I smile at her compliment, even though I feel as if the move has aged me a couple of years. I’ve noticed new wrinkles around my eyes and I’m sure I look much worse-for-wear than the last time I met Nia. She, on the other hand, really doesn’t look as if she’s aged a day.
We order coffee and chocolate cake and while we’re waiting for it to arrive at our table, I tell Nia about our run-in with Rob North and the new lock on the attic.
“Wow, he sounds weird,” she says. “Remember when we lived in that flat in Manchester and the landlord was a real creep?”
“I remember he seemed to have a thing for you,” I tell her.
Our order arrives and Nia takes a forkful of chocolate cake. Before she eats it, she says, “I bet he couldn’t believe his luck the day we moved in there. A red hot black girl and a curvy blonde. It was probably his greatest lesbian fantasy come true.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he did seem to think we were a couple. Hey, how come in that description, you’re red hot and I’m just curvy? Is that what you think of me? I’m not hot like you?”
She shrugs and looks at me innocently. “I’m just saying what he thought. I can’t help how his mind worked.” She pops the forkful of cake into her mouth and grins.
I shoot an incredulous look at her and sip my coffee, looking out of the condensation-covered window at the passersby walking along Church Street. The street itself is quaint and cobbled, winding from the main road to the foot of the steps that lead up to a 12th Century church and the ruins of Whitby Abbey.
This is my home now, I remind myself. I’m going to be happy here.
“Did you hear the news this morning?” Nia asks, solemn now.
“No, I’ve been rushing around. What happened?”
“The police are saying they think that girl that went missing is dead,” she says. “They’re searching for a body now.”
“Amy Donovan?”
She nods. “They found those other two bodies on the moors last year, so that’s where they’re looking now.”
“Yeah, they’re searching behind our flats. Do they think she was a victim of the Snow Killer?” Last year, two young women had been abducted from their homes and later found on the moors in the dead of winter. The year before that, one woman had disappeared on New Year’s Day and had been found on the moors three days later. The media had dubbed the murderer the Snow Killer, because the each victim went missing during a snowstorm.
Some news outlets preferred the name Red Ribbon Killer because there was a rumour—unsubstantiated by the police—that each of the victims had been found with a red ribbon tied in her hair.
“Snow Killer, Red Ribbon Killer, whatever you want to call him,” Mia says. “That guy. He took two women last year, one the year before. So what will it be this year? Three? I’m sensing a pattern here.” She looks out of the window and shivers, as if she’s seen the killer peering in at us from the street.
“You need to be careful,” she tells me, picking up another forkful of chocolate cake and waving it in my direction. “All of those women were blondes.”
“But none of them disappeared from Whitby,”
“They were all from this area,” Nia says. “The village where Amy Donovan lived is only a few miles away.”
“I’ll be careful,” I tell her. “I’m always careful, especially after the harassment we endured last year.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you moved,” she says. “I was out of my mind with worry while you were living there.” Her face brightens and she grins, adding, “And now you’re closer to us. You and Greg must come round for dinner one evening. The kids are dying to see you.”
“Of course,” I say. “Just let me know when and we’ll be there.”
“I’ll check my calendar and send you a few dates. I’ll have to check the kids’ calendars as well; with all their sleepovers and after-school activities, they have a busier social life than me and Will.”
“I find that hard to believe; you and Will always used to be going out, even after you had Jordan and Kishawn.”
“Not anymore,” she says. “We’ve settled down.” She pauses and then adds, “Well, settled into a rut might be more appropriate.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
She shrugs. “There’s nothing in particular that’s changed, we just seem to have grown apart a bit. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. It feels like the spark’s gone.”
“After eleven years of marriage, you can’t expect it to be like it was when you first met.”
“I know that. Of course I know that. But sometimes, Will seems distant, like he just doesn’t care anymore. And the worse thing is, I don’t care that he doesn’t care. Does that make sense?”
“Sounds like you need a weekend away, just the two of you. Maybe rekindle the spark.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But who’d look after the kids?”
“Look no further,” I say. “Greg and I would be happy to have them for a weekend.”
Now it’s her turn to look incredulous. “Are you sure?”
“They can come and stay at the flat. We had them that time you and Will went to his brother’s funeral, remember?”
“Yeah, but Kishawn was only three then, a little angel. Now she’s nine and an unholy terror. And Jordan’s seven. So as you can imagine, they fight like cats and dogs all the time.”
“I’m sure they’d be well-behaved. Anyway, have a think about it and let me know. The offer stands.”
“Thanks, Kate.” She takes a gulp of coffee and sets the mug down with a satisfied sigh. “How are things with you and Greg? It can’t have been easy with all that trouble you went through.”
I think about that for a moment. Greg and I had a couple of full-blown arguments—mainly about why I published the article incriminating Simon Coates—but then we seemed to pull together. And when our home was under attack, the bond between us became even stronger as we tried to protect ourselves from a common enemy. In fact, our marriage has never been better. But I don’t feel like telling Nia that if she’s having problems in her own marriage. Too much like rubbing it in.
“We’re fine,” I say. “We haven’t really had time to fall into a rut with everything that’s been going on.”
“Maybe I need to get myself a stalker.”
I shake my head, recalling the months of harassment, the feeling of being watched everywhere I went, the sense of danger that loomed over me all the time. “No,” I say. “Believe me, you don’t want that.”
We finish our drinks and order a second round. I opt for tea this time, aware of how much caffeine I’ve consumed already today. The conversation turns to lighter subjects, such as the amount of homework Jordan and Kishawn bring home every day, Nia’s job as an accountant for a firm in Scarborough, and Kishawn’s music lessons (she’s learning violin) and aspirations to play in an orchestra.
By the time we finish a third round of drinks (tea again for me, although now I know I’m going to be spending most of the day on the loo), we’ve caught up with each other’s lives and reaffirmed the bond between us. We hug on the street outside Hallow Grounds before Nia heads off to her car and I decide to explore the shops.
After browsing the windows of the various gift shops and jewellery shops featuring pieces fashioned from Whitby jet, a pure black gemstone local to the area, I make my way back along Church Street. I go into the Whitby Bookshop and buy the new Val McDermid and an older John Grisham before wandering over the bridge and ambling along the road towards the pier. Even in early January, the seaside town is bustling with people, especially along the Pier Road where the noise and lights of the Amusements attract customers with promises of prizes from the claw grabbers and slot machines.
The beach is less busy and I walk along it for a while, listening to the incoming tide rolling over the pebbles and sand as I saunter beneath the West Cliff. I imagine what it will be like here in summer, when the beach will be full of children running around with buckets and spade
s, making sandcastles and playing in the sea.
Just like our family holidays when Mum and Dad took us to Blackpool or Bournemouth. When Max and I felt like we could do anything, even defy the tide to wash our sandcastles away. It always did, of course, but we were full of optimism as we built ever taller and larger structures, only to watch them get washed away with a sense of disappointment and awe.
I gaze along the shoreline and imagine Max splashing through the shallow water, laughing with pure glee. He would have loved it here.
That thought fills me with sadness and I decide to head home.
The walk back to the car, which is parked by the Railway Station, takes me back long Pier Road, which is noisy with the sound of seagulls hovering over the harbour, waiting for the fishing boats to come in, and bright as the sun reflects off the water ice on the pavement where the ice has melted.
It’s getting warmer now, and when I reach the car, I throw my jacket and hat into the boot before sliding into the driver’s seat. Checking my phone, I see that I have two missed calls: one from my parents and one from Helen, my therapist. Helen is probably calling to confirm our appointment next week. I thought I was going to have to stop seeing her when I moved to Whitby—the drive to Manchester is just too far—but she suggested we continue our appointments online via video calls.
I decide to ring Helen back first. Confirming the appointment will take a couple of minutes whereas talking to Mum and Dad could go on for a while.
Her phone rings and rings until it goes to an answering machine. I decide to leave a message even though I hate talking to machines. “Hi, Helen, it’s Kate Lumley. You rang me earlier and I’m just returning your—”
“Kate,” she says, picking up. “I’m here. I was just ringing to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yes, I’m fine” I say, wondering why I deserve this special treatment. Helen has never rung me to see how I am before.
“Oh,” she says on the other end of the line. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”
“Well, perhaps it’s best if you hear it from me rather than the news.”
“What’s happened?” I ask, worried now.
“It’s Stella Coates,” Helen says. “She’s been taken into custody.”
“What? What for?”
“She killed her husband. Simon Coates is dead.”
Chapter 5
I’m not sure how to process that information. Why would Stella do such a thing? I know why, of course; she thinks Simon killed their son. But why would she throw her life away like that? She’ll probably spend the rest of it behind bars. That isn’t what Danny would have wanted for his mother.
“Kate, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I just can’t believe she’d do that.” I feel shocked, in a daze.
“Listen,” she says, “If you want to move your appointment forward, I have some free time tomorrow morning—”
“No, that’s fine,” I say. I can’t run to my therapist every time something bad happens. My appointment can wait until next week. My thoughts keep returning to poor Stella. She must be in a police cell right now, uncertain of her future.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” .
“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for ringing. I’ll talk to you next week.” I end the call and sit looking out of the car window for a while. Around me, people go about their lives as usual. Popping into the Co Op next to the car park to get food for their families. Standing on the pavement chatting about the weather. Eating fish and chips as they stroll along the road.
I get out of the car, needing some air, and stand there leaning on the bonnet for a few minutes. I don’t even know if Simon Coates was a killer, as Stella claimed, or if she’s murdered an innocent man. I need to know how it happened. Simon and Stella split up after Danny’s death, so how did they meet up for the final time? Did Stella track him down and kill him or was she acting in self defence?
I search the News app on my phone and find a story entitled WIFE KILLS HUSBAND SHE ACCUSED OF MURDER just below the top story of the day: POLICE DOUBT AMY DONOVAN STILL ALIVE.
The story on Stella doesn’t offer much information, only that she was arrested at her home after calling the police herself and saying that she’d killed her husband. The police found Simon’s body in the same stream where Danny had been discovered. Simon had been stabbed repeatedly with a pair of kitchen scissors which were also found in the stream. The article also mentioned that today would have been Danny Coates’s fifth birthday.
I turn the phone off and go into the Co Op, grabbing a basket as I walk through the automatic doors. I buy some essentials, like bread and milk, and enough groceries to get us through the week. I also pick up a tin of tuna for Winston. The mindless task of shoppung helps me deal with the numbness I feel regarding Stella Coates. It doesn’t take my mind off the situation but gives it more familiar things to deal with, like choosing between two different brands of ham.
I drive back to Northmoor House carefully, especially when I hit the road that winds along the edge of the moors to the house. In town, the snow on the roads has been reduced to muddy slush by passing vehicles and pedestrians but out here, it’s still thick and white and untouched.
I unload the shopping bags from the car and head inside Northmoor House, deciding not to use the rickety lift. Ivy’s door is closed and so is Rob’s as I hurry past it. At the foot of the stairs, I gather the shopping bags into a tight grip in both hands and begin my ascent. Halfway up the first flight, I realise I should have made two trips. By the time I reach the first floor landing, I’m huffing and puffing and wondering if I should have made a New Year’s resolution to join a gym.
I drop half the bags and continue up the stairs with a considerably lighter load. Once I get these bags upstairs, I’ll go back down for the others.
After dropping the first load by the flat door, I turn and go back to the top of the stairs. But before I can go back down to the first floor, I see a young man coming up, carrying my shopping bags.
He sees me and smiles. “I think you forgot these.”
“I was just coming down to get them,” I tell him.
“No problem, let’s get them to your door.” He deposits the bags alongside the others and says, “I’m Mike, by the way. I live on the first floor.” He hold out his hand.
We shake and I thank him for his help. He has a kind, open face, blue eyes, and fair hair. A close-cropped beard makes him look maybe a little older than he actually is, which I guess to be mid-twenties. He’s smartly dressed in a black crew neck jumper with a white shirt beneath it and dark blue jeans.
“I’m Kate,” I say. “My husband and I moved in yesterday.”
“Yes, I met Greg this morning, out in the car park. We had a bit of a chat while we were de-icing our cars. Anyway, I’ll let you get on. Nice to meet you.” He gives me a little wave and walks back to the stairs.
“You too,” I say as I fumble my key out of my pocket and open the door. I slide the shopping bags inside one-by-one and close the door again, leaning on it for a minute while I get my breath back. Next time I go shopping, I’m going to have to use the lift, no matter how slow it is.
I put the groceries into the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, wondering if I might make something for tea. Greg usually does all the cooking, says he loves it. No matter how long a day he’s had at work, he likes to spend time in the kitchen, unwinding while he cooks. And his dishes are amazing so who am I to keep him from doing what he loves?
After everything is put away, I treat myself to one of Ivy’s shortbread biscuits and take a seat at my desk. I need to get some work done. My current project is a Gothic Romance book called The Secrets of Falcon House, a tale of love and peril set in Cornwall in the 1800s. The description that the author sent to Wollstonecraft Publishing ends with the line: What secrets lie hidden in Falcon House?
What secrets lie hidden in Northmoor House? I wonder. What monstrosity is hidden in
the attic, secured by lock and key? I look up at the ceiling above my head. Maybe if I knock on it, someone will knock in response. Perhaps there’s someone locked up there; a modern day Mrs Rochester.
Telling myself to stop being silly and focus on the task at hand, I read through a couple of chapters of Falcon House, correcting the author’s typos here and there and making notes where I feel the story could be improved.
Overall, it’s a good story and when I finally decide to take a break, three hours have slipped by. I sit back in the chair and rub my eyes. Outside, it’s beginning to get dark.
Remembering the tin of tuna I got for Winston, I grab it off the counter and take it downstairs. It’s obvious that Ivy is lonely and isolated here in the house. It seems as if her daughters put her here and then forgot about her. The tuna is an excuse to go and knock on her door without Ivy thinking I’m checking up on her. My grandmother was a very proud woman who wouldn’t accept charity or pity from anyone and I get the feeling Ivy is the same.
If I bought something for her from the shop, she’d probably refuse it, but something for her cat is a different matter.
When I get to the ground floor, I notice that Rob North’s door is open but he doesn’t seem to be around. I slow my pace as I pass the open door and look in. A flight of steps leads down to another door, which is also open. All I can see down there is a section of ratty green carpet. I’m almost curious enough to go down a few steps so I can see more but I have no idea if Rob is down there or if he’ll appear in the hallway and catch me intruding.
So instead of sneaking into the basement flat, I knock on Ivy’s door. I hear the old lady’s voice talking to Winston and then the door opens.
“Hello, dear,” Ivy says, her face brightening when she sees me. “Come in and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
“Thanks,” I say, going in and shutting the door behind me. “I brought a tin of tuna for Winston.”
“Oh, bless you. He’ll like that, won’t you boy?” This question is asked of the cat, who rubs around her legs as she makes her way to the kitchen. I follow her, then stop at the door when I see Rob North lying on his back on the kitchen floor, head inside the cupboard under Ivy’s sink. There’s a large open toolbox next to his legs, his baseball cap resting on top of it.
The Flat Page 4
