate.

  He came back with a cup of coffee and a large blueberry muffin, which he set between them and cut into two halves.

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Tuck into that.’

  Kate broke off a small section. Even though she hadn’t eaten breakfast, she wasn’t very hungry.

  ‘Don’t feel like eating?’ Nate said.

  ‘It’s all this serial killer stuff,’ she replied. ‘It’s kind of getting to me. I’m always looking over my shoulder, checking I’m not being followed. I’ve even moved back in with my parents.’

  Nate raised an eyebrow. ‘That seems pretty extreme.’

  ‘It is, but then – well, there were a bunch of incidents over the weekend.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Kate didn’t want to go into it. It was unsettling enough as it was; she didn’t want it to permeate her work life as well.

  ‘Nothing specific,’ she said. ‘But I got spooked, so I ran to Mum and Dad. Guess we never really grow up, after all.’

  ‘Not until they die,’ Nate said. ‘That’s what I found, anyway.’

  ‘Your parents passed away?’

  ‘When I was younger.’ He sipped his coffee and looked away. ‘And it’s probably not a bad idea for you to move back. Whoever this guy is, he must stalk them, figure out what routes they take to places, understand their routines. You’re better off breaking yours up.’

  ‘God, it’s so awful,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t quite believe this guy is out there.’

  ‘I know,’ Nate replied. ‘Although I must admit I’ve got a kind of sick interest in it.’

  ‘Everyone has,’ Kate said. ‘It’s all over the news.’

  ‘People love a good serial killer,’ Nate said. ‘They make a great story.’

  ‘Yeah, unless you’re one of the victims,’ Kate said. ‘Or the same age and gender, and living in the same village.’

  ‘Apparently the killer leaves the bodies on their backs,’ he said, ‘arms folded across the chest, legs straight out. He’d have to arrange them like that after he’d strangled them – presumably there’d be some struggle beforehand.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘There’s one other thing he does. It’s pretty horrible.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to hear this,’ Kate said.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you, if you don’t want.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘On a scale of one to ten?’ He wagged his head from side to side, as though considering the matter. ‘Nine.’

  ‘Then no, I don’t want to hear it,’ Kate said.

  ‘No problem.’

  Kate looked at him. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Tell me. I need to know or my imagination will run riot.’

  Nate nodded. ‘He removes their eyes,’ he said. ‘He cuts off their eyelids while they’re alive, then scoops out their eyes after he’s killed them.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Kate said, her voice a whisper. ‘That’s sick. Beyond sick.’

  ‘The cops think it’s some weird fetish. He wants them to have to look at him, so that he is
the last thing they see before they die. They’re keeping that to themselves, though, to stop the false confessions. Believe it or not, there are people weird enough to confess to high-profile crimes so that they can have their fifteen minutes of fame. Crazy, or what?’

  ‘Not as crazy as the people who are actually doing it.’

  ‘You don’t think? In some ways it’s even weirder. Anyway, they keep certain details out of the public eye so that if someone does confess they can check whether it’s for real or not. If they don’t know the details of the killings, then the cops can tell they’re a glory hunter.’

  Kate took another small bite of the muffin. ‘So how do you know?’ she said. ‘If they’re keeping it hidden?’

  ‘Because I’m the Strangler,’ Nate said. ‘And this is all part of my sinister game.’

  Kate froze, then relaxed as he grinned.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Another of my crap jokes. The truth is a bit less dramatic. I know a cop. He’s a forensic tech in Cheshire, working on the case. He filled me in over a beer.’

  ‘Who is he? I might know him.’

  ‘A friend. I can’t say more.’

  ‘Should he be telling you this stuff? If they’re keeping it secret, I’m surprised he would, to be honest.’

  ‘He probably shouldn’t,’ Nate said. ‘But we go way back, and I’m a lawyer, so he can trust me, right?’

  ‘Millions wouldn’t, Nate.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, OK?’

  ‘I will.’ Kate hesitated. ‘Did he say if they have any idea who did it? Any suspects?’

  ‘He said there was one, but he wouldn’t elaborate. That kind of information he really can’t share.’

  Back at her desk, Kate saw that she had an email from Dating Harmony.

  Toby_Turner342 wanted to send her a message. According to his profile, he was thirty-two, a teacher, musician and an active member of a mountain rescue unit in the Lake District. He was interested in travel and new experiences and disliked people who brought him down.

  But haters gonna hate, he said. The rest of us just gotta smile and walk on by.

  He sounded very pleasant.

  But there was no way she was going on a date with anyone she didn’t know right now.

  No way.

  She deleted the email. When this was over – when the Strangler was behind bars – she’d maybe look him up, if he was still on the website. And if he wasn’t? Well, then it wasn’t meant to be, and she was fine with that.

  4

  By Wednesday, Kate was having second thoughts about staying at her parents’ house; by Thursday she was trying to think if she had any colleagues or friends who needed someone to share their house with; by Friday afternoon, sitting at her desk with a weekend of cups of tea and not very subtle questioning from her mum ahead of her, she was ready to move in with the Strangler and take her chances.

  OK, maybe not that, but not far off.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents – she did, of course she did – but that didn’t mean she wanted to live with them. Kids left home at a certain point; late teens for some, early twenties for others, thirties, forties, maybe fifties for a few. And they left because they were ready to live their own lives. There was a period of transition, of coming home on weekends for a meal and to get clothes washed, of mentioning that money was a bit tight that month in the hope that a parental cash donation might be made, of borrowing Mum’s more reliable car when a long journey was in the offing, but that period came to an end, and when it did the chick was fully fledged.

  Kate was finding that moving back in after having gone through that wasn’t like going back to how it had been before: it was much worse. She was not the person she had been when she had last lived there – a person, remember, who had decided to leave – she was someone totally different, someone fully formed, an adult, who came home when she wanted or stayed up late watching trashy movies or had the occasional cigarette when her friends came over and they drank too much wine.

  Home was the same, though. It had not changed. Her mum and dad were still in bed by ten, the lights off downstairs; her mum still tidied up all clutter and wiped down every surface and hoovered the floor at the end of every day; her dad still couldn’t resist passing comment on the television programmes she watched.

  Rubbish, he’d say. These people are talentless. These Pop Idol shows are glorified karaoke. Or: Why anyone would want to watch a bunch of idiots in a house is beyond me. Or: Why don’t you read a book? Or play the piano? Surely it’s better than watching this junk.

  It made her want to scream and run back to her house and never mind if the Strangler came and murdered her in her bed.

  And, as luck would have it, she had no plans for that Friday night. May was going out for dinner with Gus, who wasn’t working a Friday night for the first time in three weeks, and Gemma had sent a reply to her request for a Friday-night drinking buddy.

  Sorry! Going to Matt’s mum and dad’s place. It’s their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  Forty years. It seemed almost impossible that anyone could be married for that long. Her parents weren’t far behind: they’d shared thirty-six years of marital bliss, although not all of it had been bliss. Kate remembered some pretty big arguments when she was a teenager; aged thirteen or so, she’d been convinced that her parents were going to split up, so much so that she’d asked her dad when the divorce was.

  Eh? he said. What divorce?

  You and Mum. You seem to hate each other.

  He put his arm around her. Seem, he said. That’s the word that matters. We’re having a rough patch, but every husband and wife do. Think about it: if you’re with someone for thirty years and you’re unhappy ten per cent of the time – and ten per cent’s not bad – that’s three years. And when you’re in one of those years it can feel like a long time. So don’t worry, petal. We’re not getting a divorce. We’ll muddle through this and things’ll be back to normal.

  A few months later, they were – if normal was defined as a low-level mutual exasperation.

  She wondered whether her generation were less pragmatic than her parents, whether they wanted more, wanted instant and total happiness and turned tail at the first sign of anything less than that. Maybe, maybe not. What she did know was that she had nothing to do but sit around with her mum and dad on a Friday night after a long week at work.

  She replied to Gemma.

  Enjoy. Forty years is amazing. Give them my congrats. I’ll be at my mum and dad’s living the dream …

  She checked the time on her phone. A few minutes after four p.m. Another half an hour in the office and she’d get out of there, go home to her wild Friday night, to her mum pouring her a small glass of white wine at dinner and then watching to see if she drank another, or, heaven forbid, one after that.

  Have you not had enough, darling?

  No, Mum, or I wouldn’t be having more.

  And then she’d feel guilty and a bit stupid, because, after all, why did she need more? Why not settle in for a quiet night, get a good sleep, wake early and go for a run? Why not settle for Phil, for a good enough life? Because, a voice told her, good enough might be as good as you get.

  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bus, she thought, then smiled.

  That’s what her and May and Gemma used to say. Bus, not bush. They liked to do that: make subtle changes to familiar sayings then use them in everyday conversation and see if people would pick them up on it. Most people didn’t; those that did met with fierce resistance to their suggestion that the girls were incorrect.

  It’s true, they’d say. It’s bus, not bush. And a rolling stone gathers no mush. You’ll be saying that’s wrong next.

  But no. Right now, a bird in the hand was not worth two in the bus. She wouldn’t settle. She decided to see if Nate wanted to grab a drink after work. She knew that he was interested in her, and that she had to be careful not to lead him on, but she couldn’t go home, not yet.

  She
moved the mouse to shut down her computer.

  She had an email from Dating Harmony. Someone had seen her profile and wanted to get in touch. For a second she considered it, but no – she’d made up her mind. With the Strangler out there it was too risky.

  She glanced at the photo of the person who had sent her the message, then froze.

  It looked like Mike.

  Surely not. She peered at her screen.

  It was him. MikeSadler79.

  She clicked on the link and accepted the request. She typed a message.

  Hey, you didn’t mention you were on this site.

  The reply came a few minutes later.

  Neither did you! But since you are, I thought I’d say hi and see if you want to meet up sometime.

  Damn, Kate thought. She’d made up her mind that she wouldn’t meet up with anyone she met through the website until this Strangler thing was over.

  Except Mike wasn’t the Strangler. He’d been in Turkey when the first victim was killed.

  So she could – if she wanted – bend the rules. And she had thought he was kind of charming when she’d bumped into him in the pub. Attractive, was the word. Not handsome – that only described an appearance – but attractive. That described the effect he had: there was something about him that attracted her.

  OK. Why not? When?

  He replied instantly.

  Tonight? I’m not doing anything. I know it’s short notice and you’re probably busy, but worth a try.

  Kate grinned.

  As it happens, my date cancelled at the last minute, so I’m looking for a replacement. We could meet for a drink?

  5

  They arranged to meet at a pub not far from Kate’s parents’ house. At dinner her mum tried – and failed, miserably – to conceal how avid her interest was in Kate’s plans.