Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
When I got back to the office there was a list in my email of the seventeen people who’d dropped out of a psychology or criminology degree after the first year, the same year when Kelly-Anne had left.
I scanned through it, the name given and a reason for them leaving. Then I read it again, and again, taking in the names and wondering what it meant to see one particular name there.
“Everything okay?” Wrigley had wandered over to me.
It was getting on for three o’clock, and the office was virtually empty, most of the team out speaking to people who knew the victims, or locked in with the tech squad looking through CCTV and camera footage, trying to find any glimpse of one of our victims with a person we hadn’t previously identified, only we were seeing what we knew to look for.
I looked away from my screen, the names emblazoned on my retinas now.
“I think I might know who Kelly-Anne is.”
Wrigley’s expression morphed from casual to inquisitive, like I’d just offered a dog the scent of a tasty steak. “Who?”
“Look at this name. She left a criminology degree at the end of the first year, the same as Kelly-Anne Marsh. The reason given was that she’d been offered a place at the University of Maryland, and her parents had relocated over there.” I watched Wrigley read the name.
“She could’ve moved back.”
“I don’t think she has. This woman graduated four years later. I tracked down her wedding to a Magnus Driver – no joke, that is his name – and found him on Linked In. He mentions his wife and it looks like they’re still living in Maryland. She didn’t move back here.”
Wrigley gave a sharp nod. “We need an address for her.”
“I think I know where to find it.”
My head pounded because my heart was raving, impatience setting in as I hotfooted it down Oxford Road towards Ashcombe House.
I was wearing my gym kit for the sole reason Vinny had knocked an entire large cup of his newfound obsession bubble tea over me, and the gym kit was the only spares I had with me.
But now it was coming in useful. My pace was long, pushing off the ground with the ball of my foot, heels only momentarily touching the pavement.
It’d been too long since I’d ran, felt the air whistling past me in a rush, ripping my thoughts away, only that wasn’t happening today.
Instead, I was consumed by them, pieces of a jigsaw slotting into places, some not quite right, some damaged form having been forced, but I was starting to see a bigger picture.
It wasn’t raining anymore. Manchester was illuminated with sunlight cracking through cloud, the pavements dry and puddle-free.
I turned off Oxford Road, quickening my pace.
As I approached, Ashcombe House loomed from behind trees, branches starting to leaf.
In another few weeks, the building would be almost hidden from the road, watching secretly like a disgruntled stalker.
I slowed, catching my breath, glad it was cool enough to not be sweating. The door was open, a light on, but the building was quiet. I headed straight up the stairs, taking them two at a time, seeking the office where I’d found so many answers before.
Daniel’s door was closed, the second floor deathly silent. I twisted the handle, the brass cold and smooth in my hand, and entered, unsurprised to find it unlocked.
A desk lamp was still on, a half empty coffee mug next to it, so Daniel hadn’t left for the day yet.
I searched his desk, wondering whether he’d changed his password for the system since I’d left working for him.
It was easier if I logged on as him, even if it broke at least three policies.
That way I could enter grades and check assignments so he didn’t need to, so I could do more than what he paid me for.
The Great Daniel Fletcher.
It was out on his desk, the thing I wasn’t looking for.
His notebook, the most recent Moleskin. He used one religiously, jotting down his notes, always adding the date he started that volume and the date it was completed.
Then they were kept under lock and key, confidential, things he wouldn’t trust to a computer.
Some notes were written in shorthand, symbols and squiggles capturing secrets that were told.
Some were in grammatically perfect English, underlined, sometimes more than once.
Part of my life was told in those books. My secrets, spilt like milk and then cried over because saying them meant they’d happened. Someone other than me knew what happened.
I opened the notebook, surprised at Daniel’s carelessness at leaving it out. There were pages of to do lists, notes made during a lecture he’d attended, a reminder to speak with one of his students about a project that he wasn’t satisfied with.
A list for Justine. Her name written there in full.
Justine Bellamy.
Then there were the notes, most in shorthand, but I still remembered how to read it, having to learn to do Daniel’s admin work, wanting to impress him.
Re-occurring nightmares. Trapped under a building. Investigate what has previously stopped her before. SM in fdr.
See more in folder. The binder where he kept his research.
I jumped as the door opened, a naughty child stealing sweets. Daniel entered, wearing a pristinely pressed navy-blue suit, complete with a pocket handkerchief, dapper in red.
“Mia?”
I was sitting on his desk chair, hands still on the notebook. “Who’s Justine Bellamy really, Daniel?”
He sat down on the sofa and took off his glasses, using the pocket handkerchief to clean them. “My assistant and a PhD student, just like you were.”
“But you knew her before she was Justine Bellamy, didn’t you?” I stood up, walked away from the corner, nearer to the door. “You knew her when she was Kelly-Anne Marsh.”
“Justine Bellamy started here when she was twenty-one. She was meant to move to Maryland where her parents were, but she decided to stay here because of a boyfriend - ”
“No, Daniel. Justine Bellamy who did her first year at Leeds University did move to Maryland. She’s still there, with a husband. We confirmed it already. Kelly-Anne Marsh stole her identity, which you and I both know isn’t difficult to do.” I still held the notebook.
“Well, I never.” He shook his head, polished his glasses again. “Fancy that. What a coincidence.”
“You knew.” I said the words quietly, softly. “You knew who she was from the moment she started here. You knew what she’d been through - ”
“How would I know who she was, Mia? Kelly-Anne Marsh was five stone when I knew her, she’d lost her hair and she was a selective mute. Justine Bellamy is nothing like her.” He shook his head. “What’s all this about?” His tone was fatherly, concerned, a distraction technique.
Turn the spotlight on the other person. Highlight them. Then no one’s looking at you.
I was a master at using that technique and a deity at stopping it from working on me.
Daniel’s gaze was hard, defiant.
“What’s Justine’s address?”
“You know I can’t give you that information without a warrant.” He stretched his arms out over the back of the sofa, completely relaxed, or pretending to be.
“What have you done, Daniel?” I remembered his lecture, drumming up discussion on women who kill and what motivates them, the paper on his desk. “There are ethics around research and - ”
“If she’s Kelly-Anne Marsh that is a coincidence and nothing more.”
“She’s Kelly-Anne and I think she’s killed Charlie Mason, Dolly Armitage, Chelsea Bainbridge, Brooke O’Hara, Morgan Skelton and Evelyn Smith. And if she hasn’t killed them, she’s in danger of being killed herself, so tell me, Professor Fletcher, where can I find Justine Bellamy?”
“What evidence have you got that she was once sectioned at a hospital in Leeds, Mia? This is just like one of the fake theories you used to make up around your gymnastics coach and why he’d picked you, because you didn’t want to believe it was because he could manipulate you, that you were an easy target, that you were the weak link in your group.
You didn’t want to see yourself as a victim, Mia.
You still don’t, which is why you won’t ever believe you can be wrong – then you’d have to question everything else you think you’ve been right on.
” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, viewing the room, the cupboard where his files were.
My phone started to vibrate in the pocket of my running jacket. I fumbled trying to get it out before it stopped, seeing a mobile number I didn’t recognise.
I answered it, half expecting it to be too late.
A choked voice responded. “It’s Sophie. Sophie Linwood. We can’t find her.” Mike, the tall, broad decorator. “I went to meet her at the hospital, looked for her everywhere and I can’t find her – no one can find her.” His words were almost broken, frantically spewed.
“When did her colleagues last see her?”
“Half an hour before I got there. She’d left a bit early to go to the shop, which she told me she was doing, and that she’d wait there, but she isn’t there – security are looking at the cameras but two of them are out and – we can’t find her.
She’s gone.” He’d started to sob, panic overwhelming him, fear that he’d lost her.
Fear that crept through my body from my feet up, its tendrils wrapping around from the inside, squashing the air out of me. “Are you still at the hospital?”
“Yes. Yes. I keep looking for her. Her car’s still here.”
“Okay, Mike. I’m going to call my colleagues and one of them is going to meet you there. Another is going to go to your house. I’m going to pass on their number.”
“Aren’t you coming? Why aren’t you coming?” More panic; more fear. Confusion about what to do. An acute stress response, the autonomic nervous system kicking into gear.
“I’m not as close right now, but Vinny will go to the hospital.
Hang tight.” I ended the call and dialled Vinny.
Looking at Daniel, I spoke clearly, calmy, belying how I was actually feeling.
“Vin, it’s Sophie Linwood. She’s gone missing.
” I passed on the details, continuing to watch Daniel’s responses.
Non-plussed, disinterested, his too quick hand movements giving him away.
“I’m going to get Justine Bellamy’s address and head there. ”
“Not on your own.” He tried his bossy tone. “Text Lachy and Verity where to meet you. You don’t know what you’re going to find.”
“Okay.” I ended the call, observing Daniel. “I need Justine’s address. I know you’ll have it.”
He looked at me, blinking slowly. “She was you, Mia. A lost soul without an identity. She’d found her voice but she had no one to listen to her.”
“Except you. What did she tell you about?”
“You wanted her address. Urgently, I believe.” He stood up, went to the locked glass cabinet behind which he kept his files. He fished a key from his pocket, the keyring still the same, a piece of metal with the words ‘tabula rasa’ engraved on it.
A blank slate.
He picked out a file, clicking open the metal rings and taking out a piece of paper. A page of addresses, Justine’s name at the top.
“Sixty-two Cavendish Gardens – that’s where she is now?”
He kept his head up, watching me intently. “A little flat she rents privately. First place she moved to after she left student accommodation. She leaves there though at the end of this academic year – just a couple of months and I’ll need a new assistant.”
“She was in Irk Vale Halls in her first year.” It was where I had stayed. “It’s due to be demolished this summer.” I looked at other address; Redbrick Tower, part of the same halls, but used by mature students.
There had to be somewhere she kept Morgan. There had to be somewhere she killed Evelyn. If it was her.
“Daniel, what did Justine tell you about Aberwyn?” I folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket.
“I told you, I didn’t know she was Kelly-Anne.”
“You’ve always been a terrible liar.” I headed for the door. “I’ll be back, Daniel.”
I heard him speak loudly as I left. “You always do.”
He would be right.