The Strangler's Daughter

by Amy Cross

  “I'm fine, thanks,” I say, before spotting some oblong cardboard boxes on a shelf.

  “Those are new in,” Mrs. Allsop says, taking one of the boxes down and showing it to me. “It's a DNA family testing kit. Can you believe that such things are real? Apparently you spit into a bag, or something like that, and send it off, and a few weeks later you get an email telling you all about where your family came from. Of course, it's almost a hundred pounds, so it's quite pricey, but my son thinks people around here might be interested. We'll see. Would you like to take a closer look?”

  I stare at the box, and for a fraction of a second I'm tempted.

  “No, that's fine, thank you,” I say, forcing a smile. “How much did you say the shopping comes to, again?”

  ***

  Stopping in front of the cafe, I can't shake a growing sense of unease in my chest. I don't think I've been in this cafe in at least five years, although it doesn't seem to have changed much. As I step over to the window and take a look at the menu, I realize that even this seems pretty similar to the one that I remember.

  Suddenly a bell rings, and I turn to see Caitlin coming back outside.

  “Hey,” she says with a smile as she sets some salt and pepper shakes on a nearby table, “would you like to sit down? I'll bring you a proper menu with the specials listed.”

  “Oh no,” I reply, feeling a little panicked, “I...”

  My voice trails off.

  “Let me guess,” she says with a smile, “you're after the egg, avocado and mushroom breakfast that got taken off the menu last month, aren't you? Don't try to deny it, I can see it in your eyes.”

  “That's not it,” I reply.

  “It's not, huh?”

  She chuckles, and then she hesitates as if she's waiting for me to take a seat. After a moment, I realize that she might have a point, and that I really should get going.

  “Do you like mango?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say cautiously.

  “How about I get you the best mango smoothie you've ever had in your life?” She briefly raises a single eyebrow. “It's on the house,” she continues. “My aunt's away so it's just me today, and we've only had two customers. Please, I'm begging you, keep me company for half an hour. Please?”

  “I...”

  I'm genuinely not sure what to say, although I really don't want to be rude.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I really want to just get out of here.

  “Take a seat,” she replies, “and I'll be right back. Honestly, this is going to blow you friggin' mind. And I should know, 'cause I'm the one who invented it. This morning, as it happens. I've been so bored, I've been trying to come up with new drinks, and this is totally the best one. I bet you can't figure out the secret ingredient!”

  “No,” I reply, somewhat taken aback by her forcefulness as she heads inside, “I'm sure I won't.”

  I feel completely uncomfortable and I'm already starting to think that this was a very bad idea. At the same time, I can't just get up and leave, not without seeming extremely rude. I suppose I've trapped myself, so I sit patiently until Caitlin comes back out with two glasses of what looks like some kind of juice. She seems so pleased with herself, and I suppose it'd be churlish of me to turn down this offer.

  “Drink,” she says as she takes a seat next to me. “If anyone shows up wanting to order, I'll have to serve them, but right now... Go on, take a drink.”

  I hesitate, before sipping from the glass. As soon as I do so, I'm shocked by how great this thing tastes.

  “It's great, right?” Caitlin says. “I can see it in your eyes!”

  “It's really nice,” I tell her. “So what's the secret ingredient?”

  “I'm not telling you that! I'm not telling anyone.” She's grinning with pride. “I'm the only one who can make a smoothie that tastes this good, and I'm keeping my secret to myself. If anyone wants to serve this drink, they'll have to hire me first. I've even developed an alcoholic version. As soon as I get a job in London, I'm out of here.”

  “London?” I stare at her, startled by the suggestion. “Why would you want to leave somewhere so perfect and go to London?”

  “Uh, I don't know, maybe because I want to live a little?” She briefly bites her bottom lip. “Are you seriously happy to just live your whole life here in Forkworth?”

  The question is so surprising, and so unnecessary, that it takes me a moment to come up with an answer.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  She stares at me, as if she can't quite believe what she just heard, and then she shrugs.

  “Different people are different, I guess,” she says, before taking a sip of juice. She seems lost in thought. “I guess the world'd be boring if we were all the same.” She glances at me. “You look familiar. Did we go to school together?”

  “That was a long time ago,” I tell her.

  “Yeah. I used to hang out with a bunch of losers. Do you remember Sean Alton?”

  I pause, before nodding.

  “He ran away from home, you know,” she continues. “I always wondered what happened to him.”

  I pause again, and then I shrug.

  “Huh,” she says, “you definitely look familiar, but I think it's from something more recent than school. It's something about your eyes, I think. Weird how that works, isn't it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ten years ago

  “What do you mean, you were at a hotel?” Grandma asks, with tears in her eyes, as we sit together on the sofa. “Why were you at a hotel in the middle of the night?”

  “Dad kept snoring,” I reply.

  “What?”

  “Mum wanted to get away from Dad's snoring.”

  “Are you serious?” she asks, as if she doesn't believe me. “No, that can't be right, Lisa. I don't understand any of this, what was Michelle doing taking you away from home and checking the pair of you into a hotel?” She leans closer. “Had she been arguing with your father again?”

  I hesitate, not really knowing what I'm allowed to say.

  “It's okay,” she continues, lowering her voice a little so that Dad can't hear her from the kitchen, “you can tell me. I know they argued a lot. I spoke to her just a few days ago and I could tell she was worried about something. Did your mother and father argue before she took you away, Lisa?”

  I don't want to lie, so I nod.

  “What did they argue about, sweetheart?” she asks.

  “I don't know.”

  “But it wasn't snoring, was it?”

  “That's what Dad told me.” I sniff back tears. Since she arrived, Grandma must have asked me a thousand questions. “They argued a lot, but Dad told me it didn't mean anything. She wasn't leaving him, she was just upset about something.”

  “But -”

  “I don't know, Grandma!” I whimper, and now tears are streaming down my face. “I don't know anything! You know I never do!”

  She pulls me close and gives me a big hug.

  “Something doesn't feel right here,” she says softly. “It's okay, Lisa, I know it's not your fault, but healthy women don't just drop dead for no reason, and married women don't move their children out of the home and into a hotel in the middle of the night. Last time I spoke to your mother, she wasn't just upset, she was -”

  “Valerie, do you take sugar?” Dad calls out. “I don't remember.”

  Grandma looks toward the door, and now she seems very worried about something.

  “Lisa,” she says, getting to her feet, “I want you to wait in here, do you understand? I need to go and talk to your father in private about a few things.”

  “That's okay,” I reply, feeling a little unsettled. “I won't go anywhere.”

  She hesitates, and then she makes her way through to the kitchen. Left alone, I try to persuade myself that there's no reason to be worried, but I can't shake the feeling that Grandma's not happy about something. Obviously she's upset about Mum dying, because Mum was her daughter, bu
t her sadness seems to have given way to some kind of angry, inquisitive mood. It's almost as if she thinks that Dad and I are hiding the truth about what happened.

  After a brief pause, I realize I can hear a hushed, whispered conversation coming from the kitchen. I'm pretty sure that Dad and Grandma are arguing, but I promised Grandma I wouldn't move and I also know that their argument is none of my business.

  So I just sit tight, like a good girl, and I wait for one of them to come back through. As the minutes pass, however, I realize that Grandma sounds more and more agitated, and I start to pick out certain sentences.

  “Why was she calling me in a panic on Tuesday?” I hear Grandma asking. “What was she so upset about?”

  Whatever Dad says in response, his voice is too low for me to make out.

  “It was more than a simple argument,” Grandma replies. “I knew Michelle better than you ever did, and she was terrified about something. What did you do to her, David?”

  Dad says something.

  “I'll get to the bottom of this, you know,” Grandma continues. “Let me assure you that I will not rest until I know the full circumstances surrounding my daughter's death. And if you think that I'll be satisfied with bland claims about coincidences, then you've got another thing coming.”

  Dad speaks again.

  “Don't you worry about that,” Grandma replies, “I've already made arrangements to stay at the pub across the green, but that doesn't mean I'll be out of your hair. You're hiding something, David, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it. Do you hear me? I won't rest until the truth about Michelle's final days has been revealed.”

  With that, I hear her storming back through to the front room, so I turn and look out the window so that I can pretend I wasn't listening.

  “Lisa, darling,” she says as she comes over to join me, “I'm going to be staying at the pub. I'll see you later, but if you need to speak to me about anything in the meantime, all you have to do is come and find me. Do you understand?”

  Looking up at her, I realize that she seems utterly frantic.

  “Whatever it is,” she continues, “I'll listen.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “You mustn't be afraid of your father, darling. He can't hurt you, because I'm here now. And I'll always keep you safe.”

  “I know,” I reply.

  “Whatever your father might say,” she adds, “there can be no harm in telling the truth. It's lies and secrets that hurt us, Lisa, and -”

  Before she can finish, Dad steps into the room. As if she'd sensed his arrival, Grandma takes a step back, but she seems very flustered.

  “You know where to find me,” she says, before turning and hurrying out of the room without acknowledging Dad.

  I sit in silence and listen as the front door swings shut, and then I turn and watch Grandma making her way toward the village green.

  “Your grandmother is very upset,” Dad says calmly, “and upset people tend not to think straight. You know that, Lisa, don't you?”

  I turn to him, and I nod.

  “Did she say anything?” he asks. “About me, I mean. And about your mother.”

  “Not really,” I reply. “She just told me that she's going to be staying at the pub.”

  “We'll see her at the funeral next week,” he says, “but until then, I think it might be best to keep away from her. She's upset and she's only going to cause trouble. Do you think you can just steer clear of her for now?”

  I hesitate, really not wanting to agree to this, but deep down I know that Dad wouldn't ask unless it was important.

  “Okay,” I say reluctantly.

  “Do you mind taking the recycling out to the containers?” he asks. “I think I need to go upstairs for a while and try to get some peace and quiet.” He hesitates. “Don't worry, Lisa. Soon this will all be over and our lives will get back to normal.”

  As he goes upstairs, I can't help wondering how he could say something like that. How can our lives ever get back to normal now that Mum's gone?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Today

  “Hey,” I say, as I step into the kitchen at home, “what -”

  Stopping, I see that Dad's sitting at the table with his head in his hands. I freeze, worried about what's happening, and after a few seconds I realize it's almost as if he didn't even notice me come in.

  I look over at the counter and see that he seems to have started cooking, although everything's in disarray. This is a stark contract to last night, when he was a whirlwind of activity.

  “Dad?” I say cautiously. “Are you okay?”

  He looks up at me, and I can immediately see that something's wrong.

  “I'm fine,” he murmurs, but he seems to be wincing slightly, as if he's in pain.

  “No, you're not,” I reply as I hurry over and sit next to him. “What's wrong? Do you need me to call a doctor?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then what is it?” I ask.

  “It's nothing,” he says. “I just felt a little tired, that's all.”

  “I'll make dinner.”

  “No, I can do it.”

  “Let me.”

  “No, Lisa. I said I can do it.” He seems determined. “It's just something simple, anyway. A kind of pasta bake.”

  He pauses, as if he's trying to gather his strength, and then he starts getting to his feet. As he makes his way back over to the counter, however, I can tell that something's not quite right. He's walking stiffly, as if he's in some kind of discomfort, and it's pretty obvious that he's battling through and trying to not show weakness. I guess it's possible that he's just not feeling well, but another thought crosses my mind.

  What if his cancer's back?

  I can't ask him that, of course. Even if I could, he'd never answer, not in a million years. He never lies to me, of course, but things are different when it comes to his health. When it's about his health, he tries to protect me. I understand that completely.

  My phone buzzes, and when I check my notifications I find that there's an alert from one of the news stories I've been following. Even before I've brought the page up, I have a feeling that it's going to be about the woman Dad killed in Kemberside, and sure enough I quickly find that there's been an update:

  Police in Kemberside have named Heather Ringfield as the woman who was found murdered behind a supermarket in Kemberside on Thursday morning. An I.T. consultant originally from Lancashire, Ms. Ringfield had only moved to the area a few months earlier and had recently become engaged to her long-term partner.

  In a separate development, detectives are believed to be investigating a link between this case and a series of other killings that have taken place in previous years. D.N.A. evidence is believed to suggest that Ms. Ringfield's murderer might also have been involved with the deaths of Linda Muggeridge in Birmingham last year, and Amanda Harlow in Glasgow two years before that, among others.

  I feel a shudder run through my shoulders as I read those words. Dad swore that this was the first person he'd killed in ten years, so how are the police connecting the case to people who died so recently? That just doesn't make sense. Either the police are wrong, or...

  I look over at Dad.

  He's chopping broccoli, and he still looks incredibly tense, as if he's in real pain.

  I want to ask him about the news story, of course. I'm sure he'd brush it all off and tell me not to worry, but I don't want to bother him when he's in pain. At the same time, something about the details of the report is starting to bother me, so I discreetly bring up the calendar on my phone and swipe back to check what we were doing last year.

  I freeze as I see that Dad did go to a conference in Birmingham last September. I remember that weekend. He made all my meals for me and he set everything up so that I'd be fine. He phoned me around bedtime to check that nothing was wrong, he's always been worried whenever work has taken him away for more than a few hours. And when I check the dates when this Lisa Muggeridge woman died, I find that
it was the same weekend.

  It's a coincidence.

  That's all.

  I look up the Amanda Harlow case as well, and then I check my calendar for those dates. Sure enough, Dad went to a conference in Edinburgh over the same weekend. I bring up a map and I quickly see that Edinburgh and Glasgow aren't that far from one another, which means that he could easily have driven between the two if he had some time off from the conference.

  But he told me that he hadn't killed anyone for years.

  And he'd never lie to me, not about something like that.

  “Dinner should be ready in about an hour,” he says. “I think I'm going to take a shower. Do you mind watching the oven? Just make sure nothing bubbles over.”

  I look up at him.

  “Lisa?” He pauses. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head, “everything's fine.”

  “I won't be long,” he says as he walks to the door, and I swear he almost seems to be limping slightly.

  Once I'm left alone in the kitchen, I try to get my thoughts together. I don't know much about how the world works, but I do know that coincidences can only explain so much. Looking back down at my phone, I begin to contemplate the possibility that Dad might have killed more people than I ever realized, in which case he must be trying to protect me by not telling me. I suppose that makes sense in a way, although sometimes I wish he'd just tell me everything. I want to know that he's alright.

  I want to know that nothing bad's going to happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ten years ago

  The box of recycling is heavy as I lug it out toward the containers at the far end of the garden. There's a month's worth of newspapers and magazines in here, and my arms are actually starting to ache.

  Still, it's good to be helpful.

  Mum would want me to do this.

  Reaching the containers, I hold the box up and tip its contents down to the bottom. I have to give the box a bit of a shake, but soon all the junk is out. I turn to walk away, but at the last moment I spot the folded newspaper with Mum's handwriting on the bottom. I hesitate, and then I reach down and pick the newspaper up.