Chapter Thirty-Three
THIRTY-THREE
I raid the drying rack for something resembling an outfit and throw on leggings and a black T-shirt before writing a quick note to Izzy. I decide I should just say I couldn’t sleep and promise breakfast on my return. I’ll worry about the details later.
I go back to the living room to gather up my “evidence.” I make sure I’ve not left anything too conspicuous lying around, but I do leave my coffee cup and banana peel on the table as evidence of my early morning.
I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops by the door, shrug into my denim jacket and grab the key, gently closing the door behind me.
I hold my breath until I reach the corner at the end of the street and head toward the center of campus.
A quick Google search showed me that as well as the Blackwood Police Station, there is a small police unit at the Clarendon Building, though there are only two officers for the whole campus.
I know I should go to Detective Romig, but she hasn’t filled me with confidence so far, and if nothing else, maybe someone who is patrolling an empty university will be bored enough to take me seriously.
I arrive at the quad breathless and flushed.
I head for the Clarendon Building, tilting my head to look up at the soaring Gothic structure, all dark and brooding against the bright summer sky.
It partly dates back to the thirteenth century, though I think most of it is Victorian.
Gentle morning sunlight illuminates the arches, painting the details on the stonework in high relief.
A trio of gargoyles leer down at me as I approach the main entrance, and I ignore them as I pause to read the directory, finding the listing for the Blackwood University Police Hub.
The building appears deserted, though when I try the main door, it opens easily.
The distant tinkling of keys down the corridor indicates that the custodians are already at work, opening up for anyone who might be in over the summer break.
I follow the signs bearing the police logo, winding down several corridors before landing outside a nondescript door with a small window.
A small, dark window. Nobody’s here yet.
I sit in one of the plastic chairs that are bolted to the wall and smooth out the pile of documents I’ve been clutching since I left the house.
The listing on the university website said the hub opens at half past seven, and that’s only twenty minutes away. I’m prepared to wait.
I look around the gloomy corridor. The office is buried in the bowels of the Clarendon Building, and the sad decor has more than a whiff of hospital waiting area about it.
I can tell they don’t bring the tour groups down here, because the crumbling plaster and peeling paintwork suggest this is not where the conservation money is spent.
It’s cold in comparison to outside, and I huddle further into my chair, wishing I’d thought to wear something cozier than this jacket.
I close my eyes to rehearse what I’m going to say when a wave of tiredness washes over me and I succumb to it, just for a second.
“You all right there?”
My entire body snaps to attention, drool trying to escape from the corner of my mouth before my eyes fully open.
A short, stocky man in a police uniform stands in front of me, a heavy backpack dangling from one hand and a reusable coffee cup in the other.
My luck seems to be in, because it’s the officer who initially attended Helen’s crime scene.
“You haven’t been here all night, have you?”
“Erm, no.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and check my phone—twenty-five past seven. “Micronap,” I murmur, getting to my feet. “I wanted to talk to someone, but I was early.”
“Well, give me a minute and I’m all yours.
” He juggles the coffee cup into the hand holding his bag and digs a set of keys from his trouser pocket as I study him.
He’s roughly mid-thirties, clean shaven and solemn-looking.
Tired, too, judging by the yawn he stifles as he unlocks the office.
He turns a key in the lock and pushes open the door.
“Let me put this stuff down…” He pauses, looking at me until I realize he’s waiting for me to tell him my name.
“Oh! Fliss, Felicity, I mean. Felicity Keller. We met the other night.”
“Okay, Felicity Keller,” he says with no hint of recognition. He must see students all week long. “I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
I watch the door close behind him and weigh up my chances.
His uniform is neatly ironed, even though I doubt anyone will see it, so he probably takes his job seriously.
He’ll appreciate details. Maybe he will listen to me after all.
I ignore the voice in the back of my head that’s wondering why he’s been stationed here and why Detective Romig was so dismissive of him on Monday.
Being a university officer in this sad part of the building seems like it could be penance.
“Okay, Felicity.” He holds open the door and beckons me inside. “I’m Officer Shaw. Take a seat.”
I enter the tiny room and do as he says, sitting across the desk from him.
It’s overflowing with paperwork and reminds me more of Dad’s office than a police station.
I place my own stack of documents on the desk and smooth it out for the hundredth time as Officer Shaw unscrews the lid from his travel mug.
The scent of strong coffee fills the room.
“Do you mind if I drink this? I’ve hardly slept. New baby,” he explains.
“I don’t mind,” I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat.
“Thanks. Now, what can I do for you, Felicity?” He leans back in his chair and blows on his drink as I take a deep breath. Start at the beginning, Fliss.
“I want to talk to you about the murders.” I blurt it out so matter-of-factly that I’m not surprised when Officer Shaw freezes and puts his cup back on the desk.
“You do.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he screws the lid back on his coffee and puts it to one side. Good, he is taking this seriously. “Do you have information you want to share with me?”
“Yes. I mean, maybe.” I watch him pull a notepad and pen closer and start to scribble on it. “I was there, at the first one. That’s where I met you.”
“Stop.” He looks at me wide-eyed and pulls open a desk drawer, scrabbling around in it before producing a small silver tape recorder.
“I’m not making a confession!” I counter, trying to recall my rights, but my mind draws a blank, which is infuriating. I should know this stuff. “Or a statement, for that matter. For one thing, I’m a minor.”
“You are?” He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a string of swear words under his breath before he pulls himself together.
“Then I can’t talk to you alone. I’m not on that case, as it happens, but I can get Detective Romig from the main station to see you.
” My hopes sink. “With an adult,” he adds.
“Just listen to me, will you?” I spread out the pages, knowing we’ve started on the wrong foot, but I need him to give me a chance.
“I think the two murders that happened this week are connected. Look.” I turn the portraits of The Four to face him and point at the first two.
“These are paintings on show in the Heywood Gallery. Helen, the first victim, was found there last Monday. By me.” I stress the last word as Shaw pushes his chair back.
“Please! Helen had a blindfold on, just like the woman in the first painting.”
“I can’t talk to you.” Officer Shaw opens the door and peers out into the corridor, as though he’s waiting for someone.
I ignore him, instead holding the second painting up. “Jen, the girl who was killed on Friday. She had flowers in her hair, just like this.”
He keeps the painting out of his line of view. “This is an ongoing investigation with the Blackwood Police Department,” he replies, as if the response has been programmed into him.
“I’ll go there if you agree I’m onto something! Look, two girls have been killed in ways that look just like these paintings. There are four paintings in the gallery altogether. What does that say to you?”
“Felicity, I cannot talk to you,” he repeats, tugging at his collar. He’s nervous, and I wonder how close he was to losing his job before he got sent here.
“It means there are going to be two more murders!” I shout, slapping my hand on the desk, unable to keep my cool any longer. “Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Miss Keller, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Officer Shaw says, his eyes wide but his voice calm, almost robotic.
“If you have any information that you think can help the police with their ongoing investigation, then you should go to the main station in Blackwood.” He unbuttons his collar as the overhead strip lights pick out the beads of sweat on his top lip.
“Fine,” I huff, sweeping up my things and pushing back the chair with a loud metallic scrape. I don’t even mention the tarot cards. If I start talking about the occult, he’ll probably run away and leave me here.
I push past him into the corridor, ready to storm away, when his voice stops me.
“Miss Keller?” I turn round, breathing hard but hoping he’s changed his mind.
Instead, he approaches me and holds out a hand.
“Take this. We give them out during orientation, and by all accounts they’re pretty unbreakable.
I don’t know what’s going on in Blackwood at the moment, but it might keep you safe.
” I study the little black box attached to a key chain.
“A rape alarm?” I scoff, folding my arms. “Someone is going around town murdering women and you think a really loud noise will help?” Officer Shaw opens his mouth and closes it again without saying anything.
Then he places the alarm on the seat outside his office, retreats and gently closes the door.
I stare after him in disbelief. “Enjoy your coffee,” I mutter, my blood boiling as I turn to leave.
I hesitate for a second, then stride back to the seat and swipe the alarm, stuffing it into my jacket pocket without looking through the window. It might not be the outcome I wanted, but I’m not turning down a personal alarm, given the circumstances.
I storm out of the empty building and enter the courtyard, sunlight now streaming into the open space.
I turn in the direction of the main road, head down as I march angrily toward home.
How dare he not even entertain me? He obviously has no idea what he’s doing, and he didn’t even look at the documents, let alone allow me to explain my theory.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I almost pass the small café, but the smell of freshly baked bread breaks through my morbid musings and I duck in, joining the already long line at the counter.
I order half a dozen breakfast pastries, adding two huge double-chocolate muffins and our favorite lavender lattes at the last minute.
Izzy can’t shout at me if her mouth is full of cake.
In theory, anyway. I secure the goods and head home, my phone buzzing with a call from Izzy as I unlock the front door.
“I’m here,” I call, pushing open the door.
She appears at the living room door dressed in pajamas, a blue satin bonnet still covering her hair. “Who are you and what have you done with Fliss?” she demands half-heartedly, a yawn drowning out my name. She stretches and stops midway, sniffing loudly. “Did you buy all the pastries?”
“Almost.” Her eyes light up as I hold up the coffee caddy and the brown paper bag that’s now dotted with spots of grease. “And I need to talk to you about someth—”
“It can wait.” She trades me a business card for the bag and I follow her to the kitchen.
“This was on the welcome mat. Looks like it was pushed through the letter box between you leaving and me waking up.” The card is white and bears a small blue logo that millions of people up and down the country would recognize.
It’s from the police. Detective Youssef’s name is written across the top in script, followed by the station address and contact details.
“Is that it? You didn’t speak to anyone?”
“You haven’t looked at your messages this morning?”
“No, I was busy…Why?”
“Do it,” Izzy says, her mouth already full of cinnamon bun. There’s icing on the end of her nose.
I hand Izzy her latte and we sit at the table, where I start to pick at an almond croissant while I unlock my phone. There’s one new message in the group chat, from a number that Noah just added.
Unknown: The police know Jen was at the party on Friday.
I panicked and told Mom I wasn’t there because I’m on my last warning and she will lock me up if she finds out I had weed.
Need you all to avoid talking to them or don’t tell them about me until I figure this all out, otherwise I’m in deep shit.
I put the phone down and blow out a deep breath. “I don’t like that one bit.”
“Right?” Izzy sighs. “You were right, Jake does have a bad vibe.”
“I wonder if his mom will be taken off the case when she finds out Jake was here. There’s probably messages from him on Jen’s phone.”
“I guess it would be a conflict of interest,” Izzy says. She removes the lid from her coffee, and the soothing scent of lavender blooms from the cup. “You think they’ll come back if we don’t pay them a visit?”
“Probably. Maybe we should go in and see them? We just avoid talking about Jake.”
“I can’t lie to the police, Fliss.”
“It’s not lying, we just won’t mention him.”
“I can’t.”
“You could try?” I say, but she’s right. If we lie to the police now, it will look really bad when Jake finally comes clean—or gets caught, which he will. “Fine, you’re right. But as soon as he tells his mom, we go in.”
“Okay.” She relents.
I lean back in the chair and rub my eyes. Jake has really messed up my plans. And why, exactly? Is it actually about getting in trouble with his mom, or is there more to it?
Is he worried about what they’ll find on Jen’s phone?
I make my mind up that if Detective Youssef comes around again, I’ll talk to her, tell her my theory. I’ll mention this to Izzy later, though.
Izzy finishes her breakfast and picks up her coffee. “So the plan is we lie low and wait for Jake to crack?” she asks.
“Pretty much.”
“Great. Then I’m going to get dressed and pretend none of this is happening.”