Killing Kate. Alex Lake
He tapped his login details into his computer. ‘I’m going to the canteen, get a bacon butty. You want anything?’
Kate nodded at her coffee. ‘That’ll do me. Thanks, though.’
She watched him walk off, his trousers loose and saggy around his buttocks, shirt partially untucked, shoulders round and slumped. Was that her future? Was this what life had to offer? Rotting away in an office, doing a job she hated, or, at best, found repetitive and boring?
That was what she feared. Maybe it was because she had just come back from holiday, but watching Gary walk away she thought, I don’t want to be like that. There has to be something more.
There had to be. Surely she could do something she found more inspiring. Become a cider-maker or a pilot or a photographer.
And the thing was, it felt possible, now that she had broken up with Phil. With him, her life had been mapped out for her, a gentle progression from wife to mum to grandma. Now though, she could do what she wanted. She had some money saved up; she could go travelling for a year. Or two. Or three. Maybe go to Nepal, meet someone and stay there, or move to New Zealand to work on a sheep farm. Who knew what would happen? That was the beauty of it. No one knew. All she had to do was make the decision to go and then the world would change from this – she looked around at the rows of desks – to an endless series of possibilities. She could end up anywhere.
But before that, she had work to do, emails to read, contracts to review. She looked at her inbox. Six hundred and twenty-four emails. She almost groaned.
She was about to sort them by sender so she could read the ones from her boss first when her phone pinged. It was a text message from Gemma.
Check out the news.
She typed a reply.
What is it?
They found another body in Stockton Heath.
It took Kate a few seconds to understand what Gemma was getting at, then it clicked. There’d been another killing. Another murder.
There was a link in the text message. She tapped it with her finger and watched as the story came up.
The body of a woman was found this morning near Walton Reservoir, on the outskirts of the village of Stockton Heath. Police were called to the scene by a local resident who spotted something unusual when out running.
This is the second body of a young female to be found in the vicinity of Stockton Heath. It follows the discovery ten days ago of Jenna Taylor, 27, not far from the location where the latest victim was found. Speculation is mounting that the two killings may be linked. When asked about the possibility that there was a serial killer at work, the police said it was too early to comment, but they would be pursuing all lines of inquiry.
A police spokesperson said that the woman was in her mid to late twenties, and named her as Audra Collins.
She blinked at the screen. She read the name again to be sure.
Audra Collins.
She knew Audra Collins.
She knew her because she knew everyone who was around her age and who had been at high school with her. That was how small towns worked.
But she also knew her because people had always said that Audra Collins could be her sister. Or your secret twin, they joked. Proof of human cloning.
May and Gemma had joked that the first victim – Jenna Taylor – looked like her. She was dead, and now Audra Collins – her secret twin, her clone – had joined her.
And the joke wasn’t funny any more.
She picked up her mobile phone and scrolled to May’s number. She was about to press call when a voice interrupted her.
‘Welcome back.’
Kate looked up; it was Michaela, her boss. She put her phone down, screen to the desk. She always felt guilty when she was caught reading the news or sending texts at work.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just checking the news. Someone sent me something.’
‘Oh? Anything interesting?’ Michaela said.
‘Did you hear about the body they found a week ago?’ Kate said. ‘Near Stockton Heath?’
Michaela nodded. ‘Did they find the killer?’
‘No. They found another body. Another woman in her twenties.’
Michaela’s mouth opened. ‘You’re kidding? Is it the same person, do they think?’
‘They don’t know.’ Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘But it seems a hell of a coincidence if it isn’t.’ Too much of a coincidence, she thought, especially since they look so similar.
‘Well,’ Michaela said. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around on your own, if I was you.’
‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘That’s what I need to hear when I’m newly single.’
‘Speaking of that, how was your holiday?’
‘Great.’ She repeated the bland formula from earlier. ‘Really great.’
‘Good,’ Michaela said. ‘It was a busy week. Glad you’re back. Are you free at ten? There’s some stuff I need you to work on. We can meet in the conference room.’
The small talk was over. Michaela was back in business mode.
‘Of course,’ Kate said. ‘See you then.’
At four p.m. – an hour or so before his normal departure time – Phil shut down his computer. He watched the screen go black, then put his laptop in his bag. He was leaving work early. An idea had come to him during the day. And it was a good one. An excellent one. It could not go wrong.
It went like this:
Kate had come home from holiday at midnight, after a week away, a week in which whatever food she had in her house would have gone off. OK, there might be some pasta and sauce and packets of soup and things like that, but there would not be any fresh stuff: no fruit, no vegetables, no bread, no milk, no cheese, no meat, no fish.
So he would take her some. Yes, they had broken up; yes, he knew that he was not handling it well; yes, she had made it clear that she wanted some distance between them, but this was different. This was merely a friendly, thoughtful gesture to help her transition from holiday to home. He’d knock on the front door, hand over a bag – or bags – and then, if she wanted him to, he’d leave. No problem.
Of course, if she saw that he was a standout guy, a caring, resourceful, loving partner and decided to ask him in to share the meal, then he would accept. As a friend. To provide some company; nothing more, nothing less.
And if they ended up having amazing, mind-blowing make-up sex, then that would be OK too.
Phil stopped himself following that train of thought. It was simultaneously too exciting and too upsetting for him to handle. He took a deep breath, and walked out to his blue Ford Mondeo.
Or his Ford Mundane-o, as her dad had called it. He was into cars and he always teased Phil for his choice. As Phil pointed out, it was practical and good value for money, and – above all – safe, which you would have thought would appeal to a father, but her dad had shaken his head and told him to get a Triumph Stag or something with soul. He knew he was only teasing him – Kate’s dad teased him all the time – but Phil hated it. It had probably contributed to Kate dumping him. He felt his resentment rise.
No – enough of that. That was the past. For now, he had a job to do.
Kate was normally home around