17. Goldie
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GOLDIE
“This can’t be happening. Not him. Anyone but him.”
We are gathered in the park. Sitting cross-legged in a circle, our attention is on Cuckoo, who is so angry her entire face is red.
She has released her hair from its usual high ponytail, raking her fingers through it instead.
When Wren messaged us all earlier and told us it was urgent that we meet tonight, we didn’t expect this.
She is quiet now, knees hugged into her chest, but there is no mistaking what she told us.
She saw him clear as day. Hugo Fletcher is the person buying Bishop’s House.
Hugo Fletcher is, on first glance, not who you would expect to be a killer.
He is good-looking in a preppy sort of way.
Carefully styled dark blond hair, defined jaw, truly green eyes.
He is six feet five and broad shouldered, and he used to play basketball for his university.
He went to some fancy private school just outside of Bristol, then PPE at Oxford, then came back to work for his father, who is “well-connected,” whatever that means.
At the time he killed Cuckoo’s mother, he was twenty-four years old.
He had nine points on his license, had previously been let off for speeding, had another drink driving charge curiously dropped.
He was four times over the legal alcohol limit and five minutes previously had swerved to avoid someone else, driving all over the roads.
He also had cocaine in his system, according to the rumors, but that somehow disappeared from the record, and police denied that was ever the case.
Cuckoo’s mother wasn’t wearing reflective gear.
She didn’t observe her surroundings well enough.
She was distracted by having too much weight on her bike, and that meant it wasn’t cycling correctly (a shopping bag attached to the handlebar).
These were marks against her, which I didn’t realize happened to victims until after her death, the weighing of their actions against a scale they didn’t know was measuring them.
Cuckoo’s dad campaigned for justice. Their whole estate did.
But there was no point in ruining two lives, the judge said, for what was ultimately an accident.
Hugo pled guilty to a lesser charge, citing extenuating circumstances, and received a four-year driving ban and a two-year suspended sentence.
He didn’t go to prison; he walked free in his Armani suit with the same confident smile he had going in.
There was no trial, no chance for Cuckoo or her dad to speak.
It was all treated as a formality. Hugo got married six months later, and life went on for him, unspoiled.
“He’s really going to buy it?” Starling says.
Wren nods. “Mum came home later with a big grin on her face and said they were making an offer. It’s happening.”
“Fuck!” Cuckoo punches the ground. “I can’t believe this.”
“It’s not fair,” I say. “And he’s going to turn it into flats? It’s disgusting.”
“He’s disgusting,” Cuckoo hisses.
I want to hug her, tell her it’s okay to let it all out, but she’ll push me away. Cuckoo is angry first, any other emotion second.
“What do we do?” Wren asks.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Crow says.
“No.” Cuckoo is so quiet I think only I hear her, sitting right next to her. She balls her hands into fists, staring down at them.
“Cuckoo?” I say.
“I know where Hugo Fletcher lives,” she says.
She says it so casually I am certain I’ve misheard her, but the shocked faces of everyone else around me assure me that isn’t the case.
“How do you know where he lives?” Wren asks.
“His wife posts on TikTok,” Cuckoo says. “It was obvious to figure out where they were from it. She isn’t discreet.”
“Have you ever been to his house?” Crow says.
“Many times. He goes out running almost every night. I’ve followed him before.”
“Jesus,” I say. “Has he ever spotted you?”
“I’m very careful.”
“Wow,” Starling whispers.
“He still drinks. Even after releasing that pathetic statement that he’d seek help. He hasn’t. He doesn’t care. He’ll kill again. And he’ll get away with it again. Men like him always do. He’ll bulldoze Bishop’s House, kill some more innocent people, and laugh all the way to the bank.”
Hugo Fletcher.
I look at Cuckoo, watch the way she grips her hands together so hard her knuckles turn white. But she is defiant, unashamed. I know what she wants.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Maybe there is something we can do.”
Gorge, gorge, gorge. We can’t get enough.
“Let’s come with you,” I say. “We’ll all follow him.”