Page 42 of The Tapes
Carly was an optimal target killed at the optimal moment. The next time anyone saw her was in a shallow grave in the remote hills outside town. It was the middle of the following week and a couple walking their dog stumbled across the grim sight.
Police treated it as a murder immediately. The fact Carly was wearing just one earring was noted in the autopsy, though not a particular focus until the body of Janine Bailey was discovered four months later. By the time a third victim was killed almostexactly a year later, the words ‘serial killer’ were being spoken about seriously.
Lorna knew none of that at the time of Carly’s disappearance, of course. ‘I just couldn’t get over what a waste it all was,’ Lorna says. ‘I assumed the police would find someone but they never did. Then there was another victim, then another. Suddenly we were all making sure everyone had a safe way home. Women would go out of their way to ask other women what their plans were, things like that. Maybe that was a positive – but nothing made up for Carly.’
We’re back in Lorna’s house now. It’s shoes off at the door, rows of family photographs on the walls and up the stairs. A pair of comfy sofas face the television, with the window above – and the ghosts of a factory long since gone.
‘I went to the funeral,’ Lorna says. ‘Carly doesn’t come from round here. She’d moved for a boyfriend and when they broke up, she stayed around. I went to her hometown and met her mum and dad, plus loads of her old school friends. Nobody had a bad word to say about her. Her friends said she was smart and fun. They all assumed she’d end up running something, or creating something. Just one of those people who got on with everyone.’
Lorna stops, stares through the window into the invisible abyss. ‘It’s such a waste,’ she says. ‘Even now, years later, it’s such a waste.’
TWENTY
It would be easier if I stayed in for the evening – but I find myself back at Dad’s house. Faith and I finally made some real progress in clearing the garage the day before but there’s still so much to do. It doesn’t help that my brother is keen for us to sell but has no interest in doing the work that will make that happen. He knows I need the money more than he does. He can wait – I can’t, especially now I quit my job.
It’s just about still light outside as I continue filling bags with rubbish. It feels as if my mind works clearer in Dad’s house.
Poor Carly Nicholson was the first victim of the Earring Killer, back when I was nine years old. She worked in the same place as Mark at the time, when he’d have been in his early twenties. It’s a weak connection – but I discovered that just hours after seeing him in that football photograph, standing behind Owen.
Two people, both dead, decades apart, but there’s a chance Mark could’ve been the last person to see the pair of them.
That’s more of a link than any of the victims have to my father. Because one thing is for certain. Despite my curiosity over when he left home, and what he was doing on thosenights he told Harriet he was out walking, he couldn’t have had anything to do with whatever happened to Owen.
I clear more of Dad’s things, wondering if there’s a link from Mark to any of the other victims. He overheard me talking to Owen about the tape, and I can’t remember whether I mentioned ‘Earring Killer’.
Did I get Owen killed?
It’s hard to ignore the thought that if I’d kept the cassette to myself, he’d still be around. The guilt and grief overwhelm for a moment. A lump in the throat, itching behind the eyes, so many blinks to try to control myself. Nothing is certain and I need to push on.
I’m on a roll: eight bags filled and it’s close to the point where the only things left in the garage are items that might actually be worth something. It feels symbolic with Dad’s funeral only hours away. My phone pings and I assume it’s Faith, asking either when I’m going to be home – or if I can pick up something for her on the way back.
I almost jump because the name on the screen is the person I’ve spent the last hour obsessing over. It’s as if he’s been reading my mind from afar.
Drop in ur keys 2moz
It takes a second read for me to realise I still have a set of keys for the gates of both of Mark’s businesses. On the rare occasion he’s off, it’s me who opens up the landscaping yard, plus the storage office next door. I rarely have to use them and they’re in the bottom of my bag.
The last thing I want, especially now, is some sort of confrontation with my former boss. For one, it’s Dad’s funeral tomorrow – but, second, I’m in such a frame of mind that I can see myself either accusing him of murdering Owen, or falling tomy knees and begging for my job back. I’m not sure whether I can trust myself at the moment. I try a couple of possible replies, but nothing comes out right. Then I figure I can drive to the office, put the keys through the mailbox and leave it at that.
I finish filling another bag and then drag everything to the front of the garage, ready to take to the tip. That done, I cross through the front of the house and lock the front door. I’m about to get into my car when the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I stop, standing straighter and turning to take in the street. The sky is a bluey purple, and neighbours are starting to close their curtains. There’s someone in an upstairs window across the street, though they aren’t paying me any attention.
Then I spot the small silver car.
It’s parked half-a-dozen vehicles along the road, slotted underneath a different streetlight. The same car I saw here yesterday; likely the same one Faith said was following her near the college.
The one she speculated could be being driven by her grandmother.
I move across to the pavement, half slotted in behind a bush as I peer along the street properly, trying not to make it obvious. As far as I can tell, there’s nobody inside the vehicle, nor anyone on the road. I move around a parked car and cross the deserted road, then start walking towards the silver vehicle.
I’m a couple of car lengths away when a woman strides purposefully from the nearest alley. She’s holding a phone, the screen lit, as she plops her bag on the car bonnet and starts to hunt for something.
She hasn’t noticed me but Faith was right about her appearance. She’s likely mid-sixties, with whitish-silvery hair in a bun. There’s a similarity that’s hard to define yet difficult to dismiss. I’m a few paces away when the woman finds her carkeys with a satisfied sigh. She blips the fob to open the car and then turns to see me standing in the shadows.
The word is out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying.
‘Mum?’
TWENTY-ONE
