‘Look,’ he said. ‘Smoked salmon. And crab pâté. And some white wine. Asparagus. A baguette.’
‘Phil,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to make—’
He put the bag down and opened the other. ‘Vegetables: carrots, potatoes … parsnips – your favourite. They’re organic. And two steaks. Filet mignon. They’ll be delicious.’
She folded her arms. ‘Why two steaks, Phil?’
He stared at her, speechless.
‘I thought this was something to welcome me back, to make sure I had food in the house?’
‘It is.’
‘Then why two steaks? I only need one.’
He blinked. He didn’t need to answer the question. They both knew why there were two: one for each of them. Which meant that this wasn’t a kind, selfless gesture, after all, but a desperate attempt to get back together with her.
He put the bags on the stone step. The bottle clinked.
‘Do whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Sorry I tried to be helpful.’
‘Don’t guilt-trip me, Phil.’
He looked at her, at the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, and he realized that it might be over, after all, that this might be for real, that he might be losing – have lost – her for good.
That couldn’t happen. Not under any circumstances. He had to get her back. Had to.
He turned and walked back to his car. Behind him, he heard the door shut. As he drove away, he saw that the bags were still outside.
Kate watched him leave from the window, saw him glance back at the bags on the front step.
It was a kind gesture – typical of him, in many ways. He was thoughtful and caring and she loved him, she did, but not enough. Not in the way she once had. And, more to the point, the more this went on, the more she lost respect for him. She understood that he was hurting – she was, too, she missed him – but he needed to accept it and move on.
And so she hadn’t taken his bags of food; if she did, she worried that it would create an expectation on Phil’s part that she owed him something. But now they were sitting on her front step.
This is stupid, she thought, there’s no point wasting it. And I can’t leave it outside, littering the street. It’ll end up attracting foxes.
She opened the door and picked up the bags. In the kitchen, she texted Phil.
Sorry if I was short. I’m really tired. Thanks for the stuff – it’s very kind.
Then she unpacked the bags, poured a glass of wine and switched on the television. It was the local news, and they were reporting on Audra Collins.
Kate hadn’t seen much of Audra for a few years. She was a nurse, and, with her boyfriend, had a three-year-old daughter, so she wasn’t out and about all that much.
God, her daughter. Kate had met her once. A sweet, blonde, curly-haired girl called Chrissie with large, soulful eyes and a quiet smile.
She would never see her mum again. She’d grow up knowing that her mum had been out running early one morning before her shift started, and had been killed – dragged into the bushes and strangled to death – by some sick bastard. She would learn from an early age that the world was not safe, that she could never be sure that someone would not reach out and grab her and put her life to an end like they’d done to the woman – who she would barely remember – who had brought her into this sick world.
The police were pursuing all lines of inquiry, and asked that if anyone had seen anything, however small, that might be of interest to them, they should come forward.
Which meant that they had no idea what was going on.
A reporter was on location at the reservoir, speaking to camera. She turned up the television so she could hear.
Tonight, people are left wondering whether these two brutal murders are linked. The police are not confirming this, yet, but it certainly seems to be a strong possibility, especially when the similarity in the way the two women were killed is taken into consideration. It is also notable that the victims share some physical resemblances …
So the media had picked up on it too. It was hard not to. On the screen there was a photo of Jenna Taylor alongside one of Audra Collins. They shared the same appearance: long, straight, near-black hair, dark eyes, pretty. Slender build. A slightly exotic, ethereal look.
Her grandma – who was from Youghal, in County Cork – had called it the ‘Irish look’. She said it came from the old country.
She said Kate had it.
And looking at the photos of Jenna Taylor and Audra Collins, they had it too.
Kate picked up her phone and called May. She needed to find out what was going on. May’s fiancé, Gus, was a newly minted police constable, and would have the inside scoop.
‘Hey,’ she said, when May picked up. ‘I’m watching the news. About the latest murder.’
‘God, I know,’ May said. ‘It’s horrendous. I feel so sorry for Chrissie.’
‘Do they have any idea who’s behind it? Did Gus hear anything?’
‘He was telling me about it earlier. After the first one, they thought it was the boyfriend – it normally is – but he’s off the hook now. He has an alibi for this one.’
‘Do the police think they’re linked? Is this a serial killer?’
‘They’re not saying so publicly. Gus said that they don’t like to start throwing around words like “serial killer” until they’re absolutely sure, but privately they’re working on the assumption that it’s the same person. There were a lot of similarities between them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Both strangled. Gus said that there was a lot of bruising on the bodies, which suggests there was a high degree of violence. And they were both raped …’ May hesitated. ‘Post-mortem.’
‘Oh my God. You mean he had sex with their corpses?’
‘Seems so. Sick bastard.’
Kate tried to clear the image from her mind. She sipped her wine. This kind of thing was both repellent and fascinating at the same time; she had the kind of morbid curiosity that she always had when there was some disaster in the news, only this time it was all the more intense – and came with a frisson of worry and fear – because it was right on her doorstep.
‘If it is a serial killer,’ she said. ‘There might
