Killing Kate

by Alex Lake

  He was called Mark Stevens, her partner. Thirty-six years old, IT professional. Probably, at that age, getting ready to settle down, pop the question. Maybe that day. Maybe he came home with a bottle of champagne and a ring, expecting to end up with a fiancée. What he ended up with was a corpse.

  Then it had stopped. Suddenly, without warning, the killing had stopped.

  There was plenty of speculation online, ranging from the practical – the killer had moved elsewhere, the killer had died – to the unlikely – the police had found him and killed him and were covering it up – to the frankly absurd – it was not a serial killer at all but a bizarre suicide pact among short-haired blonde women.

  She ended up on a website dedicated to the murders. There was a discussion – closed now – about the victims. One thread caught her eye: it was under the heading Claire Michaels, and it was called Mark Stevens:

  I knew Claire well, and in the last few months of her life she was miserable. I used to see her a lot, but since she’d met her boyfriend – Mark Stevens – I saw less and less of her. When I did, she was unhappy. She pretended not to be, but I could tell she wasn’t right. My guess is that he was hitting her. After she died, I told the police but they weren’t interested. They couldn’t go after him for it now she was gone, and it wasn’t like he had killed her. It was the serial killer who had done that.

  God, Kate thought. The poor woman. An abusive boyfriend and then killed in your own house.

  She looked back at the screen.

  At least he got what was coming to him, the friend of Claire Michaels wrote. He killed himself a few weeks later. Glad the bastard died in misery.

  It was a bit harsh, Kate thought, to wish a miserable death on someone, although if he’d been anything like Colin Davidson, she could see why someone might. She typed in his name, and a news story came up, from a local paper in Lytham St Annes, on the Fylde coast.

  MURDER VICTIM BOYFRIEND SUICIDE

  The boyfriend of Claire Michaels, victim of the serial killer who has recently been operating in the Sheffield area, apparently killed himself on Sunday.

  Mark Stevens was a lifelong lover of the Lytham area, and, according to a suicide note found by friends, planned to kill himself by drowning in the seas off his favourite beach.

  He was said by friends to be distraught over the death of his girlfriend. When he did not show up for work on Monday, they attempted to contact him, and found the letter in which he outlined his plans.

  No body has yet been recovered, although the search is ongoing.

  Kate rubbed her eyes. He was the fifth victim of the serial killer, in a way, driven to take his own life by the grief. She wondered whether the murderer had read the reports of Mark Stevens’ death, whether he had taken pleasure in the knowledge of what he had driven him to. Maybe, maybe not: it was hard to know the mind of someone capable of doing the things he had done.

  A voice interrupted her.

  ‘Kate.’

  She looked up. It was Michaela. ‘Hey,’ she said. She minimized the web browser. ‘I was checking on some news. What’s up?’

  ‘How’s the Osborne brief coming? My meeting was brought forward to nine a.m. tomorrow. Any chance you can do it for then? If the news is not too riveting?’

  Shit. It was going to be a push, and now she’d been caught wasting time on the Internet she would have no excuse if she was late. Still, she wasn’t going to give Michaela the satisfaction of knowing that.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘No problem. It’ll be ready.’

  She was going to need help. It was a financial fraud case and there were some complicated accounts to go through. Moreover, this one might go to trial, so Michaela would want to know what had happened in similar cases in the past, and that meant she’d need to review the case law. She wouldn’t have time to do it all on her own.

  She picked up her phone.

  ‘Nate?’ she said. ‘Do you have plans tonight?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you asking me on a date?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘But I will buy you dinner.’

  They ordered sushi and ate it in a conference room, legal books and documents spread over the table. On the surface, it looked like a scene from a legal thriller; in reality, all it meant was a lot of careful reading to make sure nothing was missed.

  ‘All right,’ Nate said, tidying up the sushi containers. ‘Let’s do it.’

  At eight thirty, he stood up.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ he said.

  Kate shrugged. ‘Fine. If I keep cranking through it, I reckon I’ll be done in an hour or so.’

  ‘I think I’m nearly there too,’ Nate said. ‘There’s one more question I need to dig into.’ He picked up a handful of files. ‘I think I’ll go through these somewhere else. Get a change of scene. I’ll be back in a bit.’

  ‘OK,’ Kate said. ‘See you soon.’

  He was back forty-five minutes later, as Kate was wrapping up.

  ‘Did you get it done?’ she said. ‘And thanks, by the way. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problems, team mate,’ Nate said. ‘And yes, I did get it done. But I also found out something much more interesting.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kate said. ‘About the case?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not about our case. About the Strangler.’

  Kate’s pulse sped up.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘It’s out,’ he said. ‘The press think the Sheffield killer and the Strangler are the same person.’

  5

  ‘Where are they getting that from?’ Kate said.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Nate replied. ‘But if the press is saying it, then there must be something. They won’t reveal what, but there’ll be a reason.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think it’s the same guy.’

  ‘Can you ask your friend?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll try. But check out the news.’

  STRANGLER: DONE IT BEFORE

  The mystery around the serial killer known as the Stockton Heath Strangler deepened this evening. In a shocking development, speculation emerged that the police are investigating evidence that the perpetrator of the recent string of murders in Stockton Heath is the same person who killed four women in Sheffield in the summer of 2013.

  The four women – Charlotte Walton, Melissa Jones, Lisa Wallace and Claire Michaels – were all suffocated in their houses. They were all in their early thirties. When the murders ceased, there was widespread speculation that the killer had moved, either to another part of the country or to a different country entirely.

  Although the methods are different, a police spokesperson said that there may be evidence linking the two sets of murders.

  At this point, the police still do not have a suspect in custody. The spokesperson said that they are actively following leads and that the public should rest assured that they are doing everything possible to find the killer.

  John Strettle, a former investigator, says this means they know that the killer is the same in both cases. ‘The evidence is there that it is the same person, but not who it is, or they’d have arrested them by now. Of course, they can start to look for links, but if the perpetrator selects victims at random then it might be hard to find any. It’s the element of randomness that makes these cases so hard to solve. It could literally be anybody.’

  In the meantime, the people of Stockton Heath continue to wonder who will be next.

  ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Nate said. ‘This is going to be a huge story.’

  ‘It is,’ she said. It was also going to answer some questions, like where was Phil when the Sheffield murders happened? Although she was desperate to figure it out, she didn’t want to do it in front of Nate. She closed the browser. ‘But we have to get this finished.’

  In the taxi on the way home – paid for by the firm, if you worked late – she looked up the dates of the Sheffield murders.

  The first one was 11 August 2013.
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  She felt suddenly dizzy. It was hard to concentrate.

  They’d gone on holiday that summer, an epic three-week trip to Thailand. She knew the dates; it was the best and longest holiday they’d ever had and she’d spent weeks planning it. They’d left on 20 July and come back 9 August.

  The day after, in the midst of post-holiday blues, they’d had the biggest blow-out argument of their relationship. They’d both said things that should not have been said, and Phil had left. Went to a hotel, he said.

  He came back a couple of days later. On 12 August.

  The day after the murder.

  So was it him, then? Had he reacted badly to the argument – it had felt like a break-up at the time – and worked out his anger by killing a woman? And now that they had broken up, he was doing it again? The pattern fit, she had to admit it.

  But not Phil. Surely not Phil. He wasn’t capable of it. And if he was, how could she have missed it?

  Because she had never broken up with him before, that was why. And the one time she almost had, a woman had been killed.

  By the same person who was killing women now. And who else would be targeting women who looked like her? Specifically like her – whether she changed her appearance or not?

  And the dates, the timing: it all made a sickening sense. Michelle Clarke had been killed the night she had changed her appearance.

  Which was before Phil had seen her and found out that she no longer looked like he thought she did. That she no longer looked like Michelle Clarke.

  This was awful. Beyond awful. She looked out of the taxi window. The cars and houses and telegraph poles rolled by and she felt sick. Dizzy and sick and disbelieving.

  6

  Phil looked at the lettings agent. She was smiling with the kind of grin that contestants in a talent show wore and which, apparently, people starting out in the lettings business thought would reassure prospective clients. She was young – maybe twenty-one, twenty-two – and was quite pretty.

  Apart from her short hair. Her short, close-cropped hair. He didn’t like short hair, and he hated it on Kate. He couldn’t believe it when he had seen it. It was horrendous.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘Six months at first.’

  ‘It’ was a two-bedroom terraced house on Miller Street in Latchford. It was furnished and available immediately – As soon as you can take a look and sign the paperwork, Mr Flanagan – and so Phil had made a call and arranged an appointment to see it.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ The agent – Carly, he remembered – grinned even more widely. ‘Are you available to come to the office to complete the paperwork?’

  ‘I took the morning off,’ Phil said. ‘So no problem.’

  ‘OK,’ Carly said. ‘I’ll see you there. You go out first. I’ll lock up behind you. It’s not yours yet!’

  Phil wound down the car window. He wanted to feel the air on his face. He wasn’t over Kate yet – that would take a long time – but he was moving that way, and it felt good. No, it felt great. It was funny how that one thing, that one decision to pick himself up and move on, had put so much more in motion. A new place to live, a new attitude at work, a new approach to life. He hadn’t decided yet what he would do – stay here, move, change jobs; all were options – but whatever it was, it would be good.

  His phone rang. He looked at the screen.

  His good mood drained away.

  It was DI Wynne.

  Shit. What did she want now? She needed to leave him alone. She had no evidence – she couldn’t have, because there wasn’t any; and if there was, she would have done something with it by now, like arrest him. There was some speculation as to whether he had a compelling motive – which he could admit looked bad – and some bike tracks that could have been anybody at any time, but other than that, nothing. And right now, he didn’t want to speak to DI Wynne.

  So he didn’t answer.

  The phone went silent. A few seconds later, it rang again.

  DI Wynne, the screen said, again. Why wouldn’t that damn cop leave him alone?

  His mood darkened. Fine, he’d answer, and this time he’d give her a piece of his mind.

  He answered the call. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you want, Detective, but I’ve had enough of you harassing me.’

  ‘Mr Flanagan,’ DI Wynne said. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But I have some questions I need to ask you.’

  ‘What questions? I told you that I didn’t do this.’

  ‘I appreciate that. Have you been following the news, Mr Flanagan?’

  ‘No.’ He had been steering clear. It was part of his fresh start.

  ‘We learned yesterday that whoever is responsible for the current series of murders in Stockton Heath is also responsible for a series of four murders in Sheffield, two years ago.’

  ‘I remember them,’ Phil said. ‘I remember reading about them. We were in Thailand, I think.’

  ‘Were you, Mr Flanagan? If you were, then that would be very good news for you. Nevertheless, I’d like you to come to the station. We can go through the dates of the murders and you can give details of your whereabouts.’

  ‘What was the date of the first one?’ Phil said.

  ‘August eleventh, 2013,’ DI Wynne said.

  Phil thought for a moment. They’d got back sometime in early August, he was sure of that, but he wasn’t sure of the exact date.

  ‘Fine,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll come in.’ He hung up and scrolled through his contacts. He chose Kate’s mobile.

  ‘Hi,’ she answered. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Same as usual,’ Phil said. ‘Except I got a call from Detective Inspector Wynne.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And she wants to know where I was when some killings in Sheffield happened, back in 2013.’

  ‘Right. Because it’s the same person who’s killing people now.’

  ‘Which isn’t me. I told her I thought we were in Thailand. The first murder was August eleventh. Do you remember when we got back?’

  ‘We got back on the ninth,’ Kate said.

  Phil ran his fingers through his hair. Shit. That was his alibi gone.

  ‘And then,’ Kate said, ‘you stayed out for a few days. We had that argument, remember?’

  He did remember. He’d gone to a hotel in Chester and moped around until he couldn’t stand it any more, then come home.

  ‘Did you tell DI Wynne about that?’

  ‘No,’ Kate said. ‘She hasn’t asked.’

  ‘Well don’t,’ Phil said. ‘It’ll only make things worse.’ He pulled up outside the lettings agency. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’m signing for a house. I’m going to move into a place in Latchford.’

  ‘OK.’ Kate paused. ‘Good luck, Phil.’

  ‘You too,’ Phil said. ‘Stay in touch.’

  7

  It was strange to think about Phil.

  He had been such a big part of her life, but from now on their lives would travel in separate directions. He’d meet someone, change jobs, move somewhere, get a dog, do new things, and each time he did, the gap between them would grow, inch by inch, until it was a chasm. He would be part of the past; the man who had once been the most important thing she could ever imagine would one day be a memory. An ex-boyfriend. The answer to a question her daughter or son would ask when they came across a photo of her, in her twenties, with a strange man who was not their dad.

  Who’s that, Mum?

  That’s Phil.

  Who’s Phil?

  A boy I used to go out with. My first boyfriend.

  Was it serious?

  I suppose so, at the time. But it’s a long time in the past now.

  I wonder what he’s doing, they might add.

  Me too, she’d reply, and for a moment she’d think of him. Fondly, she hoped. Then she’d move onto something else and he would once again be forgotten.

  Unless he was a mass murderer, in which case even the years of therapy she’d have to have to
get over it wouldn’t be enough for her to forget him.

  She doubted it would come to that. For now, she was ready to move on.

  She called Mike from work and suggested it.

  Suggested that they go out on Friday and that he spend the night at her house. She’d agonized about whether to do it. She wasn’t planning to move back, not yet, and certainly not now that she knew the Strangler had a track record of breaking into houses and suffocating women who were alone at home, but why not stay there with Mike after a night out? It was better than getting a lift home to her parents’. That made her feel like a teenager again. It was embarrassing.

  She was aware that this was a step towards a relationship – not a big one, not moving in together or anything like that – but a move in that direction. She hadn’t planned to end up in a relationship this quickly, but maybe she was a serial monogamist. Or maybe not. She didn’t know. There were a lot of things about herself that she didn’t know, that she had not needed to think about while she was with Phil. Then she had been Kate, half of Phil and Kate, kind, sensible, hard-working, small-town, instantly forgettable. Now she had a chance to rewrite that list of adjectives, and it would be fun figuring out which ones, from the thousands out there, were going to fit her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mike said. ‘I’d love to, but I’m happy either way.’

  ‘I’m sure. Let’s meet at my house at seven. We can go out from there.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That sounds great. But how about this instead: I’ll pick you up at your office at six. I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Should I dress up?’

  ‘No. Nothing special. See you then.’

  She hung up. Friday – three days away – couldn’t come soon enough.