Miss No One

by Mark Ayre

  Some combination of the two was most likely. Abbie didn’t believe this floor would be as open-plan as the one below. She expected at least an employee bathroom and a couple of offices. Possibly a canteen as well. After all, even salespeople had to eat.

  Why was the figure here? Not an employee who had forgotten something in the staff room. Even if she didn’t have a key, what was important enough to warrant breaking into your place of employment at one-thirty in the morning, but not so important you hadn’t noticed its absence earlier in the evening?

  No, the woman didn’t work here. But she was looking for something. Probably something in one of the offices which would put a door betweent her and where Abbie was about to come out. She would not see Abbie enter the upstairs landing.

  Balance of probability. It was better to work on certainty. Sometimes, that wasn’t possible.

  Abbie stepped up, pushed the door, and entered the upper floor.

  Where she was greeted with nothing and no one. Where she found herself facing exactly what she had expected. A small open area leading into a corridor, with two doors off either side and one door at the end. There was also a water cooler, right beside her. Abbie was thirsty but didn’t take a cup, nor pour herself a drink.

  That could wait.

  The door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Only slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. The other four were closed. When the workers left the dealership for the day, they'd have shut every door behind them. That was what people did. The reason to do so was to help contain a fire if one started in any particular room, but most people didn't know this. They wouldn't have been able to tell you why they closed all the doors when they left a building. They might not even have been aware they were doing it.

  But people did, which meant Abbie’s new friend was in the furthermost room.

  With silent steps, Abbie made her way up the hall. She glanced at each of the closed doors as she passed, listened briefly for anyone moving behind them. No one. And none burst open once she'd walked by.

  When Abbie passed the third and fourth door, she heard something and stopped. A low sound. It took a few seconds to place.

  Breathing.

  But not the natural inhaling and exhaling you might expect from a person going about their usual business. Nor was this the breathing of someone caught in a state of nervous excitement. The breaths were hitched and sharp. They signalled whoever was drawing them in, puffing them out, had lost control.

  These were the shallow breaths of a person slipping into the clutches of panic.

  That was interesting. Unexpected. It made Abbie pause, but not for long. Two seconds and she was moving again.

  The final door opened inwards. The handle was on the left, the breathing came from the right. The crack left by the ajar door revealed to Abbie a mostly blank space to the room's left. A window set into the wall would look over the front of the lot, where Abbie and the figure had so recently broken in.

  Reaching forward, Abbie took the handle.

  The rhythm of the breathing didn't change, and the breather wasn't moving. Which indicated the figure had no idea what to do next. The fact that trying to take controlled breaths hadn't occurred suggested this person was already deep in the panic jar.

  Abbie had a few ideas about what might cause such panic. But why guess when the answers lay so close at hand?

  Breathing like that could be faked, but it was difficult—the work of a master actor.

  Abbie never ruled anything out but doubted the breather was putting on a show. Why bother? If she knew Abbie was following, why not leave the door ajar and wait on the other side? If Abbie stepped through, the figure would have the upper hand. The drama provided no advantage.

  Thus, whoever was on the door's other side was no threat. Not in this state.

  Abbie made up her mind. She had to go in. Her dream had led her to this town, and upon arriving, the figure was the first person she'd seen. Abbie was supposed to be here.

  Taking the handle, Abbie pushed the door, stepped into the room, turned towards the panicked breather.

  Abbie was alert. The first sign of a gun, and she'd toss herself back into the hall. For a knife, she'd jump the other way. Keep in the room and try to disorientate her master actor enemy.

  As it happened, Abbie did see a knife, but it signalled no danger.

  The hooded figure wasn’t holding the blade; it was beside her knee. Its once gleaming surface was coated in blood. Blood also surrounded the edge and was pooling on the carpet. Ruining the carpet.

  That was okay. It was old, tatty. It needed replacing anyway.

  The carpet, not the knife.

  The figure was on her knees, her head bowed. Maybe the breathing could be faked, but the pale skin and trembling hands could not. Panic was becoming shock. Like one of the Ice Queen's statues, the woman was frozen to the spot.

  Possibly, she had known Abbie was coming. Maybe she was a clumsy villain, in which case she might have planned to stab Abbie with the blade but instead stabbed herself. The blood might have been hers.

  This was possible, but the chances were beyond slim. The figure's dark clothes were intact, and the woman seemed unharmed.

  Much more likely, then, that the knife had been used to kill the rotund man who lay on the carpet; his eyes wide with horror, his throat split into a grotesque grin.

  Yes, that felt like the better theory.

  Two

  Though Abbie hadn’t snuck into the room, it appeared the woman crouched over the dead man hadn’t heard her and would never notice her if left to her own devices.

  So Abbie said, “Hiya.”

  And the woman’s head shot up, and she jumped back with a gasp.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Abbie tilted her head. Didn’t step towards the woman who had now backed up to the desk. She was pleased to see she had nailed the gender call. Beneath the hood was a pale-skinned female with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and green eyes. Her lips were thin, and she wore no makeup. Not that many women did while breaking and entering at one thirty am. She was a few years younger than Abbie. Early twenties. Abbie tried a comforting smile.

  “I’m Abbie. You look afraid of me, but shouldn’t it be the other way around? After all, you’re the murderer. Murderers are scary. Or so I've heard it said.”

  Kneeling over the dead man, the woman had been snared by panic-induced indecision. Abbie’s introduction seemed to have snapped her from stasis. Leaning against the office’s desk, she started to regulate her breathing. Forcing herself back under control.

  That was good. A rational conversation could no doubt ensue.

  While the mysterious hooded woman continued getting herself together, Abbie stepped forward and looked over the dead man.

  No need to check his pulse. The killer had struck with ruthless efficiency. Maybe they'd first thrown a few punches to the gut. Perhaps they'd snuck up behind. Either way, how the altercation had ended was clear. With the killer going at the victim's throat like they were carving a turkey—a turkey the killer had recently caught in bed with their wife.

  Calming down, the woman said again, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m still Abbie,” said still Abbie. “I’m new in town, and my mum taught me the importance of making friends in a new place. It grounds you. Helps you settle. Making a fast friend can be the difference between coming to love a place and wanting to get the next train out.”

  Abbie paused. Someone had once told her this, but Abbie couldn’t remember who. It certainly hadn’t been her mother—a woman Abbie had despised and who never gave advice, only orders. Still, ‘mum’ sounded good in the context.

  “You were the first person I saw,” Abbie continued. “Straight away, I knew we could be best friends. I watched you break in and considered waiting for you to leave, but once I get an idea, I’m like a dog with a bone. Can’t let it go and can’t wait. I scaled the fence and followed you so we could start getting to kno
w each other right away. You ready? I thought we'd start with some quick-fire questions.”

  The breathing was under control. Confusion and frustration, both directed at Abbie, had replaced shock and fear. That was nice. Abbie liked to help.

  “This has to be some kind of sick joke,” said the woman.

  Ignoring her, Abbie said, “First up: name, favourite colour, favourite passtime. Go.”

  Clutching the desk, the woman pulled herself to feet.

  “You’re psychotic.”

  “Hey,” said Abbie, nodding at the dead man on the carpet. “Glass houses and all that. And wouldn’t you know, a glass house is exactly where we are.”

  The office walls were more chrome than glass, but the ceiling seemed to be made of a single transparent sheet. Looking up, Abbie could see a sky littered with clouds. A fat moon poked through a few whisps, shining its searchlight on the office and corpse.

  The woman didn’t want to entertain Abbie, the crazy person who appeared from nowhere and started asking semi-invasive questions. But it's hard to resist responding to a murder accusation. Only a true sociopath could let that comment go.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I’ve not killed anyone.”

  “Waste of words,” said Abbie. “You’d say that if you’d killed him or if you hadn’t, so what’s the point? Know what you should say?”

  “What?” said the woman, then bit her lip, angry she'd engaged.

  “Your name, your favourite colour, your favourite passtime. Once we get to know each other, it’ll be easier for me to believe you’re innocent.”

  “Who the hell are you?” said the woman.

  “Keep returning to that well, don’t you?” said Abbie. “Well, you know my name. Taken, not given. As to who I am…” Abbie shrugged. “Stranger, wanderer, interloper. Interferer, many people would say. I’m Miss No One. My identity is irrelevant, it is my purpose that matters.”

  “And what’s that? You like following strangers, or did someone send you?”

  “Did someone send me?” Abbie mused. “Interesting question. Did you suspect someone would have you followed? Are you entangled in some kind of nefarious plot? Go on, tell me you are. I love a nefarious plot. Gives me something to quash."

  The look on the woman's face suggested she would never become Abbie's friend, but Abbie chose not to believe it. People always gave her that look, first time they met, and only some of them later tried to murder her.

  "Well?" asked Abbie. The woman shook her head.

  “I asked first.”

  “Oh, that’s childish,” said Abbie. “But I like it. It’s fair. So I'll confess: I’m in town because I have reason to believe a little girl is in serious danger.”

  “What little girl?”

  "Which little girl," Abbie corrected. Then moved on when the woman looked as though she might pick up the bloodied murder weapon and start stabbing.

  “She's young. Six, seven, eight. Dark skin, probably African or of African descent, with lovely straight black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. She seemed bright. Worthy of saving. I love it when they’re worthy.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Good question. I’ll let you know once I find out.”

  The woman, who still hadn’t given her name, stared at Abbie. There was a dead body between them, but somehow Abbie’s verbal sparring partner had forgotten. Given how panicked and hung up she’d been a couple of minutes ago, Abbie felt a sense of triumph that her conversational weaving had shifted the woman’s focus.

  “This is insane,” said the unnamed lady.

  “Says the murderer.”

  The woman flushed. “I’m not a killer.”

  Abbie smiled. “Don’t worry, I know.”

  She stepped forward again, so she was right over the dead guy. He was between forty and fifty, overweight. Greying, thinning hair. His skin was greasy, but his hands smooth. Not a labourer. He wore a shirt and brown trousers. Boring, inexpensive. Unlike his watch, which might have been a fake. If it wasn’t, it probably cost more than the combined value of all the clothes in the office, on all three of its occupants.

  “Who is he then?” said Abbie.

  “What do you mean, you know I'm not a killer?”

  “I asked first,” said Abbie.

  “I don’t give a toss,” said the woman. “What do you mean you know I’m not a killer?”

  “You know that’s a double standard, making me answer first. It’s hypocritical, too. Not good traits in a person so far as I’m concerned. I may have to reconsider our burgeoning friendship.”

  “Just answer the damn question.”

  Abbie rolled her eyes. “So demanding.” She hesitated, looked at the corpse, then shrugged. “I misspoke, okay? You happy?“

  “You misspoke?”

  “Right.”

  “You do think I’m a killer?”

  “No. I just don’t have the information to say with any degree of certainty if you are, or you aren't. Dig up your back garden, I might find fifty bodies, all killed within the last week. Which would be good going. Not just all that murder but the digging. Your arms would be bigger, which probably rules out so many bodies in such a short time. Unless you have an accomplice. Or a JCB.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Are any of us? Anyway, I didn’t mean to imply I knew you weren’t a killer because I don’t. I meant to imply I know you didn’t kill this particular man.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “Because you can’t have.”

  The woman gritted her teeth. “And what makes you say that?”

  “Look,” said Abbie, “before we continue, can you just tell me your name? I hate to rabbit on when I don’t even know what to call you. What do you say? I’m not asking for your address or even your surname. I’m not even asking for the truth, just something to call you.”

  The woman considered. She’d had enough of Abbie—that much was clear—but they were already a long way down the rabbit hole. Travelling a little further made sense.

  “Christine,” she said at last.

  “Do your friends call you Chris?”

  “What my friends call me isn’t relevant to you and never will be. You can call me Christine.”

  “Well, Christine, you may not be holding the knife but turns out your tongue’s plenty sharp. I need to check if I’m bleeding.”

  “How do you know I didn’t kill this man?” Pushed Christine.

  Abbie lowered to her haunches. “I don’t. I misspoke again.”

  Christine’s eyes blazed with fury. Abbie raised a hand before the younger woman could Hulk-out, pick up the desk, and smash it over Abbie’s head.

  “I’ve been right behind you since you jumped the fence,” said Abbie. “No way you could have killed this guy without me hearing. Even if you were a Ninja and did assassinate him in silence, you didn’t do it since I saw you arrive.” Abbie pointed to the stained carpet. “That’s not fresh blood, spilt within the last few minutes. It’s already dried, stained the carpet. I’m no mortician, but my guess is this guy’s been dead at least an hour.”

  Abbie rose, stepped away from the corpse. There was nothing to be learned from his body, and Abbie didn’t want to slip and get her prints on his skin. The cops would take a dim view of that.

  “That’s not to say it wasn’t you,” she said. “The cogs are still turning up here,” she tapped her head. “It’s possible you came here earlier tonight, got in a fight with this man, killed him, then fled. In my experience, people struggle to reason after unplanned murder. You could have been a mile away or more before your mind reengaged. Suddenly you're replaying the scene. Crap, you think, did I leave behind evidence? Maybe you know you did. Your hair clip fell out, or your ring dropped from your finger. If the murder weapon's still here and you weren't wearing gloves, you're truly screwed. Even if you didn't leave the knife, there has to be evidence on the body. See what happens? Rational thought leads to panic. You know
there's almost no chance anyone's found the body. It's still safe, you reason, to return to the scene of the crime and remove any evidence. You've seen CSI. How hard can it be?”

  Christine was leaning against the desk, glaring. Her breathing sounded normal, but Abbie got the impression she was fighting to keep it that way. Focusing on it while trying to work Abbie out.

  “‘In my experience,’” the woman quoted. “Strange phrasing.”

  “Not really.”

  “A little. You been around many killers?”

  “Countless,” said Abbie. “But we're talking about accidental murderers. Been around less of them, but enough to form an opinion. Enough to know they don’t always act in their best interests. For example, even if you accepted that the accidental killer fled immediately post-murder, only later considering evidence, you might not believe said killer, upon returning to the scene, would hang around. They’d be expecting the body, you might say. They could prepare for it. Thus, as soon as they arrived, they could get to business and flee. You might say the fact I caught you on your knees over the guy, obviously shocked, panicking, proves that you’re innocent.”

  "The thought had crossed my mind."

  "Except that's not how accidental killers behave. They might think they're prepared to see their victim again, but they rarely are. The visual brings home what they've done like a hammer. It's common for their legs to give out, for them to go to ground as waves of guilt overcome them. Many murderers get caught that way."

  Christine stared at Abbie. She played with her hands. She was trying to be annoyed but was mostly confused while struggling to keep the panic at bay.

  "Who the hell are you?" she said.

  "Asked and answered."

  "You follow me here and start throwing around accusations—"

  "I'm not throwing anything," Abbie cut in. "I'm hypothesising. I don't know enough to draw any conclusions, as it stands. If I had to follow my gut, I'd say you didn't do it. Doesn't track for me, but that doesn't mean I'd rule you out as a suspect. No chance."