Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I cut through Piccadilly Gardens onto Mosely Street, almost witnessing a teenager being taken out by a tram as they dashed across the road, aiming for Primark. Luckily, I didn’t have to stop and provide a witness statement, just cope with a slight deafening for a few seconds.
Three minutes later and I was outside a bar on New York Street, Darcy Harrop waiting for me outside, wearing a raincoat that made her look like Little Red Riding Hood.
“Thank you for meeting me. Can I get you a drink?” She was beaming with excitement.
I followed her into the bar, finding the one empty table. “I’ll get these. What do you want?” Being bought a drink by a member of the press wouldn’t be the wisest thing I’d ever done.
“Whatever you’re having.”
“I’m having a cocktail. Something with a load of steam that comes off it.” The bar was more drama than alcohol, but I could get behind that.
Two foaming, colour changing cocktails felt sticky in my hands as I took them over to the table, Darcy waiting expectantly.
I’d agreed to meet her to talk about what it was like to be a woman on a murder investigation team and give her what information I could about the Aberwyn Girls.
She’d released a podcast last week and sent me a link.
I’d given it a listen and found it quite entertaining.
She talked about Daniel’s lecture, which she’d apparently attended, and the advice I’d given her about staying safe, and then she went through the statistics about men on women violence, all in an entertaining way.
I’d sent it to Wrigley, who’d told me Pam had liked it, and you couldn’t really get a better review than that.
“Thank you,” Darcy said, taking a slurp of the cocktail. “Did you listen to the podcast?”
“I did. It was good.”
“Would you be a guest on it?” She didn’t waste her words.
“I think so. When this case is over, although I can’t give details about it. I can talk about some of the procedures though, and the parts that are boring and frustrating.” The cocktail was good, sweet and overindulgent. One would be enough – I had things I needed to do tonight.
“How’s it going? The murdered girls? Five victims definitely makes a serial killer, doesn’t it?”
“It does. We have some strong leads. There’s a press conference tomorrow if you can make it.”
“I’ll make it. Do you think you’ll make an arrest?”
“Yes.” I was sure of it. “And I don’t think it’ll be long off.” I debated what to tell her. “We’re looking for two women who all holidayed at a caravan and lodge site in North-Wales. There’s a connection with the victims.”
Darcy nodded, slowly, as if she was realising something. “It isn’t random, or someone who’s got beef against women. Do you think the two women you’re looking for did it?”
“Or maybe they’re victims already or future victims. Kelly-Anne Marsh and Sophie Davies.” I gave her the names. “Don’t release a podcast tonight – you’re just getting a head’s up.”
“Why haven’t you been able to find them? I thought you had access to loads of databases?”
“We do. But Kelly-Anne hasn’t left a trace anywhere for seven years, and we’re still narrowing down which Sophie Davies it is to be able to find out where she is now.
” Which was proving to be more painstaking that we’d anticipated.
“All the databases do at this point is give us more names to chase. We have to request National Insurance numbers for each one and then see if there’s been any name changes, and we haven’t been able to work out which is our Sophie Davies yet.
” A couple of DCs were working a late shift, going through what information they were able to yield.
“And Kelly-Anne’s just disappeared. Could she be dead?”
“She packed her things and left a note, saying she wanted a fresh start. People do that, sometimes.” Said the woman who would never use her birthname. I’d done the same thing, created myself a new identity when I moved to Manchester.
Maybe Kelly-Anne had done the same thing. Maybe she’d started her degree again, with an assumed identity – the only problem with that was your National Insurance number didn’t change, even when your name does.
Unless you give a different National Insurance number.
I messaged Vinny.
Find out what other women dropped out of the same psychology course as Kelly-Anne from Leeds University at the same time.
Darcy watched me, fascinated. “Do you ever switch off from a case?”
I focused back on her, feeling like I’d been separated from reality for a second. “No. I don’t think I do.”
“Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“I have a boyfriend but he’s cheating on me with my flatmate.” I slurped the rest of the cocktail.
“Really? Why’s he still your boyfriend then?”
“Because I’ve been too busy with the case to get round to telling him. And then I’ll need to find somewhere else to live.” Which was the crux of it, although I had an idea of where I could move to while I finally sorted my shit out and bought my own home.
“True. Want another cocktail?”
I debated it. One was enough, but April, so far, was at least three months too long, so I said yes, as long as we didn’t talk about the case anymore.
I had ideas to percolate.
Cavan called just as I got off the tram near the flat, full of mirth and half-embarrassment at picking up an injury during football practice. He wanted to know if I had time for a drink now, as he was out on Burton Road and hadn’t seen me for days.
It felt like longer, a strange passing of time where I was paused, searching for a ghost, the rest of life happening around me.
I declined, managed to make small talk, and wondered why he’d bothered calling when the easiest thing to do would be to let everything fizzle out. I’d overheard him bragging at the party to a friend about me being a detective, so I’d wondered if that was some of it.
I ended the call when I saw a now-familiar figure lingering outside my flats, pretending to look at his phone.
Atlas, or whatever his real name was - it couldn’t be any odder than Atlas – was waiting for someone, probably me.
“Hello, stranger.” I stopped, standing about five feet from him.
He slipped his phone into his back pocket and folded his arms. “Home late?”
“Keeping tabs on me now. You could’ve just phoned me. You have my number.” A bird shook the branches of a nearby tree, making me startle.
“I was in the area. Sophie Davies – the one you’re looking for – became Sophie Linwood. She’s a nurse at the Northern Acute Care Trust. Works as a theatre nurse in cardiology.”
We’d started to walk together away from the flats, away from the main road, the Edwardian and Victorian houses standing like guards either side of the street.
“How did you find that out?” I didn’t doubt he was right.
“Through ways I shouldn’t go down, but it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, his hair seeming longer than the last time I’d seen him, thick dark curls that made him look exotic, despite his Mancunian accent.
“Are you a hacker?” Which would make sense. The information and pictures he’d found suggested he had access to databases and information we couldn’t get to without a warrant and a really good reason.
“I suppose so, but it’s not my main job.”
“Why are you interested in this case?” Maybe I should’ve been more cautious, walking down a street shrouded in stillness with a man I didn’t know, but there was something about him that didn’t set any red flags speeding up a pole.
He shrugged, glancing at me as we walked.
“I have a vested interest in the police solving the case. You’ll find out more in the next few months.
I can promise you that I haven’t been spying on you; I really was in the area and thought I'd see you and find out if you’ve dumped the wanker of a boyfriend yet? ”
“How did you know he was my boyfriend?”
He stopped walking, turning around. “I’ve been around the area for a bit. I’m good at noticing things.” He took his phone out of his pocket and answered it.
I listened to what he said, wishing I could hear the other half of the conversation.
“What’s the problem? Really?” A pause. “No, I’m covered. I have an excuse.” He looked at me. “Thanks for the heads up.” He ended the call, stuffing the phone in his pocket and walked back to me, coming closer than he had before. “I need you to do me a favour.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me take a selfie of us. I need cover as to where I’ve been.” He pulled out a phone, a different one this time.
I never trusted anyone with more than one phone.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Nothing. It’ll stay on my phone, but if anyone checks what’s on it, they’ll see us, and it’ll be timestamped.
Put your head on my shoulder, and let your hair fall over your face, so you’ll be difficult to identify.
” His tone had changed, demanding, instructional, someone who was used to giving orders.
“We’ll already be seen on a camera somewhere.”
“Not on this road, Mia. The only cameras are on people’s front doors.”
“How do I know you’re not going to attack me?” I didn’t for one minute think he was.
“You don’t. But I won’t.”
I moved closer, awkwardness stiffening every muscle. He put an arm around my shoulders, holding the phone with his other hand. I rested my head against his shoulders, still tense, my hand clenched in a fist, a plan of what to do if my instincts were wrong.
Atlas smelled of cologne, a scent that reminded me of spices and oud, rich and exotic, which suited how he looked. I relaxed a little, moving my head so my hair partially covered my face.
“Am I pretending to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes.” He grinned, cockiness and charm blended into a smile and then he let me go. “Be careful, Mia Mac. This killer’s not stupid. And I still think it’s a woman.”
“I do too.” I was fast beginning to see the early roots of a link, tenuous and fragile, and it was leading to our killer not being a man in this case, even though statistics suggested otherwise.
What the statistics didn’t recognise was how cruel human beings – regardless of their gender – could be.
Men might physically act out more, but women could be just as lethal – just in different ways.
Brutal words and painful silences, laughter when backs were turned, and whispers that were meant to be caught.
Atlas nodded, then left me, heading down an alleyway and into the rest of the night.