jamb. Her stare was hard, as if she was used to dealing with the police at her doorstep, and Laura knew that they had been clocked straight away as that. But Laura sensed her uncertainty. Bad news or another pointless warrant?
Carson gave her a regret-filled smile. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Why?’ she said, the colour draining from her cheeks.
‘It really would be better if we came inside.’
‘Is it about Jane?’
Carson paused just long enough to give away the truth, and the woman’s eyes widened in shock.
She seemed to recover quickly, her default reaction to the police coming back, but still she couldn’t help swallowing hard when she asked, ‘Have you found her?’
Carson stepped towards her and let out a long, heavy sigh. ‘Did Jane have a butterfly tattoo on her wrist?’
At that, Mrs Roberts’ grip on the door slackened, and her eyes glazed over before she slumped to the floor.
Carson looked at Laura and then stepped forward to help her into the house.
Jack rooted through the newspapers he kept in his car to find the name of the first victim – Deborah Corley. He remembered her house, he had driven past it on the day she’d been found but had been beaten to the scoop by one of the employed writers. The newspapers were now strewn across the passenger seat, with pictures of Deborah and posed photographs of Deborah’s parents, looking tearful, a framed photograph of their daughter held on the mother’s knee.
The house was a large Victorian semi on the edge of Blackley, with a small square patch of flowers behind a low stone wall, the red brick of the house dark and covered in moss in places. A flower basket hung by the front door and the curtains in the white-framed sash windows were tied back neatly.
Jack stepped up to the front door. A woman watched from the house next door, and her look of disapproval said that she knew what he was doing: intruding. He steeled himself and turned away. He knew that her parents didn’t deserve the attention. He had the jump on the other media though, because he was on the spot. Blackley wasn’t a large town, and young women didn’t get murdered too often here. When the out-of-town press made the connection, this quiet crescent of driveways and two-car households would become busy with cameras.
He rang the doorbell.
There was a pause as the soft chimes echoed around the house, but then there was a twitch of a curtain, and when the door opened a few seconds later, a woman with a pale face and bags under her eyes looked out. Jack recognised her from the newspaper, although he could already see the weight dropping from her.
‘I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mrs Corley,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jack Garrett and I’m a reporter. I’ve come to see how you are doing, whether you’ve got any more news.’
She looked at him for a moment, as if she was going to slam the door in his face.
‘If Deborah’s killer is going to be caught, we need to keep her story in the news,’ he said.
She faltered at that, and then just turned and went inside. Jack followed.
It looked like she had spent the past three weeks cleaning the house, perhaps just to keep herself occupied. There was a strong smell of air freshener and the stair rails that climbed out of the hallway looked polished.
Jack followed her along a tiled hallway, stepping past a fishing rod and bait box, and into the room at the front. There was a dining table in the room behind, and the brief glimpse out of the rear window gave a view of a neat lawn surrounded by a splash of flowers. The room looked spotless. There were the tracks of a vacuum cleaner in the carpet, and the fireplace gleamed, the flowered tiles reflecting the light streaming in through the window. Photograph frames sat in a neat row on the mantelpiece. This had been a happy home.
As Jack looked out of the window, he was surprised to see the reservoir in the distance, where Deborah had been found. What must it feel like to see that all day, knowing what it meant?
‘I know this is not a good time,’ Jack said, as he settled into a chair, to make sure he stayed, ‘but I meant what I said, that we need to keep Deborah’s story in the news.’
She looked at the television for a moment. It was playing but the sound was turned down, as if it was there for the sake of distraction, not entertainment.
‘The police told me that, but it doesn’t make it any easier,’ she said. ‘Reliving it.’
‘And how are you?’
Tears welled up in her eyes and she took a deep breath. ‘Just getting by.’
‘What about your husband? How is he doing?’
She looked down. ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘He wants to go back to work, but he can’t face being there, because he knows everyone will be talking about Deborah.’
Jack shuffled in his chair, knowing that he was getting to the difficult part. ‘You know there’s been another?’ he said.
She stared into space for a few seconds before looking down at her lap. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The police called earlier and told me to expect press visits. I’m expecting Mike back soon.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘For a walk,’ she said. ‘He does that a lot now.’
Jack couldn’t respond to that. ‘Can you think of any reason why your daughter should be a target?’ he said instead.
Her chin puckered and her hand shot to her eyes, to wipe away the tears.
‘None at all,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s a bloody cliché, I know, but she was a lovely girl, would do anything for anybody, and then some bastard comes along and just takes her away.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she said, her voice softer now, ‘but that’s what he is. Can you imagine what it is like to watch your daughter leave the house and never return? It had seemed like just another day. If I’d known…’ and she shrugged. ‘Well, things would have been different.’
‘You would have kept her safe at home, if you’d known,’ Jack said gently. ‘But you couldn’t know, and that’s why it is so cruel.’
She nodded, a smile breaking through the tears. Then there was the slam of the front door, followed by footsteps.
‘It must be Mike,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wary.
A small black-and-white mongrel bustled into the room and sniffed at Jack’s hands, checking out the stranger in the house.
‘He’s harmless,’ she said, her voice husky, and then looked up when Mike Corley walked in. He was dressed in jeans and a jumper, holding a dog lead. Jack guessed his age as early fifties. The faint boozer’s flush to his cheeks and the sag of his belly told him that he was dealing with his loss quite differently to his wife.
When he saw Jack, he scowled.
‘Hello, I’m a reporter,’ Jack said.
‘I
