Copyright

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Alex Lake 2016

Alex Lake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Cherie Chapman © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Mark Owen / Arcangel (girl); Neil Holden / Arcangel (bridge); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008199715

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008199722

Version: 2019-08-29

Dedication

To TMC-G

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: The Fab Four

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part One: Interlude

Five Years Earlier

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Two: Interlude

Five Years Earlier

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Later

One Year Later

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Alex Lake

About the Publisher

Prologue: The Fab Four

They had once been four.

Kate, May, Gemma, and Beth. The Fab Four, their parents called them, with an affectionate nod to the original Fab Four from Liverpool and a wry nod to the fact that their teenage daughters happened to agree that they really were, after all, pretty damn fab.

Four best friends, from their first days at infant school, through the wide-eyed years of junior school and the drama of high school and then on to university and their fledgling careers. Along the way there were fashion fads and music crazes, first kisses and last kisses, tears (lots) and laughter (even more). All of it added layer upon layer to their deepening and – it seemed – eternal friendship.

And then, without warning, it all changed.

Looking back, Kate could pinpoint the night she noticed – they all noticed – that it was going wrong. She had no idea at the time quite how wrong it was going, or how quickly, but she had known that something was not as it should have been.

When she fully understood what it was, however, it was too late.

Beth was already lost.

PART ONE

1

She had to get out of there.

There were many thoughts going round in her head – confusion, regret, shame – but that was the overriding one.

She needed to leave. That instant. Kate Armstrong wanted to be anywhere other than where she found herself.

Leaving, though, was complicated by the fact that the man whose bed she was in – what was his name? Rick? Mike? Mack? Shit, she couldn’t even remember that – was not there. His side of the bed was empty. Which meant that the option of sneaking out quietly was not available. He was up and about, somewhere in his Turkish holiday apartment, and she would have to face him before she could flee.

Unless there was a window. She knew that leaving that way was unorthodox, maybe even desperate, but she was desperate. He might think it was odd when he came in and she was gone, the window wide open, but she didn’t really care.

She sat up in the bed, making sure that the sheets were pulled up over her naked torso – God, she was naked, naked in a stranger’s bed – and looked around. Her vision was milky – the result of leaving in her contact lenses overnight – and her eyes itched, but she could see through a window that the apartment was not on the ground floor. There were branches of a tree of some kind she did not recognize right outside the window.

So that was that. She would have to face him. Rick or Mike or Mack.

It was Mike, she thought, details of the evening coming back to her. He was called Mike, and she’d met him in a nightclub. She was buying drinks for her friends, May and Gemma, at the bar when some perma-tanned Italian had sidled up behind her and put his arms around her waist, pressing the crotch of his white linen trousers into her bum. He’d muttered something unintelligible – or Italian, at any rate – into her ear and then she’d tried to wriggle free.

She’d managed to turn to face him and he grinned in what she assumed he thought was a charming way, then put his hand on her hip.

Which was when the guy – Mike – showed up.

Hi, he said. He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled. Sorry I’m late.

She had no idea who he was, but she knew what he was doing. He’d seen her struggling and had come over to help.

No problem, she said, as though she knew him well. I was getting some drinks. What are you having?

A beer. He looked at the Italian. Who’s your friend?

No one. We just met. She raised an eyebrow and gave her assailant a little wave. Arrivederci.

The Italian looked Mike over, took in his taut, muscular frame, then shrugged and walked away.

Thanks, she said. He was about to become a pain.

That’s OK. I was coming to get a beer and I noticed that you seemed uncomfortable. Anyway, I’ll let you get on with your evening.

Let me get you that beer, she said. By way of a thank you.

And then, somehow, she’d ended up here. Naked, dry-mouthed, head pounding.

She stared at the tree branches and tried to remember what had happened after that. The memories started to come back, memories of staggering into the apartment and kissing Mike by the door. Memories of him taking her hands and leading her into the bedroom. Memories of him undressing her.

She closed her eyes and groaned. This was not what she did. She did not go home with men she’d just met and have sex with them, however drunk she got.

But had they had sex? The seed of a memory formed, then coalesced into something firmer. Into her asking him if he had a condom.

Are you sure? he said. Sure you want to do this? We don’t have to.

She was sure. Then, at least, she was sure. Not now, though. Now she was sure only that she wished she’d said No, let’s wait or Maybe I should go. My friends will be missing me.

But he’d shaken his head, kissed her, and said I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Let’s see if you still feel the same way in the morning.

She’d bridled and mumbled that she was fine, thank you very much, but the truth was she wasn’t fine, she was hammered, and thank God he hadn’t taken advantage of that.

And how had she got so drunk? She didn’t remember having that much. Wine at dinner, then gin and tonics in the nightclub, after which her memory got hazy. They were pretty liberal with the measures here. She’d watched them sloshing the gin into the glass; that must be what had happened. Well, she was going to have to be careful for the rest of the holiday. This could not happen again.

The rest of the holiday. Right then she didn’t want it, didn’t want to stay here for another two nights. They’d arrived five days ago, her and May and Gemma, on a week away to take her mind off the break-up with Phil, the man she’d been sure she was destined to marry until she’d realized that maybe she wasn’t destined to marry him after all, so she’d decided to end it. A decision which she hadn’t been sure about when she took it and which seemed even less like a good idea now, as she lay here, mouth dry and head throbbing, having nearly ended up on the wrong end of a one-night stand, a one-night stand that would have been her first ever, had the man she’d thrown herself at not been, thankfully, enough of a gentleman to turn her down.

She’d made Phil wait a month before she slept with him. That was more her speed. And it had been well worth the wait. More than worth it. He was the first and – still – only man she had ever had sex with. Her high-school boyfriend. They’d stayed together all through the university years, him at the University of the West of England in Bristol, her at Durham, which were two places about as far apart as you could get in England. A true long-distance relationship, a true test of their devotion, then they’d moved back to their hometown, back to the village of Stockton Heath, where they’d rented a house together, and set off on the final leg of their journey to marriage and kids.

Until she decided that she wasn’t ready, that she needed to live a little before settling down. She comforted herself that she could always go back to him, if she needed to. That made the decision a bit easier, although not for him. He hadn’t taken the break-up all that well. Truth be told, he’d taken it very, very badly. He called her early in the morning before work and late at night, drunk in his friend Andy’s flat, where he was living until he sorted out something permanent, or from outside some nightclub or, once, from the bathroom in the house of a girl he’d gone home with. He’d told her he’d moved on, found someone else.

Why are you calling me from her bathroom at two a.m., then? she’d said, aware that it was mean to mock him, but it was the middle of the night and she was tired and frustrated.

Fuck you, he’d replied, his voice wavering as though he was on the verge of tears. Just fuck you, Kate.

So yes, it was fair to say he hadn’t taken it very well, which was part of the reason she’d come away. At home he was a constant presence, so she struggled to get any perspective. She needed some space, some distance between them, some time with her girlfriends, doing nothing but relaxing on the beach in the day and going out at night.

Her friends. They’d be freaking out. She leaned over and looked at the pile of her clothes on the floor. A knee-length red summer dress, black lace underwear, strappy high-heels. All bought with this holiday in mind. All bought with the thought that she needed to look good in the pubs and clubs of her holiday destination.

And to look good for what? So she could wake up in a stranger’s bed? No, not for that, but, damn it, that was what had happened, and she was not happy about it, not happy at all.

Her bag was next to the clothes. She reached down and grabbed it, then took out her phone. There were a bunch of missed calls from Phil, but then she’d been getting those all week. She’d not answered any of them. She’d come here to get away; the last thing she needed was a long, emotional conversation with her ex. There were also missed calls from May and Gemma, and a bunch of text messages. She scrolled through them.

2:02 a.m., from May:

Where are you?

2:21 a.m., again from May:

For fuck’s sake, Kate, pick up your phone! Where are you? We’re worried!

2.25 a.m., this time from Gemma’s phone. She imagined the conversation, pictured May speaking: Perhaps my phone’s not working, maybe the messages aren’t getting through, let’s try yours and then the message:

Did you leave with that guy? You need to message us, now.

And then, her reply, at 2.43 a.m.:

Hi! I’m fine. I’m with the guy from the nightclub, Mike. He’s really nice! Don’t worry, I’ll see you in the morning.

God, she’d been drunk. She didn’t remember sending it, couldn’t place it in the timeline of the night. Was it before they arrived at his place? After? She had no idea.

She typed another message.

On my way back. See you soon. I feel like a dirty stop-out.

She put her feet on the cold tiled floor and reached for her clothes. Now for the hard part. Now she had to face Mike and then get the hell out of there.

She pulled her clothes on, pushing the thought from her mind that she was going to have to do the walk of shame through the morning streets of this Turkish resort, everyone who saw her dressed in her evening clothes fully aware that she had gone home with someone and was now making her way back to her own accommodation.

She didn’t care. She’d never see those people again, and she’d never do this again. All she wanted was to get back, shower, sleep, and forget this had ever happened.

The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open and walked into the apartment. It was a typical holiday apartment: an open-plan kitchen and living room, with two bedrooms: the one she had woken up in, and one which still had the door closed. Presumably one of Mike’s friend’s was still asleep in it.

All the more reason to get out of there.

He was sitting on the couch, a mug of coffee in his hand, one bare foot on the tiled floor, the other tucked under his thigh. He looked up from his iPad and smiled at her.

‘Morning, Kate,’ he said. ‘Sleep well?’

2

‘Great,’ Kate said. Awfully badly, she thought. And why did I just lie?

‘Would you like a drink? Orange juice? Coffee? Tea?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Beer?’

‘What?’ she said, her voice little more than a croak. ‘Are you kidding?’

He grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’

Kate blushed. ‘Right. Sorry. Of course you are. I’m feeling a little delicate.’

‘Me too. They make strong drinks here.’ He drained his coffee, then untucked his foot and stood up. ‘I think I need a refill. You want one?’

She didn’t. Even though they hadn’t, in the end, had sex, she still didn’t want to spend a single minute more here. The grubbiness of her hangover mixed with the memory of throwing herself at him and produced a horrible self-loathing. But she also didn’t want to be rude; he looked so hopeful. And a coffee did sound good.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Maybe a quick one. Then I have to get going.’

‘If you need to be somewhere, I understand,’ he said. He had a neutral accent which was hard to place, although she thought she detected the flat vowels of the north. Lancashire, maybe. ‘You don’t need to hang around if you don’t want to.’

‘No,’ Kate said. ‘It’s fine. A coffee would be nice. Thanks.’

He crossed the white-tiled floor to the kitchen and took a mug from a cupboard. He filled it from a stove-top coffee maker. He was wearing chinos and an olive green T-shirt and was maybe ten years older than her, in his late thirties, with a lean, wiry body. His movements were precise and deliberate, but graceful – almost balletic – and he was handsome in a severe, school-teacherly kind of way. He was very different to Phil, a stocky, broad-shouldered rugby player who was anything but precise and balletic. His friends called him clumsy; he said he was too strong for his own good. Either way, it was one of the things she had loved about him.

There was a carton of milk open on the worktop. Mike picked it up and gestured towards the freshly filled cup.

‘Milk?’

‘Yes, please.’

He poured some in and passed her the cup. ‘It’s that UHT stuff they have here,’ he said. ‘Not fresh. But the coffee’s good. Some local brand. Nice and strong. Perfect after a late night.’

It was good. Hot and rich and heady. She only wished she could enjoy it more, that she was drinking it on a café terrace by the harbour with her friends, watching the morning sun glint off the water.

‘So,’ Mike said. ‘Here we are.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’

There was an awkward pause. She sipped her coffee. Mike sipped his. After a moment he broke the silence.

‘Where are you from?’ he said. ‘Back home?’

She didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want him to know anything about her. It wasn’t him – he was pleasant enough, considerate and relaxed, and in other circumstances she might have quite liked him – but she didn’t want any reminder of the night before.

‘Stockton Heath,’ she said. ‘It’s a small town. Village, really. It’s near Warrington, in Cheshire.’

His eyes widened.

‘No way!’ he said. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Did we talk about this last night? And now you’re messing with me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t.’

‘Are you sure I didn’t tell you?’

She would have thought it was impossible for her mouth to get any drier, but that was what happened. She sipped her coffee. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Where I live.’

She shook her head. ‘No. Where do you live?’

‘I’m your neighbour,’ he said. ‘I live in the next village along. I live in Moore.’

3

She stared at him.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m from Newton, originally. But I live in Moore now. I’m often in Stockton Heath. Where in the village do you live?’

She told him; she was in the centre, and God she was glad he lived a few miles away. It wasn’t far, but it was something.

‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘What are the odds of meeting someone from the same neck of the woods over here? I can’t believe it.’

Neither could Kate. This was getting worse. She didn’t ever want to see him again, never mind have him bump into her in her hometown. It was unbelievable. And there was something familiar about him, now she thought about it, but that could easily be the fact that she knew now that they were from the same place.

‘Did you grow up there?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Born and bred.’

‘I like the area,’ he said. ‘Quiet, but I like living in a sleepy village where nothing ever happens. It feels safe, insulated from all the craziness in the world.’

Kate bridled at the suggestion that her home was so boring; she thought it could be quite lively, especially on a Friday night, but then he was older, and probably didn’t participate in the nightlife of the village to the degree that she did. Besides, before she’d left for Turkey there had been a big local story.

‘It wasn’t so sleepy last week,’ she said. ‘They found that body.’

It was the biggest news in the village Kate could remember. A woman her age had been killed only a few days before she left for Turkey. A dog walker – a magistrate out with his new puppy, Bella – had found a body stuffed into a hedge near the reservoir. It was a young girl, Jenna Taylor, in her late twenties. She’d been strangled, there was speculation that she had been raped, too, although the news reports had been vague, which only served to fuel rumours that something really sick had taken place.

‘I heard,’ Mike said. ‘I read about it online. I haven’t been following it, though. It happened about a week after I got here, and you know what it’s like on holiday. You tend to switch off. One of my friends has been keeping track of it. He said they still haven’t found whoever did it.’

‘I heard they arrested her boyfriend,’ Kate said. ‘One of my friends is addicted to reading about it, but she’s like that with every news event.’

‘Did you know the victim?’ Mike said. ‘She was about your age, wasn’t she?’

‘She was,’ Kate said. ‘But I didn’t know her. She moved from Liverpool a few years ago. We would have been at high school together though, if she was from Stockton Heath.’

What she didn’t say was what her friends had been teasing her about ever since: she and Jenna Taylor could have been sisters. They had the same long hair, lithe figure and dark eyes. It was no more than a coincidence, but still, she didn’t like it. It wasn’t the kind of coincidence that you found intriguing; it was the other kind, the kind that you found disturbing.

Mike shook his head. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘I go away for a few weeks and all hell breaks loose.’

Kate gave a half smile. She wasn’t listening any more. She’d had enough of making conversation. All she wanted was to go back to her hotel and her friends.

She finished the drink and put the cup on the counter. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I have to get moving.’

There was a flicker of disappointment on Mike’s face. ‘You want to meet up later?’

Kate paused. For a second she felt almost obliged to say yes, but she caught herself. She didn’t have to be polite. She owed him nothing.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She searched for an excuse – what? A prior engagement? Didn’t want to leave her friends – but none came. ‘I don’t think so,’ she repeated, simply.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I understand. From the look on your face, I’m guessing that you won’t want to meet up another night, either?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

She put her hand on the front door to open it.

‘You know your way home?’ Mike said. ‘Where are you staying?’

She didn’t want to give him the name of their hotel. ‘Near the harbour.’

‘Go out of the main door and turn right,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. I can call you a cab, though, if you’d like?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No thanks. I’ll walk. I could do with the fresh air.’

‘All right,’ he said, with a rueful grin. ‘Maybe I’ll see you round and about in Stockton Heath.’

She hoped not. She really, really hoped not.

4

Phil Flanagan signed the change order on his desk. He’d barely read it; he was a project manager on a residential housing development, but given how he was feeling it was a struggle to muster up the enthusiasm to care about his job. It was a struggle to muster up the enthusiasm to care about anything.

Not with Kate gone. It was bad enough that she’d broken up with him, but now she was on holiday, living it up in the sun. Surrounded by men who would be ogling her by day and pawing her in the pubs and clubs by night. God, he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Couldn’t bear to picture it.

But he couldn’t stop himself. All day long images of her in bed with a faceless man, their naked, suntanned limbs passionately entwined, tortured him. Which was the reason he was barely paying lip service to his job.

He stared at his signature on the paper. He hated his name, hated the alliteration of Phil and Flanagan. He’d always had the idea that he was going to change it someday; originally he’d planned for that day to be the day he got married, when, in a grand romantic gesture that would both impress her and get rid of his horrible name, he would take her name. But that plan was out of the window now that she’d dumped him because she needed some fucking space, needed to see what life was like without him. Well, he could tell her what it was like, it was rubbish, totally fucking rubbish, just a series of minutes and hours and days all merging into one big morass of him missing her and wondering where she was and if she was in bed with some greasy fucking foreigner on holiday. And at the back of it all, the question: why, why had she done it?

And what was he supposed to do now? His whole life had been planned around her: get married in the next year or so, then kids, then grandkids, then retirement, then their last few years eating soup together in a home somewhere, before dying, her first, then him a few days later of a broken heart.

It wouldn’t say broken heart on the death certificate, but that was what it would be, and all the people in the nursing home would agree about it. They’d smile at each other and say how lovely it was – sad, but lovely – that he couldn’t live without his wife of seventy years.

Well, that wouldn’t happen now, and the loss of it stung.

He’d known there was something wrong a few weeks back, when he’d suggested that they get started on planning their wedding. They weren’t engaged, not yet. Not officially, at any rate. Not in the announced-to-the-world sense. That would come in due course, but he saw no reason not to start at least discussing the main points of their wedding-to-be – possible locations, numbers, all that stuff – because they were going to get married, of course they were. Everyone knew that. Everyone had known it for years.

Sure, she said. We should start thinking about it.

We should check out some venues. I was thinking Lowstone Hall, or maybe the Brunswick Hotel, if we wanted something more modern.

Yeah, maybe, she said. Let’s think about it.

So should I contact them? Do you like those places?

Er – let me think about it. I’m not sure.

Not sure? Phil said. We talked about both those places a while back. What changed?

She wouldn’t look him in the eye. Nothing. I just – let me think about it, OK?

He’d thought it was odd, that there was something different in her manner. But he had not been expecting what came a week after that.

Phil, she said. We need to talk about something.

And then she told him. Told him that they’d been together since they were teenagers and she wasn’t sure he was the right person for her any more. She wanted a break. Wanted some time apart so she could live her life, make sure she knew who she was, that she was not sleepwalking into a bad decision.

So it’s a break? He said. For how long?

Maybe a break, she said. Maybe not.

But if it is, how long for?

I don’t know, Phil. I can’t say.

He felt his world slipping through his fingertips. You don’t have to be exact, Kate. But what order of magnitude are we talking? A week? A month?

More, probably. Six months? I don’t know. She looked at him, tears in her eyes. I think it’ll be easier if we say it’s for good. That’ll stop you wondering.

No, he said. That’s not easier. Not at all. It’s a lot worse.

And that was how they’d left it. Him: broken, devastated, unsure of what to do from minute to minute, staying in his friend Andy’s scruffy flat. Her: on holiday in Turkey, living it up with her friends.

On his desk his phone began to vibrate. It was Michelle, a girl he’d met the weekend before. He’d called Kate from her house – from the bathroom – drunk as all get out, expecting her to be sad when she saw how easily he had moved on, to understand what she had lost and to say, Come over, Phil, leave her and come back to me.

It hadn’t quite ended like that.

To make matters worse, in the morning he’d sat there drinking tea on Michelle’s couch and all he could think was Shit, she looks like Kate, like a pale imitation of Kate. He hadn’t noticed it the night before. He hadn’t noticed much of anything with about six beers and a bunch of whisky and Coke swilling around in his belly.

And now she was calling him. He was going to tell her he couldn’t see her. He liked her – she was nice enough – but he knew that there was no future with her. It was rebound sex, a way to take his mind off what had happened, and, even if he’d wanted to do it again, he knew it wasn’t fair to use her like that. He picked up his phone.

‘Michelle,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Good!’ She was, he remembered, from Blackpool, and the false brightness in her voice matched the false confidence of the fading seaside resort. ‘You?’

‘Fine, yeah.’

‘What are you doing tonight? Want to meet up?’ There was a nervous quiver in her voice.

He was about to say No, I can’t, and I’m not sure we should meet up again, it’s not you, it’s me, I recently came out of a difficult relationship … But then the image of an evening in Andy’s empty flat – Andy was away with work – drinking alone to quiet his thoughts, came to him, and he thought Why not? It’s only a drink. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sounds great. Where do you want to meet?’

‘The Mulberry Tree?’ she said. ‘Seven?’

Just after seven he walked into the Mulberry Tree. It was a popular pub in the centre of Stockton Heath. Michelle was sitting at a table, a half-drunk glass of white wine in front of her.

Phil gestured to the glass. ‘Another?’

Michelle nodded. ‘I got here a bit early,’ she said. ‘I came on the bus. It was either arrive ten minutes early or half an hour late.’

She didn’t drive. He remembered her telling him; she’d failed her test three times then given up trying.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he said.

As the barman poured the drinks he glanced at her. She was shorter than Kate, and had a rounder, chubbier face, but there was a definite similarity. Long, straight dark hair, dark eyes, a quiet, watchful expression.

Jesus. Hanging out with a Kate lookalike was hardly going to take his mind off his ex.

He paid and took the drinks to the table.

‘Here you go,’ he said, and raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Michelle clinked his glass. ‘You see the latest on the murder?’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Phil hadn’t. He was too wrapped up in his own misery to pay attention to other people’s.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘I’ve not been following it. It’s only more darkness in the world.’

She looked at him with a teasing smile. ‘You’re a bundle of fun,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the cops arrested the boyfriend.’ She leaned forward, her tone conspiratorial. ‘It’s always the boyfriend, or the husband. She was probably sleeping with someone else, or something like that.’ She shook her head. ‘That kind of violence – it can only come from a strong emotion, you know?’

‘I guess,’ Phil said. ‘I wouldn’t really know.’

‘I’d hope not!’ Michelle said. She leaned back. ‘Anyway, enough of that. How’ve you been?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine.’

‘That’s it?’ Michelle said. ‘Just fine?’

He stared at her, a feeling of hopelessness washing over him. He could hardly tell her the truth, could hardly confess that he was unable to sleep, his nights filled with obsessive thoughts of his ex, an ex who looked like the woman he was currently out on a date with, a fact which only made matters worse. Could hardly tell her that he didn’t want to be here, that he was only here because he had to do something, had to find a way to take his mind off Kate, and he had hoped that this might do that, at least a little bit.

Could hardly tell her that it wasn’t working, and all he wanted to do was leave.

‘Been a tough day at work,’ he said.

‘What do you do?’ Michelle said.

Jesus, she didn’t even know what he did for a job. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to make a new start with someone. He was suddenly overwhelmingly tired.

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel well.’

She frowned. ‘I just got here! It took two buses!’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’ve been fighting something all day – flu, I think, it’s been going round the office – and it just hit me. I should have cancelled.’ He took a twenty-pound note from his wallet and put it on the table. ‘Take a taxi home. On me. Sorry, Michelle.’

‘I don’t want money!’

Phil ignored her. He got to his feet, his head spinning. He felt faint, nauseous now.

‘Are you OK?’ Michelle said, her tone switching from anger to concern. ‘You do look a bit poorly.’

He waved a hand. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he muttered, and fled.

5

When Kate got back to the hotel room May and Gemma were still sleeping. There were two double beds in the room; Kate and May were sharing one, leaving the other to Gemma. It wasn’t a generous gesture; they knew from long experience that Gemma was a very active sleeper who would stealthily colonize your side of the bed, gradually creeping closer and closer to you until she was pushing you over the edge. If you got out and switched sides, she would start to move towards you again; you’d hear her coming and the stress of it would keep you from falling asleep. Allied to the fact that she was a very deep sleeper, who was near impossible to wake up, and she was not anybody’s preferred sleeping partner.

Her boyfriend – a maths teacher called Matt – claimed that he had to decamp to the couch five nights a week in order to get some sleep. He had, he said, been collecting data on his sleeping arrangements and was using it to teach statistics to his students. He showed it to Kate once: he’d plotted a bell curve, showing that five nights per week was the mean average, with a standard deviation of three sigma. Kate had no idea what that meant in statistical terms, but she was pretty sure that in the real world it meant that he was not getting enough sleep and was in danger of becoming obsessed with it.

Kate opened the bathroom door and turned on the shower. She stripped off and climbed under the hot water, letting it first soothe and then invigorate her. The shower shelf was crammed with bottles of shampoo and conditioner and she grabbed hers, a tea-tree oil shampoo from Australia. A large part of her was sceptical about the value of these toiletries; Phil always said that they were all just soap anyway so she may as well buy the Tesco value pack for a few pounds, rather than spend a small fortune on the designer stuff. She suspected he had a point, but it wasn’t about the chemistry of whatever was in the bottles. It was about the routine, the feeling that she was, in some way, pampering herself, treating herself to something special.

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. It was a plush, white Egyptian cotton towel and it felt luxurious against her skin. It was these little things that made staying in a hotel so amazing: clean, soft towels every day, a freshly made bed, coffee and breakfast at the end of a phone line.

She went into the bedroom. May and Gemma were still sleeping. May’s side of the room was tidy, the carpet empty apart from a small pile of neatly folded clothes from the night before. Her other clothes were either hanging up in the wardrobe or carefully arranged in a drawer. Gemma’s side, on the other hand, was a total mess: inside-out jeans hanging off a chair, bras and underwear littering the floor, one of a pair of flats on the pillow next to her head.

It had always been this way: Gemma and May were total opposites. May: organized, precise, together, always on time, following the plan. Gemma: unaware there was a plan, haphazard, confused, totally oblivious that she was supposed to arrive at whatever place she was going to at any particular time.

But they, along with Kate, had been friends forever. Since the day they met as five-year-olds at St Stephen’s Primary they had been a unit. They’d been friends for over twenty years: they’d grown up together, seen each other’s characters develop and emerge. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves, understood how and why they had become the people they were, and they loved each other in a deep and profound way.

Kate opened the minibar and took out a small, over-priced, glass bottle of orange juice. Normally she wouldn’t have spent three pounds fifty – she did the maths to convert the currency in her head – on what was little more than a tiny sip of juice, but she was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire for something sweet. That, she thought, was the price you paid for a hangover, and the reason they had these ludicrously expensive minibars in the first place.

Behind her, May stirred. Her eyes opened and she looked hazily at Kate while she emerged fully from unconsciousness.

‘Splashing out?’ she said.

‘Thirsty,’ Kate replied. ‘I needed something sweet.’

‘Me too.’ May held out a hand. ‘Can I have some?’

‘There’s not much.’

‘Just a sip. I’m feeling a bit delicate.’

Kate swallowed half the contents and handed the bottle to her friend. ‘Finish it.’

‘So,’ May said. ‘You arranged your own accommodation last night?’

‘I suppose so,’ Kate said. ‘I wasn’t sure where I was this morning.’

‘Did you guys – you know?’

‘No.’ Kate shook her head. ‘I tried to, but he told me I was too drunk.’

‘Nice guy. Most would have taken advantage.’

‘I guess.’ Kate paused. ‘But nothing about last night feels good. What I remember of it, that is.’

‘It’s not like you.’

‘I know. I feel awful. I can’t believe it. I had way too much to drink. Don’t let me do that again.’

‘We would have stopped you, but you disappeared with that guy.’ She sipped the orange juice. ‘We were worried, Kate, in case he turned out to be some crazy weirdo, but then you texted to say you were OK, so we left you to it.’

‘He was fine. He didn’t do anything, thank God. In fact, it was me who suggested we have sex.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t quite believe it.’

‘Are you going to see him again?’

‘No,’ Kate said. ‘He wanted to, but I can’t face it. He was nice enough, but I’d rather forget it happened.’

‘We’ll have to avoid that club, then. In case he’s in there. And if we’re in other places I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye out for him.’

Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not the only place we’ll have to keep an eye out for him. Guess where he lives.’

‘Where?’

‘Guess.’

May shrugged. ‘London?’

‘No. Guess again.’

‘Manchester?’

‘Warmer.’

May raised her eyebrows. ‘Somewhere close to us?’

‘Very close.’ Kate sat on the end of the bed. ‘He lives in none other than Moore.’

May leaned forwards, propping herself up on her elbows. ‘You mean Moore? The Moore down the road?’

‘The same.’

‘You are fucking kidding me.’

‘I wish I was.’

‘You’re saying he’s from the same pokey part of the world as us? Did you know him?’

Kate shook her head. ‘No, although he did seem familiar once I knew. I suppose I might have seen him around. He’s older, though, so he wouldn’t necessarily hang out in the places we do.’

‘How much older?’

‘Late thirties. Something like that. I didn’t ask.’

‘Got yourself a sugar daddy,’ May said. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Kate replied. ‘This is not funny. Maybe I’ll be able to laugh about it later, but not now.’

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Holiday. He’s been here a couple of weeks already, hanging out with some friends.’

‘And you’re not going to see him again?’

‘No,’ Kate said. ‘Definitely not.’

The hotel phone started to ring. May looked up at Kate. ‘Do you think that’s him?’ she said.

‘I hope not,’ Kate replied. ‘I didn’t give him the name of the hotel. Shit, I hope he didn’t follow me here.’

‘I’ll get it,’ May said. ‘If it’s him, I’ll tell him I don’t know you and he’s got the wrong number. OK?’

Kate nodded. ‘OK.’

May reached out and picked up the phone.

‘Hello?’ she said. There was a long pause, then she held out the receiver to Kate. ‘It’s for you,’ she said.

‘Is it him?’

‘No,’ May said, and rolled her eyes. ‘It’s Phil.’

6

Kate took the receiver from May and put it to her ear.

‘Phil?’ she said. ‘What are you doing? Is something wrong?’

His voice was tense, a note or two higher than usual. ‘I wanted to talk to you. You haven’t been answering your phone. I thought maybe you don’t have reception.’

‘It’s pretty patchy,’ she lied. ‘I saw some missed calls’ – some, she thought, didn’t cover it. There’d been dozens of them – ‘but I haven’t been able to call back.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘So,’ Kate said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No. I just – I just wanted to talk to you. Check you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine,’ Kate said, her mouth tightening. ‘I’m a big girl, Phil. I can look after myself.’

‘I know, but—’

‘And how did you get this number?’ Kate said.

‘I asked your mum and dad where you’re staying.’

The answer was too quick; she knew Phil and she could tell it was a lie he’d prepared earlier. She wasn’t even sure she’d told her parents where she was staying. It pissed her off; this whole phone call pissed her off. She decided not to let him off the hook.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I don’t recall telling them the hotel name. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t, now I think about it. So how did you get the number?’

He paused. ‘I called around,’ he said finally.

‘Called around what?’

‘The hotels.’

Kate stared at her reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. ‘You called every hotel in the resort?’

‘No!’ he said, a hint of outrage in his voice that she would suggest he was that desperate. ‘I knew you were staying near the harbour, so I called those hotels and asked to be put through to your room.’

‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘So you called every hotel near the harbour.’ She shook her head, exasperated. Why couldn’t he leave her alone, even for one week? One week, so she could enjoy her holiday.

‘Well, it’s nice to talk, but I’m kind of busy right now,’ Kate said. ‘We’re getting ready to go out for breakfast.’ She looked at Gemma, spread out in a star shape, her cheek pressed against the pillow, her mouth half-open as she snored lightly. ‘May and Gem are by the door.’

May suppressed a snort of laughter. Kate glared at her.

‘I only wanted to chat. I miss you.’

‘Can we talk later?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go. They’re waiting. And we’re hungry.’

‘Will you call later?’ he said.

‘Sure.’

‘You promise you’ll call?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I promise.’ It was a promise she felt she would be justified in forgiving herself for breaking.

As she put the phone in its cradle, Gemma’s eyes opened.

‘Who was that?’ she said, her voice little more than a croak.

‘Phil,’ Kate said. ‘He tracked me down.’

Gemma frowned. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I know he’s hurting, but he needs to get over it. And tracking you down like this is – well, it’s kind of fucked up, Kate.’

‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘But he means well. You know Phil, he’s—’

‘Don’t make excuses for him,’ Gemma said. ‘He can’t do this. And you’d think he’d know better, after what happened to Beth.’

There was a long pause. ‘It’s not like that,’ Kate said. ‘Beth was a totally different situation.’

‘We didn’t think so at first, though, did we?’ Gemma said. ‘And things might have worked out a hell of a lot better if we’d paid a bit more attention to how serious it was.’

‘We were young,’ May said. ‘We didn’t know any better.’

‘We do now,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s my point, and Phil needs to know he has to give this a rest.’ She looked at Kate. ‘Anyway, let’s not argue. Forget Phil. Which is something you didn’t seem to have any problem doing last night. Where were you, you dirty slapper?’

Kate reached down and picked up a handful of the clothes that Gemma had strewn around the room. She tossed them to her friend.

‘Put these on and I’ll tell you over breakfast,’ she said. ‘And then let’s go to the beach and enjoy the last few days of this holiday.’

7

She was back. Phil knew this because he had been waiting for this day to come the entire time she had been gone, had been thinking about her incessantly every minute of every day, had been hard-pressed not to call her on the hour, every hour, contenting himself with a few – well, maybe a few more than a few – phone calls each evening.

None of which she answered, until, desperate, he had tracked her down by calling nearly every hotel in Kalkan, a place which was, it seemed, littered with hotels. It wasn’t very big, looking at it on Google Earth – which he had done at least three or four times every day in the stupid hope that he might see her, even though he was fully aware that Google Earth was not a live feed from a satellite and that the images he was looking at were months or years old – but, small size notwithstanding, there were a lot of hotels.

And all of them full of men looking for someone to have a summer fling with, perhaps a pretty woman in her mid-to-late twenties who’d recently broken up with her boyfriend and was emotional and vulnerable, and would easily fall for their cheesy lines.

Only once in the entire week had he heard her voice and it had been such a relief to know she was alive, to be in touch with her again, to be connected to her in however paltry a form, at least until she had hung up on him and then it had all been even worse than before.

Yes, it had been a long week, but now she was back. She. Was. Back. He’d tracked her flight on the Internet, watched the tiny plane crawl across the screen from Dalaman airport to Manchester airport, then, when it landed, gone online and checked the arrivals board just to be sure.

Of course, he was only sure that the plane had landed, not that she was on it. So, unable to sleep, he got on his bike – a cyclo-cross, designed to work both on and off-road, that he had bought second hand a few months back – and rode to her house – their house – at midnight (when he was pretty sure she’d be through Customs and back home). He used his bike as often as possible these days; riding it cleared his mind. He tended to stay off the roads, preferring the paths and snickets and alleys that connected most parts of the town, routes that most people didn’t even know existed, leaving them quiet and unused, which was perfect for the solitude he craved.

As a cloud obscured the moon, he turned into the street their house was on, and there it was.

Her car. Parked outside the house. Proof, absolute proof, of her return.

And upstairs, a light on. Her – their – bedroom was at the front of the house. The house he had offered to move out of, even though she wanted to break up, an offer he now regretted. He’d hoped it would show her how unconcerned he was, how magnanimous, but all it meant in the end was that he was squatting at a friend’s flat.

He stared up at the windows and, as he watched, her silhouette appeared behind the blinds that they had installed together.

Even though it was only a silhouette, the sight of her shocked him, and he gasped. She was safe. She was home. She was back.

And now he was going to fix this.

He was going to fix this, whatever it took.

8

Kate’s alarm – a loud, old-fashioned bell sound that she had chosen on her phone as it was the only noise that could reliably wake her at six a.m. – was ringing. She opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was – back home, Monday morning, a week of work ahead.

The first day back from holiday was always a struggle. It was the contrast: the day before you’d been immersed in a free, technicolour life, doing new things, meeting new people, living life the way it should be lived. And then: a six a.m. alarm, and back to normality.

She stared at the ceiling. Her eyes felt swollen. She was very tired; much more than she would have been on a normal Monday. It was amazing how exhausting holidays were. Late nights, too much to drink, bad sleep (on one night in someone else’s bed, which was a memory she was glad she could leave behind. What happens on holiday, stays on holiday, after all), and then, on the way back, a delayed flight which meant she had finally got home shortly after midnight.

And discovered that she didn’t have her house key.

Before leaving for holiday she’d detached her house key from her key fob – on the grounds that she wouldn’t need the back-door key, electronic pass for work, keys to her mum and dad’s house or any of the other things she had attached to it – and then stashed it in a side pocket of her bag and forgotten about it, in the expectation that it would be there when she got home.

Well, it wasn’t. Under the dim glow of the interior light in her car, she’d emptied her bag onto the front seat and scrabbled around.

No key.

Then she’d unpacked her suitcase, spreading the contents all over the inside of the car.

Nothing.

So she’d slammed the car door in frustration, which had woken her neighbour, Carl, an engineer in his fifties, who, on hearing the commotion, came downstairs.

Need a hand? he said.

I’ve lost my key. Left it in Turkey. It must have fallen out of my bag somewhere.

Oh. Want me to help you break in?

Can you do that?

Sure. It’s easy. All you have to do is tell me which window you don’t mind being broken and we’ll be away.

Ten minutes later, she was in, with a broken kitchen window and a promise from Carl that he’d call a friend of his in the morning who would be able to replace it.

So, all that, less than six hours’ sleep, and now back to work.

Back to the slow commute along the M56 into Manchester, back to hours lost to the ridiculous traffic, back to the panic when you saw the red lights of the cars ahead as they braked and you thought Oh shit, what’s happened? Don’t let this be a delay, I want to get home and eat and read and go to bed.

Back to the offices of her law firm; a solid, well-respected regional company that offered a good salary and career prospects in return for your life and soul. Back to her boss, Michaela, a forty-two-year-old woman who thought she should have done better than merely reaching the level that made her Kate’s manager, especially since she had worked and worked and waited and waited to have kids and then found that she couldn’t, that it was too late, that although there were articles and advice out there claiming that pregnancy and childbirth were options for women well into their forties, they weren’t options for her.

And she resented Kate having already reached the rung below her, along with the obvious fact that she would rise further still, maybe making partner by her mid thirties, which would leave her with plenty of time to have a couple of kids and the life that Michaela thought should have been hers.

Back, in short, to the daily grind.

Kate swung her legs out of bed. She felt groggy, jet-lagged almost, which she supposed she was: her body clock had adjusted to late nights and lie-ins, and here she was, dragging herself out of bed hours earlier than she was now used to.

It was going to be a long, painful day.

She walked along the landing to the bathroom. Her feet were tanned, a white V splitting at her big toes and running up to her ankles tracing where the straps of her sandals had been. She smiled as she remembered walking through the markets in the sunshine, evading the traders who tried to get her and May and Gemma into their bazaar with the promise of cheap leather bags or real gold jewellery or – this was her favourite – the offer of genuine fake watches. She’d laughed out loud when the man, a young Turkish guy with wide eyes and an infectious smile, had stepped in front of them and gestured to his stall.

Come in, he said. Only for a look. Best watches in Kalkan. Genuine fakes!

And then he laughed, and they laughed, and went in. Gemma bought a Rolex – a real, honest to God, no messing genuine fake Rolex – for Matt. Kate would have got one for Phil, in a different life. There was a Tag Heuer that he would have loved, and she almost bought it, but no: it would have sent mixed signals, and she had enough to deal with where Phil was concerned already.

The shower took a few minutes to warm up. She wondered briefly whether the boiler was broken – Have to get Phil to look at it, she thought, then remembered that Phil was no longer an option for that kind of thing, so she’d have to call someone. She thought they – she – had a service contract, but Phil had dealt with it, so maybe she’d have to call him to find out, unless there was paperwork somewhere – in the kitchen drawer, maybe … Then the hot water came and she relegated the boiler service contract to a mental note – that she would ignore – to check it later.

When she was done she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel. It was odd to emerge to a silent house. Phil was an early riser and, by the time she finished her shower, he was normally downstairs, dressed, with the radio on, so that she dried herself and put on her make-up to the sound of the Today programme, mostly, or sometimes Radio One, the smell of coffee wafting upstairs.

Not today. Today the house was silent and scent-free.

The holiday had been fun, a blur of movement and action and laughter with her friends. Apart from when Phil kept calling – which had stopped after the morning he’d called the hotel – it had been simple to forget the break-up and all the implications it had. And that had been exactly what she needed.

But now the holiday was over, and reality was about to hit. And the reality was that this was not going to be easy.

9

She was at her computer, a large coffee on her desk, not long after eight.

A couple of minutes later, her neighbour, Gary, an overweight father of three in his mid thirties, arrived. The office was open-plan, each person having a small desk – paperless, which was the new office policy – divided from whoever sat next to them by a low screen. There were booths scattered around the office where you could go if you needed to have a private conversation, or concentrate on something for a while, but generally speaking you were at your desk in full view of anyone who happened to be passing. Kate didn’t mind it that much; she’d joined the workforce at a time when that kind of office arrangement was more or less the norm, but some of the older people hated it.

Gary was one of them. Prior to the move to open-plan, he had been the proud occupant of a small, windowless office which he had worked for years to obtain, and the loss of it still rankled. Kate suspected that he would have been less bothered by a pay cut than the loss of his office; there was something about the visible reduction in status that he found particularly hard to take.

He made up for it by swearing a lot. In the open-plan area everyone could hear, and it showed his younger colleagues how, even though he had been stripped of his office, he would not be cowed by the management.

‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘Fucking traffic was abysmal as usual this morning.’

‘Not too bad coming from my side,’ Kate said. ‘The normal slow-moving car park.’

‘It was total shit coming from Glossop,’ Gary said, shaking his head. ‘Total fucking shit. Anyway, no bother. How was your holiday?’

‘Great. Really good.’ She would have said that if it had been a shocking disaster; it was how you responded in an office, especially to people who you didn’t know outside of a professional setting. It was odd; she sat with Gary every day, heard him talk to his wife about the bills they had to pay for private schools, heard him arrange beery nights out with his friends, knew that he was a fan of Leeds Rhinos in rugby league and Sheffield Wednesday in football and hated Arsenal with a passion, but, for all that, she didn’t know him at all. Despite the time they spent in close proximity to each other, they never shared more than pleasantries, general chit-chat. He didn’t even know that she and Phil had broken up.

He probably didn’t know they’d been together. She left her private life, as many of her colleagues did, at the door.

‘Good week to be gone,’ Gary said. ‘It was mad. An audit blew up.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I was in here all hours. Got home Friday and I was fucking whacked. Then I had to wake up early on Saturday to take the kids to some fucking party.’

‘Hope it’s calmer this week,’ Kate said, suppressing a smile at his horrendous swearing.

‘Doubt it. Anyway, welcome back to the jungle.’ He tapped his login details into his computer. ‘I’m going to the canteen, get a bacon butty. You want anything?’

Kate nodded at her coffee. ‘That’ll do me. Thanks, though.’

She watched him walk off, his trousers loose and saggy around his buttocks, shirt partially untucked, shoulders round and slumped. Was that her future? Was this what life had to offer? Rotting away in an office, doing a job she hated, or, at best, found repetitive and boring?

That was what she feared. Maybe it was because she had just come back from holiday, but watching Gary walk away she thought, I don’t want to be like that. There has to be something more.

There had to be. Surely she could do something she found more inspiring. Become a cider-maker or a pilot or a photographer.

And the thing was, it felt possible, now that she had broken up with Phil. With him, her life had been mapped out for her, a gentle progression from wife to mum to grandma. Now though, she could do what she wanted. She had some money saved up; she could go travelling for a year. Or two. Or three. Maybe go to Nepal, meet someone and stay there, or move to New Zealand to work on a sheep farm. Who knew what would happen? That was the beauty of it. No one knew. All she had to do was make the decision to go and then the world would change from this – she looked around at the rows of desks – to an endless series of possibilities. She could end up anywhere.

But before that, she had work to do, emails to read, contracts to review. She looked at her inbox. Six hundred and twenty-four emails. She almost groaned.

She was about to sort them by sender so she could read the ones from her boss first when her phone pinged. It was a text message from Gemma.

Check out the news.

She typed a reply.

What is it?

They found another body in Stockton Heath.

It took Kate a few seconds to understand what Gemma was getting at, then it clicked. There’d been another killing. Another murder.

There was a link in the text message. She tapped it with her finger and watched as the story came up.

The body of a woman was found this morning near Walton Reservoir, on the outskirts of the village of Stockton Heath. Police were called to the scene by a local resident who spotted something unusual when out running.

This is the second body of a young female to be found in the vicinity of Stockton Heath. It follows the discovery ten days ago of Jenna Taylor, 27, not far from the location where the latest victim was found. Speculation is mounting that the two killings may be linked. When asked about the possibility that there was a serial killer at work, the police said it was too early to comment, but they would be pursuing all lines of inquiry.

A police spokesperson said that the woman was in her mid to late twenties, and named her as Audra Collins.

She blinked at the screen. She read the name again to be sure.

Audra Collins.

She knew Audra Collins.

She knew her because she knew everyone who was around her age and who had been at high school with her. That was how small towns worked.

But she also knew her because people had always said that Audra Collins could be her sister. Or your secret twin, they joked. Proof of human cloning.

May and Gemma had joked that the first victim – Jenna Taylor – looked like her. She was dead, and now Audra Collins – her secret twin, her clone – had joined her.

And the joke wasn’t funny any more.

She picked up her mobile phone and scrolled to May’s number. She was about to press call when a voice interrupted her.

‘Welcome back.’

Kate looked up; it was Michaela, her boss. She put her phone down, screen to the desk. She always felt guilty when she was caught reading the news or sending texts at work.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just checking the news. Someone sent me something.’

‘Oh? Anything interesting?’ Michaela said.

‘Did you hear about the body they found a week ago?’ Kate said. ‘Near Stockton Heath?’

Michaela nodded. ‘Did they find the killer?’

‘No. They found another body. Another woman in her twenties.’

Michaela’s mouth opened. ‘You’re kidding? Is it the same person, do they think?’

‘They don’t know.’ Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘But it seems a hell of a coincidence if it isn’t.’ Too much of a coincidence, she thought, especially since they look so similar.

‘Well,’ Michaela said. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around on your own, if I was you.’

‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘That’s what I need to hear when I’m newly single.’

‘Speaking of that, how was your holiday?’

‘Great.’ She repeated the bland formula from earlier. ‘Really great.’

‘Good,’ Michaela said. ‘It was a busy week. Glad you’re back. Are you free at ten? There’s some stuff I need you to work on. We can meet in the conference room.’

The small talk was over. Michaela was back in business mode.

‘Of course,’ Kate said. ‘See you then.’

10

At four p.m. – an hour or so before his normal departure time – Phil shut down his computer. He watched the screen go black, then put his laptop in his bag. He was leaving work early. An idea had come to him during the day. And it was a good one. An excellent one. It could not go wrong.

It went like this:

Kate had come home from holiday at midnight, after a week away, a week in which whatever food she had in her house would have gone off. OK, there might be some pasta and sauce and packets of soup and things like that, but there would not be any fresh stuff: no fruit, no vegetables, no bread, no milk, no cheese, no meat, no fish.

So he would take her some. Yes, they had broken up; yes, he knew that he was not handling it well; yes, she had made it clear that she wanted some distance between them, but this was different. This was merely a friendly, thoughtful gesture to help her transition from holiday to home. He’d knock on the front door, hand over a bag – or bags – and then, if she wanted him to, he’d leave. No problem.

Of course, if she saw that he was a standout guy, a caring, resourceful, loving partner and decided to ask him in to share the meal, then he would accept. As a friend. To provide some company; nothing more, nothing less.

And if they ended up having amazing, mind-blowing make-up sex, then that would be OK too.

Phil stopped himself following that train of thought. It was simultaneously too exciting and too upsetting for him to handle. He took a deep breath, and walked out to his blue Ford Mondeo.

Or his Ford Mundane-o, as her dad had called it. He was into cars and he always teased Phil for his choice. As Phil pointed out, it was practical and good value for money, and – above all – safe, which you would have thought would appeal to a father, but her dad had shaken his head and told him to get a Triumph Stag or something with soul. He knew he was only teasing him – Kate’s dad teased him all the time – but Phil hated it. It had probably contributed to Kate dumping him. He felt his resentment rise.

No – enough of that. That was the past. For now, he had a job to do.

Kate was normally home around six thirty – Phil knew her routines well, since he had been part of them up until a few weeks ago – so he timed his arrival at about fifteen minutes after she returned. He parked behind her Mini – British Racing Green; her dad had insisted that she get that colour – picked up the two Sainsbury’s shopping bags from the passenger seat, and walked to the front door.

He knocked. He didn’t want to use the bell; it was somehow too formal.

The door opened. And there she was.

Looking beautiful. Looking like Kate. She was barefoot. He glanced at her feet. They had tan lines from her flip-flops. They reminded him of the holiday they’d taken the year before in Mallorca. She’d had them then, as well as other tan lines in more intimate places. Despite her pale skin, Kate tanned heavily in the sun and he had a clear image of her white buttocks contrasting with the golden brown of her legs and lower back.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’

She stared at him. She looked tired, her eyes a little red. ‘Phil,’ she said. ‘Hi.’

‘I brought you some provisions,’ he said, and held out the shopping bags. ‘I thought you might need some fresh food. You probably don’t have anything in, coming back from holiday. This might help.’

She didn’t take them. ‘That’s so sweet,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t have to do it.’

‘I wanted to. Got to keep your strength up!’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just – I just said it.’

And I should have said nothing, he thought, but I’m so fucking nervous, which is ridiculous, this is Kate.

‘How was the holiday?’ he asked, his tone bright.

‘It was good.’

‘You didn’t call me back that day.’

‘We were busy. And I was enjoying myself, Phil. The point was to get away.’

‘I know, but I’m your—’ He stopped himself. He’d been about to say ‘boyfriend’, a status which would have given him the right to expect a call from his girlfriend when she was on holiday, but that was no longer correct. ‘I’m your friend,’ he finished.

‘I know. But I have lots of friends who I didn’t call from holiday.’

‘Right. So what did you do all week?’

‘Hung out on the beach. Went out at night.’ She shrugged. ‘Usual holiday stuff.’

‘Did you – did you meet anybody?’

‘We met lots of people.’

‘Right.’ There was a long, awkward silence. They both knew what he was asking, and they both knew that she wouldn’t answer. They both knew that it would be better if he didn’t ask again, but they both knew he would.

‘Did you meet any – you know – any guys?’

‘Phil, if you’re asking me whether I met any men, then the answer is yes. We met lots. If you’re asking me whether I went out on dates with them or kissed them or did whatever, then the answer is that it’s none of your business.’

‘It sounds like you did.’

‘Fine. Think what you like.’

This was not going well. He needed to get it back on track. He held the bags out to her. ‘Are you going to take them?’

‘I’m not sure, Phil. You don’t need to feed me.’

He opened one of the bags and showed her the contents.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Smoked salmon. And crab pâté. And some white wine. Asparagus. A baguette.’

‘Phil,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to make—’

He put the bag down and opened the other. ‘Vegetables: carrots, potatoes … parsnips – your favourite. They’re organic. And two steaks. Filet mignon. They’ll be delicious.’

She folded her arms. ‘Why two steaks, Phil?’

He stared at her, speechless.

‘I thought this was something to welcome me back, to make sure I had food in the house?’

‘It is.’

‘Then why two steaks? I only need one.’

He blinked. He didn’t need to answer the question. They both knew why there were two: one for each of them. Which meant that this wasn’t a kind, selfless gesture, after all, but a desperate attempt to get back together with her.

He put the bags on the stone step. The bottle clinked.

‘Do whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Sorry I tried to be helpful.’

‘Don’t guilt-trip me, Phil.’

He looked at her, at the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, and he realized that it might be over, after all, that this might be for real, that he might be losing – have lost – her for good.

That couldn’t happen. Not under any circumstances. He had to get her back. Had to.

He turned and walked back to his car. Behind him, he heard the door shut. As he drove away, he saw that the bags were still outside.

11

Kate watched him leave from the window, saw him glance back at the bags on the front step.

It was a kind gesture – typical of him, in many ways. He was thoughtful and caring and she loved him, she did, but not enough. Not in the way she once had. And, more to the point, the more this went on, the more she lost respect for him. She understood that he was hurting – she was, too, she missed him – but he needed to accept it and move on.

And so she hadn’t taken his bags of food; if she did, she worried that it would create an expectation on Phil’s part that she owed him something. But now they were sitting on her front step.

This is stupid, she thought, there’s no point wasting it. And I can’t leave it outside, littering the street. It’ll end up attracting foxes.

She opened the door and picked up the bags. In the kitchen, she texted Phil.

Sorry if I was short. I’m really tired. Thanks for the stuff – it’s very kind.

Then she unpacked the bags, poured a glass of wine and switched on the television. It was the local news, and they were reporting on Audra Collins.

Kate hadn’t seen much of Audra for a few years. She was a nurse, and, with her boyfriend, had a three-year-old daughter, so she wasn’t out and about all that much.

God, her daughter. Kate had met her once. A sweet, blonde, curly-haired girl called Chrissie with large, soulful eyes and a quiet smile.

She would never see her mum again. She’d grow up knowing that her mum had been out running early one morning before her shift started, and had been killed – dragged into the bushes and strangled to death – by some sick bastard. She would learn from an early age that the world was not safe, that she could never be sure that someone would not reach out and grab her and put her life to an end like they’d done to the woman – who she would barely remember – who had brought her into this sick world.

The police were pursuing all lines of inquiry, and asked that if anyone had seen anything, however small, that might be of interest to them, they should come forward.

Which meant that they had no idea what was going on.

A reporter was on location at the reservoir, speaking to camera. She turned up the television so she could hear.

Tonight, people are left wondering whether these two brutal murders are linked. The police are not confirming this, yet, but it certainly seems to be a strong possibility, especially when the similarity in the way the two women were killed is taken into consideration. It is also notable that the victims share some physical resemblances …

So the media had picked up on it too. It was hard not to. On the screen there was a photo of Jenna Taylor alongside one of Audra Collins. They shared the same appearance: long, straight, near-black hair, dark eyes, pretty. Slender build. A slightly exotic, ethereal look.

Her grandma – who was from Youghal, in County Cork – had called it the ‘Irish look’. She said it came from the old country.

She said Kate had it.

And looking at the photos of Jenna Taylor and Audra Collins, they had it too.

Kate picked up her phone and called May. She needed to find out what was going on. May’s fiancé, Gus, was a newly minted police constable, and would have the inside scoop.

‘Hey,’ she said, when May picked up. ‘I’m watching the news. About the latest murder.’

‘God, I know,’ May said. ‘It’s horrendous. I feel so sorry for Chrissie.’

‘Do they have any idea who’s behind it? Did Gus hear anything?’

‘He was telling me about it earlier. After the first one, they thought it was the boyfriend – it normally is – but he’s off the hook now. He has an alibi for this one.’

‘Do the police think they’re linked? Is this a serial killer?’

‘They’re not saying so publicly. Gus said that they don’t like to start throwing around words like “serial killer” until they’re absolutely sure, but privately they’re working on the assumption that it’s the same person. There were a lot of similarities between them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Both strangled. Gus said that there was a lot of bruising on the bodies, which suggests there was a high degree of violence. And they were both raped …’ May hesitated. ‘Post-mortem.’

‘Oh my God. You mean he had sex with their corpses?’

‘Seems so. Sick bastard.’

Kate tried to clear the image from her mind. She sipped her wine. This kind of thing was both repellent and fascinating at the same time; she had the kind of morbid curiosity that she always had when there was some disaster in the news, only this time it was all the more intense – and came with a frisson of worry and fear – because it was right on her doorstep.

‘If it is a serial killer,’ she said. ‘There might be more.’

‘That’s what they’re worried about.’ May paused. ‘It’s so fucking weird that there’s someone out there right now who’s raping and killing women of our age in our town. I mean, it could be anybody. It could be your neighbour, the barman, your boyfriend. You just don’t know.’

‘And the next victim could be anybody.’

‘Not according to Gus. He – they assume it’s a he – will have a pattern. A type that he goes after. There’ll be some kind of thing that links them all.’

‘Jesus, May,’ she said, her phone to her ear. ‘Don’t say that. They both look like me. You know everyone always used to say that about Audra.’

May hesitated. ‘She’d changed over the years,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she looked so much like you now.’

‘I saw the photo on TV, May. She’s not changed at all.’

‘Well,’ May said, her hesitation a clear indication that she agreed. ‘The first one wasn’t that much like you.’

‘May!’ Kate said. ‘It was you who said Jenna Taylor looked like me in the first place!’

‘I know, but that was a – look, it’s a coincidence, nothing more. You don’t need to worry. Honestly.’

She was not convincing, and her discomfort was all the proof Kate needed that May did not think it was a coincidence at all, not for a minute. And, for that matter, neither did Kate.

Which meant she did need to worry.

‘Holy shit,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.’ She was only half-joking. In fact, she wasn’t joking at all. She would make sure that the door was locked before she went to bed – and thank God that Carl had got his friend to fix the kitchen window – although even so she doubted she’d get much sleep.

‘You can come over here, if you like,’ May said.

Kate hesitated. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I might take you up on that later. But for now, I’ll stay here.’

‘You’re welcome anytime,’ May said. ‘But maybe you need to take some precautions.’ Gus bought me a personal alarm. And some cans of mace. You spray it in someone’s face and it stings. Blinds them. He bought me a few, said it was a good idea to keep one in every bag I use, so I’ll always have one. I’ll bring some over. OK? I’ll come over now.’

Kate thanked her and hung up. As she did, May’s words rang in her ears.

He’ll have a type, she’d said, and it seemed he did.

A type that Kate recognized.

She recognized it because she was it.

12

Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Kate pushed the curtains aside and peered through the window: it was May. She let her in and they sat on the couch. May took a canister with a nozzle from her bag and passed it to Kate.

‘Mace,’ she said. ‘Be careful with it. And there’s this as well.’ She reached in and pulled out an alarm that looked like a tiny megaphone. ‘Rape alarm. The mace is not exactly legal, so don’t tell anyone where it came from, but if either of us do end up spraying some serial killer with it, I doubt anyone will be bothered about that.’

Kate pushed the button on the alarm; she jumped back. The sound was deafening. She imagined using it, on a lonely, dark street, the sound echoing into nothing.

She wouldn’t be on a lonely, dark street anytime soon. Ever, probably.

‘You sure you don’t want to stay with us?’ May said. ‘You’re welcome, if you do. I can make up the spare bed.’

Kate shook her head, in part because she didn’t want to put her friend to the trouble and in part because to run to her house would be to accept that this was real, and once she did that, what came next? Live with May for ever? Move back to her parents’ house? No: she would stay in her home.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

She was, sort of. If waking up every hour at the slightest noise – the creak of a radiator, the pop of floorboards settling, the bark of a neighbour’s dog – and then being unable to get back to sleep because of the adrenaline coursing through her body, was fine, then she was fine.

At work the next morning her eyes were puffy, dark circles underneath them.

‘You OK?’ Gary said, as he sipped his coffee. ‘You look like me. Big night last night? Out giving it fucking large? Hitting the clubs?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I wish. Bad night’s sleep, sadly.’

She sincerely wished that all she was dealing with was a hangover, and not the prospect of more sleepless, terrified nights. This was a bad time to be newly single. Trust her luck: the moment she broke up with Phil, someone started killing women who looked like her. There would be no boyfriend when she got home from work, no peck on the cheek, no enquires about how her day had been, no cuddling on the sofa, no shared bottle of wine followed by an early bedtime and leisurely sex. No comforting presence next to her in the bed at night.

Just silence, and insomnia, and a sense of worry, an unsettling feeling that she was vulnerable, and not only when she was home alone. On her way to work that morning she had found herself checking her rear-view mirror as she drove so she could make sure no one was following her. To be on the safe side, she was planning to stop at a supermarket in a different town on the way home. Paranoid, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. Everyone was a potential threat; the world was no longer a safe place. It was going to be a long week.

And it was, but thankfully, as the week went on, the fear diminished. It didn’t disappear, but normal life intruded and staked a claim on her attention. She, like most people, was a creature of habit. She had her routines: wake up, coffee, toast, upstairs to shower and brush teeth, dress. She did them in that order, every day. It meant she didn’t have to think. She just did. It was easy, reassuring. Most people were like that: it was why, the first time someone stayed in a hotel they were unsettled; the next time, it was familiar, almost like home.

On Friday afternoon, she was wrapping up a meeting with a client. It had been a difficult few hours. The client had been sued for continuing to make a toaster despite having been given reports that it could catch fire and they were not happy with the work Kate and her colleagues had done. Michaela was there – probably enjoying Kate’s discomfort – along with a woman, Claire, whom she had worked with before, and a man, Nate, who she had seen around, but not met. He was a contract specialist who had been drafted in to answer some specific questions.

The client had spent most of the meeting pointing out what they considered to be mistakes. At first Kate had gently tried to argue that she had done the best she could, given the circumstances – they were in the wrong and they were going to have to pay a large sum of money – but there was no point. They were upset and, rather than look at themselves, they were blaming their lawyer, and all Kate and her colleagues could do was to take it.

At the end of the meeting she headed for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup of black coffee and leaned against the wall. She had not been looking forward to the weekend – she had no plans – but now she was glad it was Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday could take care of themselves; all she wanted now was to get out of here and go and have a drink.

‘Tough meeting.’ Nate appeared in the doorway. ‘Not the most pleasant bunch.’

‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘They were so unreasonable.’

‘Ach,’ Nate said. ‘They were pissed off because they’re going to lose. That’s all.’

‘I mean, what do they expect from us?’ Kate said. ‘We’re lawyers, not miracle workers. They’re in the wrong: nothing we can do will change that. If they want someone who can do that then they need to go to Hogwarts and see if Harry Potter wants to work for them when he leaves school.’

Nate laughed. He was thin, with high cheekbones and sharp features. His wore gold-rimmed, delicate glasses, and had an intense, searching gaze. ‘You should have suggested that as a strategy.’

‘Right. Michaela would have loved that.’

He nodded. ‘You have a point. Perhaps better that you kept it to yourself.’

‘It’s a shitty case,’ Kate said. ‘How did you get roped in?’

‘I asked if I could,’ Nate said. ‘I wanted to work on it.’

‘Seriously?’

He smiled at her. ‘Seriously.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s interesting. And I’ve heard that you do good work.’

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ she said. ‘What I do is pretty bog-standard stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Not what I heard.’

She rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure Nate was telling the whole truth, but still, it was flattering to hear that she had a good reputation. Kate blew out her cheeks. ‘Well, it’s been quite a week. And that was the perfect end.’

Nate nodded at the coffee mug in her hands. ‘Sounds like you could do with something stronger.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Sounds like you could do with something stronger,’ he said, then laughed. ‘Sorry, couldn’t help it. I’m famous for my crap jokes.’

‘With good reason, it seems,’ Kate said. ‘I’m not sure what’s worse – that client or your sense of humour.’

‘You want to get out of here? Go for a drink?’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s pretty much clocking-off time.’

Kate hesitated. Was he asking her out on a date? It was a long time since she’d been single, and the etiquette of dating – even of what passed for a date – was a mystery to her. Could you go out innocently with a colleague you barely knew? Or was there more to it?

She glanced at his hand. No wedding ring. Not that she was interested. He was not her type.

She shrugged.

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Where do you have in mind?’

They went to a tapas bar in a converted cellar under a railway station. They ordered some chorizo, a smoked mackerel paste of some kind and a plate of Spanish cheeses, none of which she knew the name of. She had a glass of Ribera del Duero; he had two bottles of Spanish beer. He was – when he was not indulging his passion for crap jokes – witty and engaging and good company, but she knew immediately that it was going nowhere, at least not in a romantic sense. Although she liked him and would have happily done it again some other Friday, there was no spark, no frisson of excitement. She didn’t have any sense of being intrigued by him, of wanting to know him better, of wanting to impress him, to make him like her.

But still, it was fun, and great to get out. She couldn’t see herself with Nate, but she could see herself in places like this with other people.

She looked back at him. He was staring at her; he blinked, caught out, and a pink flush spread up from under his collar. There was an awkward silence. For a moment she wondered whether he was going to comment on it, but then he smiled, although the smile did not quite reach his eyes. They looked a little sheepish; nervous, even.

‘Another drink?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘No. I’m driving. Aren’t you?’

‘Nope. I bike in on Fridays.’

‘Oh? Is that new?’

He patted his stomach. ‘Need to keep an eye on this. So I got myself a bike and some tight shorts.’

‘I don’t know what you’re worried about,’ Kate said. ‘You’re hardly carrying a lot of weight.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All the sitting around in meetings, at the computer – it’s starting to bother me. It might be as much in my mind as anything else, but still – I want to nip it in the bud.’

‘Well,’ Kate said. ‘I’m impressed. Where is it you live?’

‘Sale. Not too far.’

Kate looked at her phone. She was planning to curl up in front of the TV with a glass of wine. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks. This was fun.’

She signalled the waiter. When he brought the bill. Kate reached for her bag.

He put his hand over the bill. ‘I’ll get it.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to split it.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Your call.’

She opened her bag and took out her purse. As she did, the canister of mace fell out onto the table.

Nate looked at it. ‘Is that the stuff you spray on people?’ he said. ‘It would have come in handy today. You could have used it on the clients. That would have shut them up.’

‘I wish I’d thought of it.’

He picked it up. ‘Why do you have it? Are you worried about something?’

‘I live in Stockton Heath.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’

‘I’ve got an alarm too.’ She tapped her fingers against the table. ‘Although – touch wood – I hope I’ll never need them.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope so. Are you parked at the office? I’ll walk you back.’

13

She was on the M56 near the airport when Gemma called. She answered on her hands-free.

‘Hi,’ Gemma said. ‘Are you in the car?’

‘Coming back from work.’

‘At this time! It’s nearly nine p.m. It’s Friday night, for God’s sake. You need to take it easy.’

Kate laughed. ‘I went out for a drink after work.’

‘Oh? With who?’

‘Nate.’

‘Who’s Nate?’ she said. ‘Someone special?’

‘No. Just a colleague.’

‘But you went out for a drink with him.’

‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘I did! He asked and I thought, why not? And it was only a drink.’

‘It’s never only a drink.’

‘OK,’ Kate said. ‘I admit it. When he asked I did wonder if there might be something there, but there isn’t. He’s lovely, but he’s not my type. Apart from anything else he tells awful, goofy jokes. Sweet, but awful.’

‘Fine,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll believe you. Millions wouldn’t, but I will. So, have you got plans for the weekend?’

‘I’m getting an early night tonight,’ Kate said. ‘I’m exhausted. And I haven’t thought beyond that.’

‘Want to get together tomorrow? Matt’s going to Anfield – a friend of his got some tickets for the game – and they’ll be going out in Liverpool afterwards.’

‘Sure,’ Kate said. ‘I was thinking of going to the Trafford Centre. I need an autumn coat.’

‘And then we could go out. Maybe eat in the Thai place in the village?’

‘Sounds great. I’ll pick you up? Three?’

Arrangements made, she hung up, and pulled off the motorway onto the A49. Ten minutes to home, a bath, pour that glass of wine, then bed and sleep, a sleep that would not be interrupted by a six a.m. alarm, a sleep that would leave her fresh and invigorated and restored.

Half a mile from her house she turned off the main road onto a street lined with red-brick Victorian terraced houses. A left, a right, a left and she’d be home.

A car pulled out from one of the narrow alleys that ran behind the warren of terraced houses. It was moving quickly and, within a second or two, it was only feet from her rear bumper. She looked in the rear-view mirror and, before she could make out the driver’s face, the high beams came on.

They were dazzling; the reflections from the wing-mirrors blinded her and she narrowed her eyes to shield them from the brightness.

She sounded her horn; the car behind came closer.

Her first thought was that she had done something wrong, cut the guy up – she assumed it was a guy – or was driving too slowly, or had committed some other offence, but she hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t. He’d pulled out behind her, at speed, and quite deliberately.

And now he was trying to intimidate her. It was almost as though he had been waiting for her to pass so he could follow her, lights blazing, to her house.

She felt the first fluttering of panic, and then, shortly afterwards, the real thing: heart-racing, palms sweaty, mind struggling to focus.

It was him. The killer. No one else would be waiting for her like this. She was the next victim. She scrabbled in her bag for the alarm. If he ran her off the road, she would open the door and press it as hard as she could.

Had he done this to the other victims, too? Was this part of his sick routine? She knew from TV shows and films and books that these kinds of people did things in a certain way, a way that allowed them to reap the full pleasure they got from their twisted activities.

She was approaching her street, but she couldn’t go home. Even in the panic, she knew that. She couldn’t lead him straight to her door.

She carried on past her street, then turned towards the village centre.

Where there were people. Pubs. Restaurants.

And a police station.

She wasn’t going to take this. She wasn’t about to let this bastard – serial killer or drunk fool or casual bully – intimidate her. The station would be closed at this time, but there would be cops around, policing the village. She’d park right outside it and go and find one.

The car behind her flashed its lights, on and off, on and off. She tried to make out what type of car it was, but it was impossible to see through the dazzle of the high beams. She turned right, back onto the main road. For a moment she thought about accelerating, about putting some distance between her and the other car, but she decided not to. She was not going to show fear. She was going to drive at a steady, measured pace to a safe location.

But God, she was frightened. It was all she could do to stop herself dissolving into a tearful, gibbering wreck.

And then, the lights went out. She looked in the rear-view mirror. The car – a dark saloon of some description – was turning into a residential street, and then it was gone.

She parked by the police station – closed, as she had thought – and dialled 999. The operator picked up and Kate asked for the police.

‘I’ve been followed,’ she said, when the dispatcher came on the line. ‘In my car.’

‘Where are you now, madam?’ asked the dispatcher, a woman with a neutral BBC accent.

‘I’m outside the police station in Stockton Heath,’ Kate said.

‘And can you explain what happened?’

Kate took her through it: the car pulling out, dazzling her with its high beams, and then leaving her alone when she headed for the village.

‘I think he was hoping I’d go home,’ she said. ‘So he could follow me there. I live alone,’ she added.

‘You did the right thing not to return to your residence,’ the dispatcher said. ‘Are you going home now?’

‘I think so. Should I?’

‘That’s up to you. But if you do plan to, let me know. We’ll send an officer round to take a statement. They’ll be with you shortly.’

‘Like five minutes?’

‘Maybe thirty minutes,’ the dispatcher said. ‘And try not to worry. I’m sure it will all be fine.’

‘Thanks,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll meet them there.’ She recited her address, and hung up.

14

She had driven the route from the village to the house hundreds – maybe thousands – of times, but it had never felt like it did this time. It looked the same, but every turning, every house, every alley was now a threat, a possible hiding place for a faceless man who wanted to kill her. As she passed each one she glanced at it, waiting for a car to pull out.

None did.

She parked outside the house. Fortunately, the spot right outside her front door was free so she did not have to walk far from the car to the house. She opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

And realized someone was watching her.

She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. She’d read once that the feeling you got when you were being watched or followed was the result of your subconscious picking up clues that your conscious mind didn’t notice. It felt like it was a sixth sense, a paranormal or telepathic ability, but it wasn’t. It was simply that the mind took in a great deal more information than it could process at the conscious level and, when some of that information represented a threat, it made itself known by creating the uneasy feeling of a prickle on the back of the neck that said You are not alone.

Whatever her subconscious had noticed was at the end of the street. There was a large yew tree – some said that it meant there had once been a graveyard there – at the corner, under which there was a bench. It was mossy now, and rotten, so nobody ever sat on it, but there was someone on it now, hiding in the shadows.

She turned and looked. It was hard to make out anything specific, but she was sure that there was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest, a kind of stillness under the tree which was different from what surrounded it.

‘Who’s there?’ she shouted. ‘Who are you?’

There was no answer. ‘Leave me alone!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know what you want, but leave me alone!’

The door to the house next door opened. Carl stood there, framed in the light.

‘You OK?’ he said. ‘What’s all the shouting about?’

The relief at seeing him, at not being alone, left her dizzy.

‘There’s someone out here,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Under the tree. They’ve been following me.’

‘You sure?’

‘Totally sure. They were driving close to me, flashing their lights. And now they’re stalking me.’

Carl gave her a sceptical look, then shrugged.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check it out.’

He walked outside. As he did, there was a metallic noise from under the tree, then, seconds later, a hooded figure appeared, pushing a bike. It jumped on and rode away, legs pumping.

‘Bloody hell,’ Carl said. ‘You were right.’

Ten minutes later the police – two male officers, one in his twenties, the other late thirties – were sitting in her front room, taking notes as she told them what had happened. Carl was home; he’d sat with her until they arrived, then left her to it. They were going to talk to him afterwards and get his account.

‘It sounds very unusual,’ the older one said, when Kate had finished. ‘Although we don’t know at this point that the two episodes are linked. It could have been nothing more than an aggressive driver, and maybe a teenager hiding away to have a smoke. You can’t be sure it was the same person both times.’

‘I know,’ Kate said, totally convinced that it was the same person. ‘But what if it is? What if it’s the man who’s killed two young women? If there’s a serial killer out there, I think I need to bear that in mind.’

‘It’s not officially a serial killer,’ the police officer said. ‘We’re still not sure about that.’

‘Serial killer or not, two women are dead,’ Kate said. ‘Which is enough for me. I don’t want to be next.’

‘Of course,’ the younger cop said. ‘We understand that, madam.’

The older officer got to his feet. ‘I think we have all we need,’ he said. ‘There isn’t all that much we can do, I’m afraid. We’ll circulate the details of both incidents to see if they match any others. And I’m pretty sure that a detective is going to want to talk to you about what happened, in case it does have any bearing on the murder investigations. Do you have a number they could call? Perhaps a mobile?’

Kate gave her number. ‘Who should I expect to call? So I know it’s the real thing?’

‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ the older cop said. ‘It’ll probably be her. And if there’s anywhere you can go tonight – a friend, maybe – you might want to think about doing that. Just in case. It’ll be nice to have company, especially if you’re a bit shaken up.’

‘My parents,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll go to them.’

‘Good idea,’ the officer said. ‘We’ll be in touch if anything comes up, Ms Armstrong.’

Kate showed them to the door. Then she picked up her car keys. There was no way she was staying alone in the house for the night, no way.

15

He couldn’t believe he’d been seen.

He was sure that he was invisible under the tree; he’d looked from every angle before choosing it as his hiding place, but somehow she’d known he was there.

He’d hoped that she would go inside, so he could sneak away, but then Carl – his old neighbour – had come out and he’d had no choice but to flee.

Which meant that he would no longer be able to use the tree if he wanted to watch what his ex-girlfriend was up to. He’d have to find another place to hide, but for the moment he couldn’t think where.

He’d find somewhere, though, if he had to.

He biked along the canal towpath in the direction of the London Bridge pub. He needed a beer to calm his nerves, and maybe a cigarette. It had been years since he’d smoked, but all of a sudden the craving was back.

He had to get a grip of himself. He was falling apart: all day long all he could think of was Kate. He had a constant low-level nausea, a sinking sensation in his stomach that was part anxiety and part disbelief that this was happening. Even worse was the feeling of lacking control; sometimes he felt like he wasn’t himself, that he wasn’t there, that it wasn’t him making decisions.

Like that evening. He’d decided to go and see her after work. He needed to explain what he was going through, not in a desperate, please-have-me-back way, but so that she would know how bad this was for him.

She needed to know: if this was a temporary thing, a break while she lived her life a little, then she had to understand the price he was paying for that break. If it was permanent, then so be it. But they needed to talk.

Except she wasn’t there. And then he started to wonder where she was. Out with someone else? Another man? He couldn’t bear the thought of that, couldn’t accept it. He had to know, and in the end, like an addict with his dope, that need took over.

So he ended up hiding under the tree, waiting for her to come home, imagining her walking down the street with her arm around another man, kissing him on the front step, then unlocking the door and going into the house.

He was frantic the entire time, drumming his fingers on his knees, tapping his shoes on the ground, jiggling his legs, standing up and sitting down. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was hiding, he would have paced the street.

And then she came, alone, and he was caught out, and he fled.

Now it was over, he couldn’t believe he’d done it. Couldn’t believe that he’d acted so crazily. It scared him; the whole thing felt like a dream, like it was a different person. He thought about the time he’d spent under the tree. It was almost like he’d been watching it all unfold, an observer, but now, afterwards, he knew this was not the case. He had done it. He shuddered. It was very troubling.

He walked into the pub and stood at the bar. The pub was warm and busy with the Friday-night crowd. He waited his turn. He ordered a pint of strong bitter and a double whisky, Bells. He felt faint, and dizzy.

The barman looked at him. ‘You all right, mate?’

‘Yeah,’ Phil said. ‘I think so.’

‘You think so? You look a bit pale.’

‘I had a rough day.’

‘All right. Well, let me know if you need anything.’

He paid and took his drinks to a table in the corner. He drank the whisky in one swallow, then swigged the beer.

Even now, he couldn’t stop the thoughts coming. Where had she been? Was she planning on going out tonight? Alone? He wanted to go and see, go and knock on her door and lay himself at her feet, pour out everything he was going through, throw himself on her mercy.

It wouldn’t work. He needed to pull himself together.

But he couldn’t. He knew that she was there, that she was in the house, that she was available. All he had to do was go and knock on the door and he’d be with her. And knowing that – well, it was impossible to resist. He had to go and see her. It didn’t matter if it was a good idea or a terrible idea. He had to do it.

He finished the last of the beer and got to his feet. His legs felt weak, drained. No wonder; he’d barely eaten all week. Most of his calories had come from the wine he’d been drinking himself to sleep with every night.

He got on his bike and retraced the route to their – Kate’s, he had to stop thinking of it as theirs – house. He felt a mounting excitement: for the first time in days he felt almost happy. He was going to see her, face to face. They could sort this out, once and for all.

A few minutes later, he turned into her street, and stopped dead.

There was a police car outside the house.

She’d called the cops. What had she done that for? Because he’d been under the tree? It was a bit of an overreaction, surely. Whatever – he couldn’t go there now.

As he watched, the door opened and two cops came out. He turned and pedalled back towards the pub. The last thing he needed was to be spotted again. He shook his head. Seeing the police at the house brought things into focus: this wasn’t a game.

He had to stop this. He absolutely had to stop this.

The only problem was that he wasn’t sure he could.

16

Her parents, of course, overreacted.

‘Move in with us,’ her mum said. ‘Don’t go back to that house. You mustn’t go back there. It’s not safe.’

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Kate said, her teenage self bridling at her mum’s attempt to limit her freedom, to suggest that she couldn’t take care of herself.

‘Then why are you here?’ her dad said. ‘Your mum has a point, Kate.’

‘I need to stay tonight,’ Kate said. ‘That’s all.’

Her dad didn’t reply, which was what he did when he didn’t agree but didn’t want to say so and risk being accused – as he often had been – of imposing his views on everyone else. He was a man of strong opinions, and at some point had realized that one of his more unattractive traits was his inability to change them. In an attempt to mitigate this, he had developed the strategy of remaining silent when he disagreed with someone, which, in many ways was worse. Kate had been on the receiving end many times. She remembered when she had declared that she was planning to buy her Mini, a plan that required getting a car loan.

You should never borrow to buy something, unless it’s a house, her dad said.

Dad, it’s fine. Everyone does it. I can afford the payments.

No response. Not a Well, I’m sure you’ll be OK, no doubt you’ve thought it through. Just silence, which – ironically, since it was an attempt to say nothing – said a great deal. It said You’re totally and utterly wrong and probably not even functionally intelligent, but it’s your funeral and don’t come crying to me when it all goes to hell in a handbasket.

Which was what the silent treatment she was now getting meant. Fortunately, her mum had no such inhibition about expressing an opinion.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re staying here. And that’s it.’

‘We’ll talk more tomorrow,’ Kate said. ‘But I’ll probably get Gemma to stay with me, or something like that.’

Her mum shook her head. ‘Under no circ—’

‘Mum!’ Kate said. ‘Please!’

‘I’m only trying to do what’s best for you, darling.’

‘I know, and I’m grateful. But can we discuss this later? I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.’

‘Do you want something to eat?’ her mum said, which was her default question.

‘A drink?’ her dad said, which was his default question. ‘There’s white in the fridge. I think there’s a red open as well.’

‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have a bath, then bed.’

Lying in the bath, she googled serial killers. There was a lot of material out there on them. She scanned it, clicking between websites. It varied, but there were some key themes, one of which she found particularly troubling.

There was, a lot of experts claimed, a strong ritualistic element in the activities of most serial killers. Often they were repeating the same murder over and over, each time trying to perfect it, each time getting a greater and greater thrill from it.

There were other themes that emerged: many serial killers liked to engage in a game of cat-and-mouse with law enforcement agencies – often trying to insert themselves into the investigation in some way – in an attempt to prove their superior intelligence; the level of violence towards the victims often increased as the killer’s confidence grew; the serial killer would purge the desire to kill before it started to build again to the point where they needed release.

But the one that stuck with her was the presence of ritual.

Was the appearance of the victims part of the ritual in this case? She wasn’t sure, but it certainly seemed possible.

Which gave her an idea. A way to put a stop to all this.

The next morning she made some phone calls. Most places were busy, but eventually she found one that had an open slot.

‘Mum,’ she called, sipping the last of her tea. ‘I’m just popping out. I’ll be back for lunch.’

Her mum came into the kitchen.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out. And then at three I’m meeting Gem to go to the Trafford Centre.’

‘But where are you going now?’

She didn’t want to tell her mum. She couldn’t face the conversation, didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing and then listen to her mum’s objections. It was easier to do it and deal with the fallout later.

Gemma had a saying: Beg forgiveness, don’t ask permission. Kate thought it applied here.

‘Out. Maybe go grab a coffee somewhere. But mainly anything to get out of the house.’

‘Go and grab,’ her mum said. ‘Not go grab. You aren’t American, darling. I know you like to watch those television shows, but you don’t need to speak like them.’

God, her mother annoyed her sometimes.

‘And anyway,’ her mum continued, her expression sceptical. ‘You had a cup of tea five minutes ago.’

‘Mum! I’m old enough to go out for a coffee!’

‘I’ll come with you. I could do with an outing.’

‘Mum, please. I’m only popping out. OK?’

Her mum shrugged, evidently not believing a word she said. ‘See you at lunch, then.’

She was back shortly after midday. Her dad was sitting in the living room, watching the news. She walked in and stood, waiting for his reaction. He studied her before he spoke.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell.’ He called into the kitchen. ‘Margaret, come and see your daughter.’

Her mum appeared in the door frame. She blinked a few times, then smiled.

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That’s quite a change.’

17

It was. Kate had explained what she wanted to the hairdresser; he had asked if she was sure, absolutely sure, and she said yes, she was. So he went ahead. He cut her long, black hair into a close-cropped fuzz, which he dyed a dark red.

She hated it. Hated seeing her hair on the floor, hated how big her head looked, hated seeing herself shorn in this way. She was not vain, but she had always been proud of her hair. She had been told a million times that it was gorgeous and lovely and the compliments had stuck. Some portion of her self-esteem was wrapped up in her hair, and now it was gone. But she had a good reason for having done this, and, when it was safe to do so, she could always grow it back.

On her way home she went to a costume shop. It was a place she’d used before, when she and Phil had gone to a Halloween party in fancy dress. That time she’d bought bright red contact lenses; this time, she got green ones.

With them in she looked nothing like herself. More importantly, she looked nothing like Jenna Taylor or Audra Collins.

Gemma’s reaction was far less muted than her parents’ had been. She screamed, clapped her hand over her mouth, then burst into laughter.

‘Oh. My. God!’ she said. ‘What have you done?’

‘That’s a nice reaction,’ Kate said. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I dunno,’ Gemma said. ‘I suppose so. It’s – well, it’s a pretty big change, Kate. It’s not your usual style. It’s not what you do. I mean, it’s kind of like if Kate Middleton did it. A bit of a surprise.’

‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘And I hate it. Not as much as I did this afternoon – I suppose it’s growing on me …’

‘Literally,’ Gemma said. ‘Although it’s still got some growing to do.’

‘… But I have my reasons.’ She took out her phone and typed a search into Google. A picture of the two murdered women came up. ‘They look like me,’ she said, handing her phone to her friend. ‘Remember you guys teasing me about that? We laughed, but it’s not so funny now.’

Gemma studied it for a second or two. When she looked at Kate she was pale.

‘They don’t look like you now,’ she said.

‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘And it’s going to stay that way until this is over.’

They spent the afternoon at the Trafford Centre. Kate had never noticed before, but it was a place that, between the glass shopfronts and the mirrors inside the shops, was full of reflections. She saw herself everywhere, saw this stranger with the short, red hair and green eyes walking side by side with the familiar form of her friend, and each time was surprised anew at the realization that it was her.

It was interesting to see how the shop assistants treated her. When they suggested clothes for her they were different to the clothes she was used to being offered: more urban, more punk, more edgy.

She wasn’t quite ready to embrace her new style fully yet, not least because those scruffy-looking punk clothes came at designer prices. It cost as much to dress down as to dress up.

She was glad, though, that they saw her that way. It meant that the transformation had been a success. Whatever the type was that the killer was targeting, she no longer fit it.

That evening they went out for dinner, and then for a drink at a wine bar. Gemma had agreed to stay over, and they had drunk a bottle of wine with their meal. They were now drinking gin and tonics, and Kate was feeling the effects.

It was a nice feeling, though. Relaxing and warm. A great way to end a difficult week.

‘Well,’ Gemma said. ‘I’m starting to get used to your new look. And I have to say, I kind of like it.’

‘You’re only saying that,’ Kate replied. ‘And there’s no need. This is temporary. You don’t have to make me feel good about it.’

‘I’m not, I promise. It’s cool. And you’re so pretty that you can get away with it. Especially with those green eyes. I might get some myself.’ She sipped her drink; it was getting low. ‘One more?’

‘Why not?’ Kate stood up. ‘It’s my round. And I need the loo.’

In the Ladies she used the toilet, then, after washing her hands, took a small bottle of eye drops from her purse. The contact lenses were irritating her eyes. She wasn’t used to wearing them and she was looking forward to taking them out when she got home.

She stared at herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a different person. She smiled, and headed to the bar.

As she waited her turn, someone bumped into her back.

‘Sorry,’ a voice said. ‘Excuse me.’

The voice was familiar, and she turned round. It took her a moment to realize who it was.

It was Mike, the guy from Turkey.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a tight squeeze.’

She grinned; it was clear he didn’t recognize her, which was exactly what she wanted. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘No problems.’ Then she added: ‘Mike.’

He paused. ‘Do I know you?’ he said. He stared at her, then his mouth opened. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘It’s you! It’s Kate?’

It was half-question, half-exclamation.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Same as usual. Nothing new.’ He gestured at her hair. ‘Can’t say the same for you. It looks great, by the way. You look great.’

‘Thanks, but I didn’t do it for looks.’ The wine and the gin and tonic were making her more loose-lipped than usual. ‘I did it for tactical reasons.’

‘Oh? Like what? You joining the SAS?’

She laughed. ‘No, not exactly. It’s kind of a disguise.’

‘It’s a pretty good one. Can I ask why?’

She took out her phone and showed him the picture she’d showed to Gemma earlier.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I see. Good idea. It’s a bonus that it looks pretty awesome too.’

‘That’s kind of you to say. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

He pointed to a group of men at the end of the bar. ‘Cricket club. I used to play and I came to watch a game today. Been having a few beers with the boys.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But I have to go.’

‘Hot date?’ She was surprised at her forwardness; maybe she’d think again about another drink.

‘Something like that.’

She was intrigued to find that she was – a little – jealous.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Enjoy. And I’ll maybe see you around?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘See you around.’

When she got back to the table, Gemma gave her a knowing look. ‘Was that who I think it was?’

‘Who do you think it was?’

‘The guy? From Kalkan? What was his name?’

‘Mike. And yes, it was. And guess what? He didn’t recognize me.’

‘He’s kind of cute. In an older way.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you obviously thought so when we were on holiday.’

‘He’s OK. But I’m not interested. Not at the moment.’

‘At the moment,’ Gemma said.

‘Ever,’ Kate replied, although she wasn’t sure that she meant it.

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