by Helen Phifer
‘It’s late, is everything okay, Stan?’
He laughed. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. Yes, I’m good. Apart from some little bastards who smashed the glass in the front door at the community centre earlier. But that’s nothing compared to what you’ve been dealing with.’
‘Did you phone the police, Stan?’ She still couldn’t bring herself to call him dad; they weren’t quite at that stage of building their relationship yet. She also knew he hated phoning the cops and was interested to know if he did, because drunken Stan would never ring them, but sober Stan seemed a much nicer guy.
‘I did and he seemed like a decent lad, the copper who turned up. Said he knows you. Was the one to train you up. Dan his name is.’
She blew out her cheeks. ‘He did, and yes I suppose he is a decent copper.’ She didn’t add he was just a rubbish friend.
‘Is there a bit of friction there? Not that it’s anything to do with me, love, but you know at my age you can sense when something’s a bit off.’
‘I suppose we had a bit of a falling out, but it’s in the past.’
‘Good, life’s too short as we both know. Look what it’s taken for us two to get our act together.’
She couldn’t argue with that; he was right.
‘Anyway, I’m only checking you’re okay after everything and you’re not working yourself too hard.’
‘I’m good, tired, but good.’
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. Night then, love.’
‘Night, Stan. Oh, and Stan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you for phoning. I’m glad you did.’
There was a bit of a cough, a sniff and a sob-like sound then the line went dead. The more she talked to him, the more she liked him and was glad they were repairing their fractured relationship. It was a shame it had taken a near tragedy for them both to realise that.
She finished her wine, checked her windows and door were locked for the second time and went to bed to read a book she hadn’t looked at in a very long time, written by John Douglas, an FBI profiler. Reading made her eyes tired and after an hour, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before she was awake again, she put it down and closed her eyes. She needed some rest so she was ready to start a new day to find Gabby Stevens’s killer.
THIRTEEN
Ben and Amy knocked at the side door to the flat above Pretty Fingers nail salon on the main street of Rydal Falls. They listened to the sounds of heavy footsteps running down the stairs and then the noise of the key being turned in the lock, followed by a high-pitched voice that shouted: ‘Hang on, the bloody key is stuck. Becky, can you get the door open?’
More footsteps. Ben looked at Amy: he didn’t want to do this. He was tired of being the bearer of terrible news, but it had to be done. Finally, the key turned after some high-pitched giggling and swearing. The door opened inwards and there were two women, both wearing pyjamas, with bright blue gunge smeared across their faces. Despite the majority of their skin being covered, they still looked shocked to see Ben and Amy: they clearly had no idea who they were.
‘Oh, it’s a bit late. Sorry, we’re not into religion and don’t need to buy anything.’
Ben frowned, wondering what they meant. Amy smiled at them both.
‘We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses or door-to-door sales people, we’re from the police.’
‘Oh, sorry about that. What do you want?’
It was Ben who took over. ‘We have some bad news. Is it possible we can come inside for a chat?’
The blonde girl nodded and stepped back; the brunette held up her hand to stop them.
‘Sorry, this is rude but do you have any ID? It’s late and, well, you have to be sure, don’t you?’
Amy nodded and tugged the lanyard from around her neck, holding it out for them to study. Ben pushed his hands in his pocket and pulled his out, passing it to them. Both girls looked at them and then their pictures on the small, plastic cards.
‘Thanks, come in.’
The girls led the way upstairs to the flat above the shop. It was compact and untidy: there were half-eaten cartons of Chinese takeaway on the coffee table and an almost empty wine bottle. Ben’s stomach groaned; he was hungry. The blonde girl held out her hand.
‘I’m Becky; this is Kate. What sort of bad news? Is the shop okay?’
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
Both girls did, squeezing next to each other on the armchair to give him and Amy the two-seater sofa. They sat so close together their knees were touching.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ben Matthews and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Amy Smith. We’re here about Gabby Stevens. Her parents said you were her best friends. Have you spoken to them today?’
They shook their heads.
Kate spoke. ‘No, we’ve been to Manchester on a Primark run. We only got back an hour ago. Gabby was supposed to come, but we couldn’t get hold of her, so we went without her. Is she okay?’
‘I’m afraid not. I have some sad news for you both.’
He had never passed a death message to women who looked like Smurfs before and found it really disconcerting.
They waited, eyes wide open, staring at him, their mouths slightly parted. Kate was visibly shaking and Becky’s head was turning from side to side. He inhaled deeply.
‘Gabby was found dead this morning by her parents.’
There was a loud screech. He jumped. He didn’t know who had done it as both of them were trembling. Becky was sucking in air as if she couldn’t breathe properly.
‘It’s not possible. How can she be dead? I don’t believe it. You must have the wrong person.’
Amy reached out for Becky’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, but it is Gabby. Her parents found her and positively identified her.’
Tears were flowing freely from Kate’s eyes, making track marks through the blue sludge that was smeared over her face. She whispered: ‘When? How?’
‘That’s why we’re here. We don’t know everything yet.’ Ben knew he wasn’t strictly telling the truth: they knew how she’d died and where, but he was trying to spare them the awful details. ‘We need to know when was the last time you spoke to Gabby and to get a little background information on her.’
Becky answered. ‘At the pub, on Thursday night. We always go and see her on Thursdays because she’s at college on a Wednesday night and we like to get the gossip.’
‘Was she drinking on Thursday? Did she leave to go and meet someone?’
‘She was a little tipsy, but not hammered like we get sometimes. She left on her own; she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment. Her mum and dad were on holiday for a few days.’
‘They came back in the early hours today. When you were in the pub, did you notice anyone watching you? Had Gabby fallen out with anyone or mentioned having bother with anyone? Did she use dating sites?’
They both shook their heads. ‘No, she’s so lovely. She doesn’t do falling out; even when we were at school and would be a bit bitchy like teenagers are, saying things like “spotty Trevor smelt sweaty again”, she never joined in. She always stuck up for everyone; she was so kind. She didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone. Not even about her ex after he left her to go to university and didn’t even tell her in person they were through. She wasn’t on Tinder because she said she wanted to focus on her college work.’
‘Does she ever see her ex?’
‘God, no. Mark Shepherd never comes back here. He couldn’t wait to get away when he left a couple of years ago. She really loved him though; he broke her heart and I think that’s why she hasn’t had a serious boyfriend since.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘Only his mum’s. No idea where he lives. She lives at 52 Wood Grove.’
‘Thank you. What about her employer, John? How did she get on with him?’
‘John’s all right. She liked him as her boss. We’ve all known him since school. He was a couple of years above us. He sti
ll thinks he’s fifteen, though, and plays rugby, even though he’s not the best at it. Saffie keeps telling him to pack it in before he does some serious damage to himself.’
‘What about college? Which one did she attend and what was she studying?’
‘The sixth form, in Kendal. She was trying to resit a couple of GCSEs. She was studying psychology and sociology. Gabby said her psychology teacher was a bit of all right – I think she only signed up to his class because she fancied him. She was always the brainy one out of us all.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry we had to tell you such bad news. If you think of anything that might be important, can you let us know?’
Amy scribbled her phone number on a Post-it note and passed it to Becky who seemed to be coping far better with the awful news than Kate, who had now managed to smear the blue stuff everywhere, up her arms and onto the backs of her hands. Ben stood up. He would normally shake hands, but he couldn’t touch the snot-smeared gloop.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
He led the way, Amy following behind until they got into the car and shut the doors. He looked at Amy, who smiled.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘Face masks; it’s what us girls do. We go to Primark, stock up on pyjamas and cheap knickers, get a Nando’s, have a few cocktails, then go to Lush to stock up on bath bombs and tubs of face masks for a pamper session.’
He stared at her. ‘And you call us blokes weird for liking watching rugby in the pub with a pint? Is it some kind of cult thing? Do you have to do that every time you step foot in a Primark?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really, but it’s popular. Then you go home, have a takeaway, drink wine and snap photos to put all over Instagram.’
‘Christ, thank God I’m not a woman. That sounds like a lot of hard work just to buy some knickers.’
Amy snorted with laughter. ‘It’s just fun.’
‘Do you do that?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I thought I knew you, just shows you never really know anyone. My mind is blown.’
‘You’re just a grumpy git. You’re behind the times. You need a girlfriend so you can keep up better.’
Ben sighed and started the car engine.
Amy lifted her hand to her mouth. ‘Ben, I’m sorry. That’s awful. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. It’s just Cindy would probably do it too, if she was still here.’
He looked at Amy. ‘It’s okay, but you know, I don’t think she would. And I’m not ready for a girlfriend yet anyway. It’s only been just over three years since she died. And if women have changed that much in three years, I’d rather not; it’s terrifying. Come on, let’s call it a day. Tomorrow we can speak to Mark Shepherd’s mum and see if he’s been in town lately.’
They drove back to the station in silence, Ben wondering if Morgan partook in the shopping, face mask thing as well. She was bound to; she was even younger than Amy. He would ask her next time he got a moment. He felt as if his perception of the opposite sex was so far off the radar he might as well become a priest.
FOURTEEN
He looked at the phone in his hand and wondered if he dared risk it. The outdated iPhone 8 had so many cracks on the screen it was hard to see the picture; he could just make out three girls, all pouting. He’d made her tell him her password before killing her. It hadn’t been hard. She’d sobbed the letters out before he’d gagged her again. The phone had no value to it whatsoever, but for him it was priceless. He was currently weighing up if he should use it to send a text message to whoever was dealing with the murder investigation. It wasn’t difficult; he’d done his background research and knew Rydal Falls had a very small criminal investigations department.
It was risky, he knew that, but that was part of the fun. Part of the chase. If he used it sparingly when they weren’t expecting it, and turned it straight off, he might just get away with it. They would only be able to trace it to the nearest phone mast to where he had turned it on. Google had told him that even using cell site analysis to trace it, would roughly give police a three-kilometre radius from the phone mast it connected to when it was powered on. So, if he used it as far away as he could from his house, it wouldn’t trace back to the area he lived. He could have so much fun with this. He was parked on the busy A590 watching the cars race past; no one was going to take any notice of him. The hardest part was deciding which detective to message. He’d seen the older guy at the scene and knew he was called Matthews; he’d also seen the woman, who was more his type. It had been relatively easy trying to get their phone numbers, easier than anything else he’d done up to now. He just had to decide who to send the message to: who would figure it out first? And how would they feel when they realised they were getting text messages from the grave?
He knew they’d found the girl: the street had been sealed off and the area flooded with officers this morning. Coppers were still there when he had passed again tonight. He didn’t care. He was confident they wouldn’t have a clue who he was or what he was doing. He liked playing games. He always had as a child. He picked up the piece of lined notepaper he’d written the phone numbers on and tore it in half, then folded each piece over. He passed them between his fingers as if dealing a deck of cards then stopped. Whoever’s phone number was in his left hand was who he would message. Slowly he unfolded the piece of paper. An articulated lorry flew past his stationary car so fast it vibrated and shook. He stared down at the name and number, a huge smile on his face. He was glad it was this one; he would have chosen this one anyway. This was going to be fun. Dangerous, but exciting. Did they even realise the girl’s phone was missing yet? Possibly not; the house was still sealed off. He didn’t know where her parents were but he would bet it wasn’t at home. Therefore, the house was out of bounds to everyone except the police. Would they be looking for her phone? He’d purposely left everything else of value just to throw them off the scent. It didn’t matter. They soon would or was he giving them more credit than they deserved? Were the detectives running this as clever as he was thinking? He hoped so.
Pressing a gloved finger on the side button, he waited for the phone to come to life. Using the stylus, he typed in the password. The phone began beeping as a flurry of notifications began to come through. Going into the messages, he typed in the number from the piece of paper and saved it as ‘Bait’ then typed one word:
Hi.
He sent the text then turned it off again. Smiling, he put the phone back into a small lead-lined box and tucked it under his seat. It was time to move. He would be long gone before the recipient even figured out what that meant. If they even figured it out. It might take quite a few more messages before they realised. He smiled to himself; this was going to be a great game and he would be the winner because he didn’t like to lose. Losing wasn’t an option.
He hadn’t had much in his life while he was growing up. His mother was a devout Catholic who didn’t believe in luxuries, and her favourite proverb had been ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. In Winifred’s case, that rod had been a wooden ruler that she would rap across his knuckles or spank his bottom with, and by Christ it had stung. She had not used it sparingly at all; in fact, she’d used it more than anything else. He’d never cried though. He wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He wouldn’t show her weakness, or anyone for that matter. He’d hold it in until he was alone and even then he would sob quietly into his pillow. Not for long, just enough to get his anger and frustration out. He hadn’t cried when Winifred had been killed in a car accident the day after he got his driving licence. He had quietly rejoiced. The police had never found the car or driver. To be fair, he didn’t think they’d looked too hard, which was just as well because he hadn’t known as much about forensics as he did now. He’d bought a knackered car from the scrapyard, telling them he was looking for something for banger racing. It had been kept under cover in the back street. He often wondered if she’d realised what was going to happen when she’d heard the engine revving as
she crossed the road by the church that was like her second home. Had she known it was her son who had his foot on the accelerator as he’d floored it and hit her at forty? He liked to think that she did, that she had prayed to her precious God to save her when she realised what was about to happen. But who knew? If he was honest, he didn’t care. She was out of his life for good. When the police had come to tell him, he had acted suitably distressed. He’d recently read a book about the murders at White Hall Farm and realised Jeremy Bamber would have made a decent friend. It seemed they both despised their religious mothers with a murderous passion.
FIFTEEN
Morgan jolted awake; she had been thrashing around having a nightmare. As she lay there, cold beads of perspiration on her forehead, her heart racing, she picked up her phone off the bedside table: 04.25. ‘Dammit.’ She punched the pillow next to her. She was so tired and just wanted to sleep for an hour more. This had been going on far too long; it didn’t matter how late she went to bed or how tired she was. As she lay there with a pillow over her face, she tried to remember what she’d been dreaming about and couldn’t. The nightmare happened a couple of times a week and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t remember much about it.
Admitting defeat, she threw her duvet to one side and got out of bed. She had tried everything. Meditation was great for getting to sleep, but it didn’t keep her asleep; hot baths; no television or screen time an hour before bed; yoga – you name it she’d tried it. The only thing that seemed to have kept the nightmares away was the herbal tea that she’d got off the strange but lovely woman who lived in the woods near to the Potters’ house. Ettie, she was called. She didn’t remember her surname, but she’d liked her. She was kind and funny, and the jar of loose tea she’d given her had worked, even though she’d been reluctant to try it at first. Maybe she could pay her a visit, buy some more from her. To be honest, she’d freaked her out a little, but she liked to think she was a good judge of character and she reminded her of her mum. Sylvia had liked to make her own teas and grown her own herbs.
