‘Not really,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll tell you anyway, Alice.’ He leaned forwards and jabbed a finger at her. ‘Because I’ll make you regret it. I’ll damn well make you, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Brenda was sitting at a table by a large bay window reading a book. Windermere glistened in the morning sunshine behind her, swans bobbing on the water.

  She looked up as Alice approached. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be visiting the grave of some dead poet?’

  ‘I was,’ Alice said. ‘But there was a change of plan.’

  ‘Your boyfriend – Ned, right? – went on his own?’

  ‘Not exactly. We had a bit of a relationship chat when I got back.’

  ‘A 2 a.m. relationship chat. Nice. Just what you want.’

  ‘Right?’ Alice said. ‘Anyway, a few things got said and a few feelings got hurt and in the end – we sort of broke up.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘I’m not sure he fully believes it’s over.’

  ‘Is it over?’ Brenda gestured to the chair opposite. ‘Feel free.’

  Alice sat down. ‘I think it is,’ she said. ‘It’s weird, but when I got back here and he was waiting up ready to unload all this shit on me – I saw it there and then. I didn’t want to be with him any more. It was like I knew it all along, but I couldn’t see it.’

  ‘Sounds pretty terminal.’

  ‘I know. I’m shocked, in a way, but I feel nothing for him. I wish him well, but I don’t want to be with him. Honestly, Brenda – more than anything, I feel relieved.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ Brenda said. ‘Are you going to stay here?’

  Alice nodded. ‘I’ve got a few more days in the room, so I might as well. It could be fun.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had this whole life charted out for me – finish up the lease on the house in Nottingham, move in with Ned, get a job in journalism. Now it’s all gone. I can do whatever I want.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Maybe travel a bit,’ Alice said. ‘Go around Europe. But other than that, I have no idea. And it feels great.’

  Thursday, 22 July 2021

  Alice

  ‘CRUCIFIX’ KILLER HAS A SIGNATURE

  By Alice Sark

  In a shocking development, reports have emerged which confirm that the murders of Jane Kirkpatrick, Amy Martin and Stan Davidson were committed by the same person.

  Someone familiar with the investigation revealed to this correspondent that the crime scenes all share a chilling similarity. The arms of the victims were folded across their chests and a crucifix had been inserted into their right hands.

  Detective Inspector Jane Wynne confirmed that the reports are true. ‘We are disappointed that these details leaked, but can confirm that they are accurate.’ When asked whether the police believed that this meant they were dealing with a serial killer, she added, ‘Yes, it would seem to indicate that, and we are proceeding – indeed have been proceeding – on that basis.’

  She did not answer further questions and would not comment on the significance of the folded arms or crucifix. While their meaning remains unclear, one thing is certain: there is a serial killer of the most depraved and twisted kind at work in this town.

  Alice sat at the corner table of Gerrard’s, a café in Stockton Heath village. She often went to work in cafés – there were four or five in different parts of the town that didn’t mind customers sitting for a few hours on one cup of coffee and a cake. At first she’d found the ebb and flow of the customers distracting, but now she was used to it. In any case, it was better than being at home. Even if Martha or Tom’s mum was there looking after Jo, she couldn’t settle into her work.

  She looked at the clock in the corner of her laptop. It was a few minutes past 1 p.m. She checked her inbox. There were forty-four new emails since she’d arrived, bought a coffee and found a seat.

  The story had posted at eight that morning, and she had received the first message from a national newspaper just after ten.

  Hi there, my name’s Tony Walker, with the Daily Herald. We read your story with interest – you have great sources! – and would like to know whether you have any more details or angles on the ‘Crucifix Killer’? (Awesome name by the way – did you come up with it?) We’d love to have you send them over if you do – we’d pay, of course – do you have an agent? – or if you prefer you could write the story for us? Whatever works, Alice – let me know, OK?

  By midday she had similar emails from almost all the other national papers. They would send their own reporters to cover the story, but she had what they all wanted: an inside track. Serial killers were always hot copy – they were endlessly fascinating – and to be the closest journalist to a major investigation was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  The kind of opportunity which could make her into a major name.

  She was going to need more, though, for that to happen. She was going to need fresh information, more details about what the Crucifix Killer did.

  She needed to speak to Nadia, but it would have to wait. It was 1.30. Martha was leaving at two.

  Alice left some change on the table as a tip and packed up her laptop.

  Tom

  He was utterly wrecked. Not physically – physically he was unchanged – but psychologically. He couldn’t focus on the simplest task. He could hardly think in a straight line. He understood now why driving tired could be as dangerous as driving drunk; your mental processing speed was a fraction of what it normally was. It felt as though there was a screen between him and the world.

  He was sleeping from about 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. It was good sleep when he got it – he was out as soon as he closed his eyes, and it was the sleep of the dead – but nowhere near enough, and right now all he wanted to do was sleep. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and let himself slide into blissful unconsciousness.

  But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fall asleep at his desk, so instead he stared at his computer screen, his eyes dry and blinking, trying to force his mind to do anything other than count as the seconds ticked by at the speed of something very, very slow. He couldn’t really think of what it would be.

  ‘Still not sleeping?’

  Scott Daniels perched on the edge of his desk.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You look like you’re just a shell, mate. The lights are on, but nobody’s home.’

  He shrugged. ‘I might as well not be here. I can’t do anything.’

  Scott was the only person at work he would have admitted that to. He was his best – really his only – work friend. There were other colleagues who he liked and admired and enjoyed working with, but Scott was the only one with whom he felt he had a relationship outside of the office.

  They had started on the same graduate training scheme, which involved about twenty newly qualified engineers being thrown into a rotational programme at the end of which some would leap into fast-track careers heading straight for the top, and others would start their more modest ascent of the corporate ladder.

  Tom and Scott were in the second category, and happy to be there. The others all seemed to be – or to think they were – in the first category. The problem was there were only so many seats on the fast track, and so the corporately generated bonhomie and team spirit was exactly that – corporately generated.

  Which meant totally and utterly false.

  After they all fledged from the scheme they disappeared to various parts of the company, and much as he liked working with most of them, he did not feel they had his best interests at heart.

  Scott was different.

  As part of the programme they had gone for a weekend bonding retreat in Galway. On the Friday they arrived everyone had drunk masses of Guinness and Beamish and Murphy’s and Baileys and whatever else was put in front of them. When they were all about ready to pass out, a message went around that they were to assemble in the hotel ballroom at 1 a.m.

  They arrived to find three managers, plus May, the woman who ran the graduate training programme.

  There’ll be a treasure hunt tomorrow, May said. 7 a.m. sharp, in this room.

  Someone ventured the question of what she meant by ‘treasure hunt’.

  You’ll have a map, a list of addresses, and a list of questions. You have to go to the addresses and answer the questions. So, one might be ‘A famous person lived here. Who was it?’ You go there, read the blue plaque, answer the question.

  Jesus wept, Scott said. We’re a team. OK?

  May looked around the room.

  It’s just for fun, she said. But there will be prizes.

  Prizes, it turned out, was the magic word for this group. Tom and Scott arrived at 6.59 a.m. in the ballroom – which, given the magnitude of his hangover, Tom thought was pretty respectable – but they were the last to get there, and by a lot.

  They were also the only pair dressed in jeans and sweaters. The rest were in their running gear.

  Well hello, Scott said. It’s like a pre-marathon race meeting.

  The maps and other paperwork were distributed and they were told to line up by the ballroom door. Then, with her hand in the air, May opened the door.

  Ready, Steady – Go!

  The graduate trainees set off at a run. Bewildered, Tom jogged after them. When he was outside, he realized Scott was not there and turned to look for his partner.

  Scott was standing by the hotel door, lighting a cigarette.

  Come on, Tom said. We’re going to be last. And it seems it matters.

  First, Scott said. It doesn’t matter. And second, we won’t be last. We’ll win. But let me explain how over a fry-up. There’s a greasy spoon up the way.

  His plan was simple: a leisurely and restorative breakfast, then a taxi ride around Galway to the addresses on the list to find the answers. It was a good idea, and led to a pleasant morning. When they had completed the treasure hunt, Scott directed the taxi driver to drop them off around the corner from the hotel, and they walked into the ballroom, first to return.

  A few minutes later the next two arrived, sweating and panting hard. Their eyes opened wide when they saw Tom and Scott.

  Did you – did you do it? one of them asked.

  Tom nodded and showed them the paper with the answers.

  But you’re hardly out of breath?

  Scott winked. Work smart, not hard, he said.

  They knew, of course, that Tom and Scott had cheated, but did not dare accuse them. That would have been being sore losers.

  So had he left the company – or more likely, given how useful he was at the moment, been fired – he would not have kept in touch with any of the others. Scott, though, he would have seen again.

  ‘How much sleep are you getting?’ Scott said.

  ‘Couple of hours here, couple there,’ Tom said. ‘It’s brutal. I feel like I’m the walking dead. Had I known it would have been like this before I’m not sure I’d have gone through with it.’

  ‘Could you have a chat to Karen?’ Scott said. ‘She’s after having a baby and I’m trying to stave her off. But if you explained what your nights look like we may get away with a bit of a delay.’

  ‘She could talk to Alice, too. She’s not getting much more sleep.’

  ‘I’ll get her to call you.’ He stood up. ‘How about a beer after work? You look like you could do with one.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have to get home.’

  ‘We could leave here early? Get you back on time.’

  ‘It sounds good, I have to admit,’ Tom said. ‘But I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Come on,’ Scott said. ‘Just the one.’

  It did sound good.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Just the one.’

  Alice

  Martha was sitting on the couch, her hand gently rocking Joanna’s basket. When Alice walked in she made a shushing motion.

  ‘Asleep,’ she whispered, and nodded at the basket.

  ‘How was she?’ Alice said.

  ‘Fine. She’s a very sweet girl. She likes to be held.’

  ‘She is,’ Alice said. ‘I missed her.’

  Martha gave a small nod.

  ‘I feel I have to mention something to you.’ She sat upright, her smile suddenly forced. ‘Tom brought up some bruises on Joanna’s arm.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘He told me he’d talked to you.’

  ‘I have to tell you I felt a little bit’ – she paused – ‘put out after my conversation with Tom. I know he was only doing what he had to do as a father, but the idea that either of you would think I could do something like that – well, it upset me. I’ve got over it, but I wanted you to know.’

  Alice held her gaze. ‘I understand. But you can see where we’d be coming from?’

  ‘Yes. But you can see where I’d be coming from, too.’ She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t me. And if you can’t be sure of that, I’ll leave. For my own peace of mind, but also for yours. How can you be comfortable leaving me with Jo if you can’t trust me?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to come to that,’ Alice said.

  ‘I hope not. Is there anyone else it could be?’

  ‘Not really.’ Alice paused. ‘Me, Tom. His parents, and you. And then there’s Roland.’

  ‘His brother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He mentioned him. I didn’t know he had a brother until then.’

  ‘He reappeared recently. He was something of a pariah in the family. It goes back a long way, but he was a heroin addict. He’s living with Tom’s parents.’

  ‘A heroin addict?’

  ‘He’s clean now.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Has he been left in charge of Jo?’

  There was a heavy silence. ‘No. At least not on his own.’

  ‘But he’s there when she stays with her grandparents?’

  ‘He is.’

  Martha’s mouth pursed in something like distaste, and she stood up. ‘It’s two o’clock,’ she said. ‘I have to leave. And Alice – you have a heroin addict in her life, and you question me about the bruises?’

  ‘We have to explore every avenue, Martha. It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘I hope we can keep it that way.’

  Alice walked her to the door, then picked up her phone and called Nadia.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I had a lot of interest in the story, from all the major papers. I gave them what I had – what was in the story I posted, really, but with some quotes from me.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ Nadia said.

  ‘I was wondering if there’s more,’ Alice said. ‘Some other details?’

  ‘Like what?’ Nadia said.

  ‘Theories on why the killer targets men as well as women? Don’t they normally stick to one or the other?’

  ‘Normally, yes. But not always.’

  ‘Any thoughts on why this one’s different?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Nadia said. ‘But I can’t talk right now. Could I call you later?’

  ‘Five more minutes?’

  ‘Really. I have to go. I’m free at 5.30? Call me if you can.’

  ‘OK. Talk then. Thanks.’

  She hung up. Possibly, Nadia had said. It sounded like she had more to share.

  Tom

  They met at their local, the London Bridge, and the quick pint turned into a quick two pints, or, in Tom’s case, a pint and a half.

  Scott went to the toilet when they were making their way through the second beer and Tom felt his eyes start to close. When Scott returned, he realized he could hardly focus.

  ‘I think I’m going to fall asleep,’ he muttered. ‘My eyelids feel like someone’s pulling them down.’

  He let his head fall to his chest and closed his eyes. It was bizarre how blissful it was to simply have his eyes closed.

  He forced them open. Sleeping in the pub was not a look he wanted.

  ‘Man, it really is bad,’ Scott said. He took out his phone. ‘Close your eyes and let your head drop again. Let me take a snap to show Karen. I’ll tell her she could end up married to a man who looks like this.’

  ‘She’s already married to one,’ Tom said. ‘After you’ve had a few pints.’

  ‘Not too tired to be funny,’ Scott said. ‘Funny-ish, at any rate.’

  ‘It was a good one for me,’ Tom said.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  Tom pushed his drink across the table. ‘You have that. I’m going to have to go.’

  ‘Finish your pint? What do you think this is? 2019? No one wants a pint of coronavirus, mate.’

  ‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I guess not.’ His brain was shutting down and he was starting to worry about the drive home, even though it was no more than three minutes. ‘Got to go. See you tomorrow. And thanks for getting me out. I might not be much fun, but I needed this.’

  ‘Any time,’ Scott said. ‘And I hope you get some kip.’

  Alice

  Where the hell was Tom? It was 5.45 and he wasn’t home. She bounced Jo in one arm, and called him again.

  It rang through to voicemail.

  This was totally unfair. He was supposed to be home by now, and she had made plans to call Nadia. It wasn’t like it was just another call; it was important. It was her career.

  And he hadn’t bothered to phone home and tell her, let alone answer her fucking calls.

  She put Jo in her basket. Maybe she would settle so she could speak to Nadia.

  Her daughter held her breath for a second, then opened her mouth and started to wail. She couldn’t have a conversation with that in the background; apart from anything else, Nadia would tell her to look after Jo.

  She was starting to feel like screaming when she heard a key in the lock, and the swish of the front door opening. She stood up and walked into the hall.

  Tom was closing the door. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘I went to the London Bridge with—’

  ‘You did what?’ Alice said. ‘You went to the pub?’

  ‘With Scott. For one pint.’

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me?’