Page 38 of The Serial Killer's Sister
I press reject. I’m not ready yet.
My mug clinks against Ross’s as I pop it in the dishwasher, and I have to focus hard to stop the tears coming again. It’s the little things that cause the most devastation. ‘Huh!’ I stand with my hands on my hips, a U2 song popping into my mind: ‘It’s the little things that give you away,’ I say out loud, as something tugs on my memory. In a lot of criminal cases you hear that it’s something small, seemingly inconsequential, that when put under the microscope gives context or links the pieces of the puzzle together.
Have I missed something else in Henry’s riddles? A hidden meaning; an extra clue – something to point me in a certain direction?
I have yet to venture outside, and now I rush to the front doorstep to check if another envelope awaits. Nausea swills in my belly – whether from the anticipation or the hangover, I don’t know.
Nothing.
I peer up the street, walk up the path and step out into the road. Seagulls swoop and I’m about to swear at them when I notice a man in the distance. He seems to be looking in my direction, but then turns and goes the opposite way, back towards Ness Cove. I squint, hoping it will give me clearer vision so I can tell if it’s the same man I’ve seen outside my house before. Just because I’ve only noticed him on two occasions doesn’t mean he’s not been hanging around for longer. Couldhebe Henry?
Retreating back inside my house, I slam the door and lock it. Then I check the back door and all the windows to make sure everything’s secure. By the time I go back to the kitchen and pick up my mobile, I’ve had three missed calls from DI Walker.
The knock at the back door sends a bolt of fear right through my body and I freeze. I can make out a large, dark mass through the frosted glass panel. My first instinct is to hide – duck down behind the breakfast bar; pretend I’m not here. But the flight response is replaced by fight, and I slide a knife from the block and approach the door with it gripped in my hand, my arm raised. My breathing shallows and the sound of my heart whooshes inside my ears. The knocking becomes more urgent, each rap like a gunshot. I screw my eyes up. It could be Ross, in which case this stress reaction is wasted. And I’d best not attack him for the second time this week.
The knocking stops. Has he gone?
I open my eyes, force my shoulders down, take some slow breaths; then, with the knife held in an attack position, I unlock the door.
Chapter 25
DI Walker’s horrified look as I fling the door open suggests he wasn’t expecting a knife-wielding maniac.
‘I tried calling,’ he says quickly, one hand up in defence. ‘I was worried when you didn’t answer.’
‘The front door might’ve made a more sensible entry point,’ I say, lowering the knife, my whole body trembling with the adrenaline. ‘You’d better come in.’ It’s as he’s stepping inside that I notice the envelope in his other hand. I frown. ‘What, now he’s leaving them on the back step?’
‘This?’ he holds up the thick envelope. ‘No, sorry. I thought going through some evidence might be useful.’
I chew on the inside of my cheek. ‘Time is running out, I suppose.’
‘We are up against it,’ he says. ‘May I?’ He indicates the stool at the breakfast bar.
‘Sure.’ I push the knife back into its slot in the block and take the stool opposite the detective.
‘How are you doing?’ he says, his expression etched with an empathy that immediately makes me want to cry.
‘Well, let’s see. I’m embroiled in some whacko game with a serial killer, I’ve been suspended from the job I love, and …’ I suck in air, blowing it out slowly to ease a pang of nausea. ‘I’ve found out that my husband has been shagging his employee.’ DI Walker raises one eyebrow and grimaces. To add to his discomfort, I add: ‘Oh, and she’s pregnant with his baby.’ I’d yet to vocalise the words and now I’ve uttered them, it’s become real. Fact. I didn’t think your heart could hurt – like proper physical pain – unless you were having a heart attack. I was wrong. Tears blur my vision; I blink rapidly. ‘All in all, it’s been a great week.’
DI Walker nods like none of this is news. Which mostly, it isn’t. He can’t know about Ross and Yasmin or the baby, though, surely?Please tell me I’m not the last to know. Maybe his interrogation training just means that he is good at masking his reactions.
‘I’m sorry you’re having such a tough time of it, Anna.’ He seems genuine, his eyes sorrowful as they look into mine, and I almost lose myself in the sharp blue irises – they always look so bright, unlike mine, which today I know are dulled by my hangover. I wonder if he sees that now, or whether there’s something else he notices, because they narrow ever so slightly. I drop my gaze, worried that he might read what’s behind them. In need of a change of subject, I point to the envelope.
‘What delights are in there, then?’ My voice is monotone, weary.
‘How about we discuss it over coffee?’
‘Sure you don’t want anything stronger?’
‘It’s nine-thirty a.m., Anna. There’s one day to go, so we need clear heads.’ I smart at his judgemental tone. But making a jokey comment to a detective working a murder case was probably not the best idea.
‘Sorry. I tend to use humour as a coping mechanism.’ I smile thinly before getting up. I make coffee on autopilot, my attention on DI Walker as he sifts through the contents of the envelope. There’s a lot in it, from what I can tell.
‘Do you have family, Detective?’ I’m not sure why I ask this – maybe to talk about something more normal before the inevitable discussion about Henry and his victims, or to somehow find a connection, something relatable between us. DI Walker looks thoughtful but doesn’t answer. ‘Or are you told not to share personal information with sisters of serial killers?’
Now he laughs.
‘Boundaries are there for everyone’s protection, Anna.’
