#Youdunnit

by Nicci French

  You look fine. You look like you. Just be cool.

  Lucinda jigged some more, watching the frosted panel beside the door for signs of movement. She reassured herself that she had actually rung the bell, resisting the urge to ring again, but Pete was taking a long time, and she was starving.

  She walked back to the pavement and checked the window; there was definitely a light on. She looked at the cars lining the street. She didn’t even know if Pete drove, but pretty much any of them could have been his.

  She returned to the door, looking at her watch. The hands above Salvador Dali’s moustache said it was bang on eight. Was she being stood up? Did people do that at their own houses?

  Lucinda dismissed the idea. He’d invited her over to talk about a story, something he needed her help with. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if he wanted to avoid her. Either he’d been delayed with the work thing, or there’d been some sort of emergency. She realized they hadn’t exchanged numbers, mobile or home, so she couldn’t ring, but neither was she going to wait on the doorstep all night.

  She decided to leave a note.

  Lucinda plumbed her bag for a piece of paper and scribbled a note to say she could come back if it wasn’t too late, adding her number, then she bent down to post it through the letterbox. But as she pushed at the flap, the door moved inwards.

  It was on the latch.

  She glanced back at the street, unsure what to do. Perhaps she should go and fetch a neighbour. Or maybe Pete was in need of assistance and every second counted.

  She held her breath and pushed the door. It swung inwards, revealing a neat hallway with stairs leading off to her right. Beyond the banisters, an open door revealed a sliver of kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ Lucinda called as she stepped inside. ‘Pete?’

  Her heart pounded as she closed the door behind her, glancing through the archway to her left. Two small leather sofas faced each other over a dark wood coffee table, but there was no sign of Pete. She looked in the kitchen. Empty as well.

  ‘It’s Lucinda,’ she shouted, moving towards the stairs. ‘Anybody home?’

  She began to climb. It felt really odd being alone in someone’s house, but something had to be wrong.

  The stairs turned back on themselves halfway up – an attractive feature that Lucinda would have admired under normal circumstances – but as she reached the landing, her attention was on the three remaining doors. The first was open, revealing what was obviously Pete’s bedroom. She checked the floor behind the bed, in case he’d passed out in a diabetic coma or something, but he wasn’t there.

  In the middle was the bathroom, similarly deserted. But the final door, most likely a spare room, was closed.

  Lucinda approached slowly, aware that if there was anyone here, they were in this room. She almost chickened out, but after a moment’s deliberation, and with her heart beating loud in her ears, Lucinda gripped the handle, opened the door.

  And saw him.

  She froze in the doorway as the air dropped out of her lungs. Pete was sitting in an office chair, facing away, slumped forwards on a desk under the window. He wasn’t moving, but Lucinda didn’t approach him.

  Because she’d seen the blood.

  The compact desk was covered in it; a shiny pool that dripped off the edges here and there; stretchy filaments abseiling gracefully down onto the oat-coloured carpet. The puddle was broken only by a laptop computer, a ring-bound notepad and Pete.

  Lucinda swallowed, realizing she should check his pulse.

  It might not be as bad as it looked.

  She fought to control her breathing as she stepped forwards, trying not to make any noise, although she wasn’t sure why. She reached the desk, assessing Pete’s condition. There was a large dent in the back of his head, where he’d obviously been hit, and Lucinda brought a hand to her mouth, partly to stop herself from bursting into tears; mostly to keep from throwing up.

  She wasn’t sure where you felt someone’s neck for a pulse, so she opted for a wrist. Pete’s right arm was resting on the desk, right in the pool of blood, but his left arm hung straight down, so Lucinda crouched next to him and, with shaking fingers, gripped it just above the hand.

  Nothing.

  She released it, chewing her bottom lip as the tears started. Suddenly she leaned closer, confused by the familiar shape she’d noticed on the floor under the desk.

  A bicycle-chain key ring.

  She reached out and picked it up, examining the small plastic object more closely than she had before. Just like the original, it had a small red tag attached to the ring, but until now she hadn’t read the words printed on it in white letters. It looked like a Twitter address.

  @iLoveIanBeck.

  Was it the same key ring?

  She tried to picture exactly what had happened earlier in the day, when she’d shown her key ring to Peter. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now she was sure he hadn’t given it back.

  Lucinda replaced the key ring where she’d found it, not wanting to remove evidence from a second successive crime scene, and slowly made her way downstairs.

  She lowered herself slowly onto one of Pete’s sofas and rang the police.

  Again.

  Lucinda spent Friday at home.

  The police had called her boss, Justin, the previous night, to inform him that one of his journalists had been murdered and that his temporary photographer had found the body.

  Later on, after the same WPC had dropped her home, and she’d told the same lie about a boyfriend being around, Justin had called Lucinda to say she didn’t have to go in the following day. He’d even offered to pay her, which was the only reason she’d accepted, even though she now wished she hadn’t.

  She had spent the whole day indoors, ignoring Sam’s pleas for walkies; too scared to leave the flat in case she tripped over another corpse, wondering what kind of deity she must have insulted. The odds of finding one dead body in a town as small and tranquil as Saverton were negligible, but for a single resident to find two bodies in as many days was beyond ridiculous.

  What the hell was going on?

  She buzzed around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the pasta Bolognese she’d made for dinner, thinking about Pete. She had hoped that cooking, which normally demanded her full attention, might take her mind off the whole horrid situation. But her naturally inquisitive mind kept trying to work out what had happened.

  She had the TV on, partly as another distraction, but also because she wanted to catch the next update about the murders. The national news came on just as she was dishing up. She left her plate half loaded and drifted closer to the screen, startled to see her latest discovery topping the bill.

  ‘The headlines at six,’ the presenter said. ‘Another murder in Saverton.’

  Lucinda sank onto a chair as the other headlines were read out. She’d avoided earlier reports because they made Pete’s death seem more real somehow, but she couldn’t ignore it for ever. She made herself watch as the newsreader reappeared.

  ‘Two days ago, twenty-seven-year-old Jo Kinnock was murdered in the small Somerset town of Saverton. But police are now investigating a second killing that happened last night, less than half a mile from the scene of the first attack. Our correspondent is at the scene now. Tim, what’s the latest?’

  The image changed. Tim Donoghue stood at the end of the road Lucinda recognized from the previous night. Pete’s road.

  ‘Thanks, Margaret.’ The reporter motioned towards the property. ‘I’m here in Saverton, just south of Bristol. The town has a population of a few thousand, and certainly isn’t accustomed to incidents of this nature, so locals were shocked when Jo Kinnock was murdered not far from here on Wednesday night. But last night a second local resident, a journalist who worked at the town’s paper, was bludgeoned to death in his home office. Of course a police investigation is already underway, and I’m joined now by Superintendent Maurice Pike of Saverton police.’

 
; The camera panned out to reveal a uniformed policeman; evidently the nearest thing Saverton had to a resident detective.

  Donoghue continued: ‘Thanks for joining us, Superintendent. So what can you tell us about last night’s events?’

  ‘Well,’ Pike looked nervous, ‘none of the neighbours witnessed anyone approaching the property, prior to the person who found the body, that is, so we believe Mr Marshall’s attacker came across the fields that run right up to the rear of these houses. The assailant jimmied the front door lock, apparently without alerting the victim. Forensic evidence suggests Mr Marshall died at around 7 p.m. yesterday, approximately an hour before his body was discovered.’

  Lucinda’s heart leapt. Sixty minutes earlier and she’d have walked in on the murderer.

  ‘Two deaths in less than twenty-four hours,’ Donoghue continued. ‘This is becoming something of a crisis, isn’t it?

  ‘Definitely not.’ Pike’s reply was obviously intended to reassure, but his voice faltered. ‘It’s still early days, and our investigators are making solid progress.’

  Donoghue nodded, ‘Do you have sufficient resources to handle a case of this type?’

  ‘Saverton has a small resident force,’ Pike said, ‘but additional resources are being sent over by neighbouring departments.’

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to say to the public?’

  Pike’s tone was more confident as he faced the camera. ‘I personally guarantee that every possible avenue will be investigated. So if anyone has information regarding either murder, no matter how insignificant it might seem, they should call the inquiry number provided by Somerset police.’

  Donoghue thanked the superintendent as the camera turned back to him, cutting the policeman out of shot. He read out the hotline number, reiterated the situation’s gravity, and said the news channel would keep viewers up to date with developments, then he handed back to the studio.

  Lucinda muted the television, deep in thought. What the superintendent obviously hadn’t wanted to say was that, if the killer had struck twice in as many days, they might do it again. Soon.

  The police needed all the help they could get. She finished serving up and slowly ate, racking her brains for anything she hadn’t told them. But nothing came.

  She stood to deposit her empty plate in the sink just as the local news took over, and another familiar face appeared. She turned the volume back up.

  Unusually, Saverton was in the news again, but this time not because of the murders. Ian Beck and his surly publicist, Dean, stood on Saverton Common, in front of a part-constructed fairground ride.

  ‘I was honoured to be asked.’ The cyclist beamed. ‘Of course it’s amazing to win big events, but there’s nothing like coming back to my home town and seeing the people who helped me get started in the sport. I hope the whole of south-east England turns up at the county fair tomorrow. It’s going to be a great event.’

  As she watched the star’s face on the TV, Lucinda suddenly remembered the notepad on Pete’s desk. The police told her it had been covered with facts about the cyclist, and had asked Lucinda if she knew why that might have been. She’d suggested that Pete had probably been working on a piece for the next edition of the paper, to coincide with Beck’s appearance at the fair, but now it occurred to her that perhaps there might have been another explanation.

  Were the murders connected in some way to Ian Beck?

  The miniature bike chains she’d seen at both murder scenes were designed to promote Beck’s impending appearance at the county fair, and Pete had obviously been investigating the cyclist when he was killed.

  Then she remembered the Twitter address.

  She grabbed her bag and fished out her mobile, opening the social media app, trying to recall the exact phrase printed on the tag attached to the key ring.

  Slowly she typed @iLoveIanBeck and hit ‘Search’.

  After a few seconds one result appeared and she tapped to view it. It looked like she’d remembered it correctly, because a picture of the cyclist appeared. Apart from that, the account looked suspiciously new. It had made a single tweet, saying simply #DieHardBeckFan, it wasn’t following anyone and had only two followers of its own.

  Lucinda tapped to see who was following @iLoveIanBeck, recoiling when she saw the two names.

  Jo Kinnock. Pete Marshall.

  Both the killer’s victims.

  Lucinda’s mind raced. OK, so it was no surprise that Jo had been following the feed as she’d had a bag full of the key rings promoting that very address. And Pete must have followed the account after Lucinda had shown him the key ring. But was it really possible they were killed simply because they’d followed the account?

  It was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

  She rang the police straight away and told the operator about her discovery. She made him promise to pass the information directly to Superintendent Pike and rang off. But instead of feeling unburdened, Lucinda couldn’t escape the thought that she should be doing more.

  She sat in her kitchen, thinking about Jo, Pete and Ian Beck. Could Pete have been killed because he was investigating the cyclist, or the Twitter account? Or both?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Lucinda grabbed her bag and headed for the door, promising Sam that she’d walk him later. She rushed downstairs and left the apartment block. Within minutes she was at work.

  Lucinda used her key to open the door, re-locking it behind her. It was 6:45 p.m. on Friday evening, so it was unlikely anyone else would still be at their desk.

  She climbed the stairs to the first floor and scanned the office for anyone working late. She even checked Justin’s office, but there was no one around. Satisfied that she had the place to herself, Lucinda walked slowly towards Pete’s desk.

  It felt really odd standing there. She hadn’t known him that well, admittedly, but it was still hard to believe he was dead. Her guts twisted when she remembered the moment she’d found him.

  Concentrate.

  She took a deep breath and sat down at the desk, switching on his computer.

  While she waited for the system to load, Lucinda searched the piles of paper and magazines on Pete’s desk, but nothing offered any clues. Next she turned her attention to his PC.

  She had noticed on the morning of her induction that Pete didn’t use a password on his PC, even though Susan Masters spent her life telling everyone they should, and she was relieved to see he hadn’t subsequently listened to their editor, as his desktop appeared.

  Lucinda opened the Internet browser and checked the history. There were hundreds of sites, and the last couple of dozen were all related to Beck. She checked each one, but they were just old news stories about his multiple victories and prolific recent form.

  She minimized the window and used the search function to look for files containing the words ‘Ian’ or ‘Beck’ on the hard drive. It found the original article about Jo Kinnock, plus some early drafts for Pete’s follow-up piece, but none contained anything sinister.

  Then Lucinda spent half an hour clicking into his folders one at a time, looking for anything else that might have been connected. Still nothing.

  She closed everything down, convinced she was wasting her time. But just as she was about to log off, an icon in the corner of the desktop caught her eye.

  IB-Jul-09

  She opened it, noticing that the shortcut linked to a file on the paper’s main server. She hadn’t thought to check there because she had never been given access. But Pete’s system must have had the password saved, because the file opened and she began to read.

  It was a scanned article from the Star itself, dated 11 July 2009, with the headline: BECK OFF! The image, possibly taken during a race, showed a glaring Ian Beck, but the copy alleged that the cyclist had been so furious after losing in the final stage of a British championship race in Dorset that he’d attacked one of his fans in the car park afterwards. Lucinda read the whole thing twice, but
her amazement peaked only when she recognized the name of the person who had written the article.

  Tim Donoghue.

  She sat for a moment, wondering how many Tim Donoghues there could be in Saverton. Could the television presenter really have worked for the Star? Then she realized it wasn’t all that unlikely that the reporter’s news-focused career would have started at a local paper.

  Perhaps she could ask him?

  Lucinda reached for Pete’s Rolodex. The writer had spent years building a contacts list in the area, so it wasn’t unrealistic that he might have a direct number for Donoghue.

  He did.

  Lucinda propped the Rolodex open at the right place and pulled the desk phone towards her, considering whether to look for more files on the server first. But if Pete had found this one, it was logical he would also have looked for others, which made it likely this article was the only one.

  She picked up the handset, dialled the mobile number and listened to the line buzz as her call connected. At last it began to ring.

  He answered quickly: ‘Donoghue.’

  ‘Mr Donoghue.’ Lucinda tried to sound like a journalist. ‘My name is Lucinda Berrington, and I’m with the Saverton Star. I’d like to ask you about an article you wrote when you worked for the paper in 2009.’

  ‘Really?’ he sounded suspicious. ‘In the office rather late, aren’t you? I thought all you journalist types were half-cut in the Woolpack by seven on Fridays.’

  ‘It’s an important case. Two people have been murdered.’ She hoped he wouldn’t ask for more details. Research was normally done by reporters; not the travel photographer.

  ‘And which article would that be exactly?’

  He had worked for the paper. ‘The one about Ian Beck attacking a fan.’

  ‘Ah,’ Donoghue said. ‘I don’t think I should stir that particular pot at the moment. Thanks for your call.’

  ‘Wait,’ Lucinda called. ‘What if we traded information?’

  There was silence for a few seconds, but the background noise on the line suggested he hadn’t hung up. It sounded like he was driving.