The Stranger You Know (12 page)

Besides, the victims had more in common with me than with Burt. I was their age, more or less. I could have walked into Kirsty’s place and set up home without changing a thing, from what I’d seen in the crime-scene pictures. Usually the crime scenes I visited were the places no one wants to go – the festering one-bed flats in bleak, poverty-stricken areas, the sad, dated homes of forgotten pensioners, the back alleys and abandoned buildings and bits of secluded waste ground where bodies were dumped. Murder was a great leveller and I had been to lavish, multi-million-pound properties as well as the dives where you didn’t want to touch anything, where you knew if you sat down you’d stand up with fleas. But I had never been so conscious of the hair’s-breadth difference between me and the victims as on this case. I was luckier, and hopefully wiser, and I was very definitely not single any more, but I didn’t have to work too hard to know these girls.

‘Did you get the results from the technical examination? Did they find anything on Anna’s iPad?’

‘It was wiped. The history was cleared.’ I could hear the frustration she was feeling. ‘They’re trying to retrieve data from it but they told me there wasn’t likely to be much. It was almost new, apparently.’

‘Do you think it was the killer who cleared the history?’

‘We can’t speculate about that. We’ll never know.’

I felt reproved. She was right, of course. Unless we found the murderer and he was cooperative enough to tell us if he’d done it. ‘It could have been Anna. It was her habit to clear it at the end of a session. Her computer at work was the same.’

‘Was it? Damn.’

‘Yes, but it’s still worth recovering and examining. I’ve told Anna’s colleagues not to touch it until someone comes to collect it. Because guess what Anna had been looking at before she died.’

Burt listened as I outlined what I had found, the trail that led to the Met website. Without seeing her face I couldn’t even guess what she thought about it. There was something massive about her silence, something more than concentration. But her only comment when I had finished was, ‘Where are you going now?’

‘Back to the office. I’ve got some paperwork to do, and—’

‘What about following up those leads in Lewisham? The book club and support groups.’

‘Oh,’ I said lamely. ‘I could.’

‘It may seem insignificant to you but it’s the sort of legwork that can make a case. And it was your idea.’

‘No, I think it’s definitely worthwhile. It’s just that I wasn’t planning—’

‘You might think it’s not time-sensitive given that Kirsty has been dead for almost a year, but we have an active serial killer at work in the city and I don’t need to remind you that the intervals between murders are getting shorter. Make no mistake about it, this needs a prompt response.’

‘Yes. Of course. I understand that. But I thought it was a bit of a long shot.’

‘This late in the day, they’re all long shots.’ Burt sounded tired. ‘Get it done. And Maeve?’

‘Yep.’

‘I thought the others did a good job, from their presentation, even though they didn’t make this particular connection. They were thorough. Make sure you don’t tread on any toes while you’re on their patch.’

I rolled my eyes. Being lectured on politeness by Una Burt was like taking make-up advice from Barbara Cartland. ‘I’ll keep it in mind. But I think if we have problems with anyone it will be Andy Bradbury.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Because he’s a dickhead
. ‘Because he’s recently promoted and he seemed defensive at the meeting earlier.’

‘So he did. Was he like that when you met him before?’

‘Pretty much.’

She made a noise that after a moment of sheer disbelief I identified as a chuckle. ‘Rest assured I will take great pleasure in going through his work on this case and finding out what he has done wrong.’

‘Without treading on his toes.’

‘Some toes deserve it.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.

I’d armed myself with a few pictures of Kirsty Campbell, given that she’d been dead for nine months, but I didn’t need to remind anyone in Blackheath about her. The article in the evening paper had brought her right to the forefront of most people’s minds. Anna’s death had led the news all day and there was a strange, unseemly excitement in the air, a kind of suppressed thrill that something was actually happening, right there and then, something potentially historic in a Jack the Ripper sort of way. I was too close to the reality of violent death to see why it was exciting.

I walked from the station to the flat where she’d died, following in her footsteps, seeing what she had seen. More than ever I found myself identifying with her as I walked along the busy main street and into the quieter residential roads where the lights were starting to come on in the houses. I recognised the block of flats from some way off and walked around the outside of the building. There was no value in demanding to see the flat where she’d died. I was too late to see it as she’d arranged it, and I had the crime-scene photos to study. But I noted that Kirsty’s flat was at the front, and not overlooked. The security on the building wasn’t all that impressive either. I wondered if the killer had started with where she lived when he was thinking of choosing a victim. It had been pretty much perfect for his purposes.

I made some progress once I started talking to people, finding the place where she had her dry-cleaning done and the shop where she always bought the paper on Saturdays. A smart, newly painted pub with squashy leather sofas and a huge collection of board games was the venue for the knitting club Kirsty had briefly attended, though the landlord couldn’t remember her.

‘We get so many in, you see.’ He eyed me, as much on edge as if I was going to blame him for what had happened, and take away his licence.

‘Do you have any other groups that meet here?’

‘Rugby club on a Tuesday night. Bitching Stitching on Wednesday, which is the quilting group – their name for it, not mine,’ he said, noticing the look on my face. ‘Knitwits is on Mondays. Thursday to Sunday we’re too busy to spare the space.’

‘No book clubs?’

He shook his head. ‘The library might.’

I thanked him but not effusively. Derwent would have said something sarcastic to him about joining the Met with brilliant ideas of that sort. He hadn’t been much help. Kirsty was a pretty, nicely spoken woman and it bothered me that he couldn’t recall her, probably because she’d been gentle and polite and hadn’t made a fuss about anything.

Maybe that was what the victims had in common, I thought, walking on down the street as a double-decker bus tore past, swaying as it went, apparently seconds from overturning. They were the kind of women who could be overlooked, despite being conventionally attractive and reasonably successful. They were introverts and being singled out for attention was such a change for them it made them drop their guard. Because they had to have done that to let their killer in. I couldn’t escape the conclusion that he’d made them trust him.

Or they were too scared to do anything but follow his orders. I shivered, imagining myself in their shoes. I couldn’t fool myself that they had been anything other than terrified at the end, when they knew they had no way out. I’d have bargained, and fought, and begged, and done anything at all to save my life, but maybe they had done all that and more. Or maybe they had abandoned hope in the face of implacable evil. Only the killer knew now.

At some level I had decided I would find what I was looking for at the library, so it was a disappointment to discover that there wasn’t a book group there, at least not for young women. They had a group for the pensioners, and a club for schoolchildren.

‘We’ve been forced to reduce our opening hours to save money so we can’t offer any evening sessions,’ the librarian explained. ‘That means we’re not really able to reach the younger professionals who might be interested in that sort of thing.’

‘Do you know if there is a book group locally? The sort of place Kirsty might have wanted to go?’

The librarian tilted his head to one side. He seemed fearsomely competent, and had been brisk in dealing with the large queue. I was holding things up. There were about twenty people standing behind me, and it was five minutes to closing time. The library was intensely hot, too, and I wished I’d taken off my coat when I went in.

‘I’m not aware of a book group. Leave me your contact details though, and I’ll check with my colleagues.’

‘What about a support group? For bereavement, or eating disorders, or—’

He was shaking his head.

I gave him my card and went to stand outside, the cool air a pleasant shock after the tropical heat. They could save on some costs if they turned the thermostat down, I thought. I was tired, and frustrated. This whole trip had been a huge waste of time.

‘Excuse me. Sorry. I was in the queue behind you and I couldn’t help overhearing …’ The girl was standing about two feet away from me and I hadn’t noticed her at all. She was wearing a hand-knitted scarf with long tassels, and a matching hat that she had pulled down over her eyebrows. ‘You’re the police, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Investigating Kirsty Campbell’s death?’

‘Among others.’

‘I heard about the others. That one in Tottenham, today.’ She plaited the tassels and undid them again, her fingers flying. She was tall and slender, slightly ungainly, and young in a way that had nothing to do with her actual age.

‘Can I help you with something?’ I didn’t sound encouraging. She would want advice on staying safe, reassurance that there was no reason to be afraid. My patience for that sort of thing was not infinite, and I was tired.

‘I knew her. Kirsty.’

‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘From church.’

I tried to remember if we’d known Kirsty was religious. ‘I didn’t know Kirsty went to church.’

‘She didn’t. Not really. Neither do I. But the vicar at St Mary’s did a series of lectures that we both went to.’

‘What were the lectures about?’

‘Personal empowerment.’ She flushed a little. ‘It was about taking control of your life. Not depending on anyone else for fulfilment. I think the idea was that we were supposed to start depending on Jesus or something, but that didn’t really happen.’

She’d just gone from potential nuisance to potential lead, and I felt my heart rate pick up. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t. I’m Ruth Johnson. But everyone calls me Jonty.’

‘Has anyone spoken to you about your friendship with Kirsty since she died? Anyone from the police, I mean?’

‘No.’ She squirmed. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be interested. We weren’t friends really. I mean, I only met her three times.’

‘It all helps. Especially if there’s something that’s been bothering you.’

‘Well. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s probably not important.’

I’ll be the judge of that
. ‘Look, is there anywhere around here that we could talk?’

‘Bon Café is nice.’

I didn’t care about nice. I cared about whatever Jonty Johnson had been suppressing for nine months because she didn’t have the nerve or the notion to go into the police station and ask to speak to whoever was handling Kirsty Campbell’s murder investigation. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight until I’d found out what it was.

Bon Café turned out to be devoted to ultra-organic vegetarian food – pulses and quinoa – and was painted green in a fairly literal-minded way. I sat on a bench that was just the wrong height for me and backless so I couldn’t even slouch. The muddy liquid they called coffee came in a thick earthenware mug that was rough to the touch and quite startlingly unpleasant to drink out of.

Jonty had chosen a herbal tea that came in a glass, which was an improvement on what I had. It smelled, however, like tomcats’ bottoms. That didn’t seem to put her off. If it was the reason her skin glowed, it would almost be worth drinking it, because she had the radiance of someone who habitually washed in melted snow. Under the hat she had thick fair hair that she’d plaited and twisted and attached to her head somehow. She had narrow eyes that she’d made smaller with black liner, and her eyebrows were straight and thick. Her teeth were very white, and small, and spaced out like milk teeth. I was aware of the guy behind the counter staring across at her, admiring the effect. Jonty herself seemed oblivious. She was looking everywhere but at me, fidgeting in her seat, checking her phone and her watch. Now that we were indoors and face to face, her confessional urge had sputtered and died. I started with an easy one.

‘Tell me about the lectures.’

‘Um – it was a three-week programme. Once a week, fifty minutes long. Non-denominational, but I think you were supposed to want to go on to do the Alpha Course and become a fully fledged Christian.’

‘When was it?’

‘January. It started right after Christmas. For everyone who’d resolved to get their lives in order, I suppose.’ She sounded ironic.

‘Was that why you did it?’

‘Oh yeah. Time to stand on my own two feet and stop depending on other people. My parents, specifically. I needed to cut the apron strings.’

I thought of my own parents with a qualm. My life choices were so clearly not what they had wanted for me, from my job to my unmarried status. I went my own way and I made my own decisions, but basically I was still trying to make it up to them that I hadn’t done what they expected. I was still hoping that they might one day be proud of me. Most of my friends didn’t seem to have this problem. I had a feeling it was an Irish thing.

‘Did you manage it?’

‘Not really. My parents are very controlling. They’re rich. They bought my flat. I just can’t afford to walk away from them yet.’

‘What job do you do?’

‘I’m a singer. I write songs for other people too.’ She sipped her tea, then anticipated my next question. ‘I don’t make a living out of it or anything. I keep going because it’s what I want to do.’

‘How did you find out about the lectures?’

‘I saw the course advertised outside the church and it just seemed like it might be interesting, you know? It was one of those “Keep Calm” posters, like the wartime information ones.’ She laughed a little. ‘Typical – they’re not exactly trendsetting at that church. Like, those posters are so overplayed. But this one was “Keep Calm and Find Happiness”. And then underneath it said, “You can be everything you need”. It just spoke to me. I was feeling really frazzled and stressed out and down and like I should just give up, and all I wanted was to take a moment for myself. I wanted to find myself without having to go off and travel the Far East for a year.’ The tea slopped over the side of her glass as she turned it on the saucer. ‘Again, I mean. Anyway, it was free.’