Page 9 of The Serial Killer's Sister
The big question currently burning a hole in my mind is: who posted the footage? I only learned about Henry about an hour prior to the zebra crossing incident, but could he have somehow had a hand in taking or uploading the video? No one could’ve foreseen me almost hitting a pupil, though, let alone have anticipated my reaction. Surely this has to be separate. Or, itislinked in that someone has grasped the opportunity I so helpfully gavethem and run with it. I simply played into their hands. So, the next question has to bewhy?
A splatter of greyish liquid hits the windscreen, bringing me out of my thoughts. I spot the offender, sitting on the telephone post, and I swear the seagull is laughing. I burst from the car, slamming the door and stand with my hands on my hips.
‘Don’t think you’re alone in the shitting-on-Anna-Price department, mate,’ I shout up at it. A man I don’t recognise walks past on the opposite pavement and looks up in the direction I yelled, then turns back to me.
‘Afternoon,’ he says with a nod. And then he offers a smile that smacks of sympathy, even pity. I mutter a quick hello and dart up the path, my face flushed.
Inside, I fling my bag on the sofa and run upstairs. My laptop lies open on the dressing table-cum-desk and I fire it up. With the inside of my cheek firmly between my teeth, I find the offending footage on the ‘Spotted Staverton’ Facebook page and while biting the end of a biro, watch it again. This time, with no one else scrutinising my reaction, I take my time and study it frame by frame. The angle tells me that it’s from a CCTV camera, not someone’s mobile as I first assumed. How did someone get hold of it so quickly?
I slam the chewed pen down on the table. This changes things. Ithasto be connected to this morning’s visit from the detective; the timing is too coincidental. I go back downstairs to the kitchen and dig the card out of the bin. Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial the number. It rings several times and I’m about to hang up, but then the tone alters. There’s a pause; silence for a moment, and I begin to think no one will speak. Then I hear the deep, hypnotic voice I was expecting.
‘Detective Inspector Walker; how may I help?’
For a split second, my voice freezes. Earlier my gut was telling me to stay clear of this investigation, yet here I am callinghim. What am I doing? But I need answers – so instead of ending the call, I clear my throat.
‘It’s Anna Price,’ I say. There’s a moment of hesitation on his end, so I add helpfully, ‘You came to see me this morning about Henry Lincoln.’ I hear a noise, like a muffled laugh through a covered mouthpiece.
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Mrs Price,’ he says, and I can tell he’s smiling. Despite not being visible, I’m embarrassed, and my cheeks burn. ‘Have you heard from Henry?’
‘No, no. I’m calling about something else, actually. I’m not sure why, really … it doesn’t seem feasible that it’s got anything to do with it,’ I say, my words all hurried. I already regret making this call. I’m going to sound paranoid. Or worse, I’ll come across as hopeful. Like, if I can somehow blame my behaviour and subsequent public downfall on Henry, I’ll be able to feel better about myself or get out of trouble at work.
‘You sound upset, Mrs Price. Would you prefer to speak face to face?’
I consider this for a few seconds. He is more likely than me to be able to get to the bottom of the zebra crossing footage. Especially now I’m aware it’s from a CCTV camera.
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘Great. I’m at Newton station – you know where that is?’
‘Oh,’ I say, my stomach dropping. ‘I … really don’t want …’ I should’ve expected this after he was keen to get me to the station earlier to discuss the murder cases.I try to think on my feet. ‘I don’t mind talking with you, Detective Walker, alone. But if I’m to help, I’d prefer it if my involvement is kept low-key.’ There’s a pause and I imagine him glaring at me down the phone, shaking his head, thinking I’m being deliberately uncooperative. I bite my lip as I await his response.
‘I can be at yours in fifteen.’ His voice is clipped, and I’m about to thank him, but the phone line goes dead. I assume it’s because he’s so keen that he’s grabbed his suit jacket and is immediately heading over to me. I check the time. If he’s coming, he’ll be here by three.
Not long before school ends, I think. A stabbing pain grips my stomach. I should be with my kids, sending them off with some interesting homework for the evening. I guess Serena will check my teaching plan and set the required work. She must be beside herself worrying about what’s gone on. I’ll give her a call later. Of course, she might have gleaned further information herself by now, and if not, she definitely will at home time. No doubt it’ll be the main topic of discussion with the parents at the school gate. I groan and rub my fingertips into my temples – a tension headache is starting. I go to the cupboard to get some paracetamol.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ross.’ How many times do I have to tell him it irritates the hell out of me that he uses the last of the tablets and puts the box back into the medicine tub? I throw it across the worktop, then pull out a fresh box, stab my nail into the silver foil of the pill packet – the popping sound is strangely soothing – and push two tablets out onto my palm. As I tilt my head back to swallow them, the doorbell sounds. Here we go.
DI Walker is at the door, rigid, like a soldier standingto attention. I wonder if he used to be in the military. He looked young this morning, his face having an air-brushed quality about it, but now he seems to age in front of my eyes. His longer-style hair, which had been gelled and neat earlier, is now somewhat messy. It’s peppered with grey, which I hadn’t noticed before, giving him a Keanu Reeves quality. And although his eyes are still as bright as this morning, the skin beneath them is puffy.
‘This was on your doorstep,’ he says, handing me a large, white envelope. I take it without looking. The post person generally leaves anything bigger than the postage stamp itself on the doorstep because the letterbox is so tiny.
‘Will be for Ross, no doubt.’ But as I cast my eyes down, I see my name printed on it. No stamp, though. My fingers tingle, and I immediately flick my eyes to DI Walker in alarm.
‘You’re not expecting anything, then, I take it,’ he says, eyebrows raised.
The lump in my throat is so huge no words will pass it, so I just shake my head.
‘Don’t touch it anywhere else.’ He turns, striding back to the pavement as I freeze, holding the envelope as though it might explode. He unlocks his car – a black Audi – then returns with a pair of latex gloves. He deftly snaps them on and takes the envelope back from me. ‘Shall we?’ He jerks his head towards the hallway, and I step back inside. He follows me into the lounge and we retake the same seats we’d been in only seven hours earlier.
‘It might be something personal,’ I say, defensively. I don’t know why, but the fact he’s taken over – is about to openmymail – irks me. I’ve no clue what’s inside. Butif it’s from Henry, as he clearly suspects, it might hold something I don’t want anyone else seeing. I inwardly curse. If only I’d gone to the door before he got here, I could’ve opened it in private, decided if it was something I wanted, or needed, to share. Now it appears I have no choice in the matter. I brace myself as he turns it over in his hands.
‘Could you get me a knife, please?’ His attention is fully on the white envelope as he scrutinises it, so he doesn’t catch my miffed expression at him taking over when it’s my letter. But I do notice him flinch slightly at my sigh as I reluctantly get up and go to the kitchen, my mind whirring, trying to find a way I can see whatever is in the envelope before he does. But nothing comes to me.
If it is from Henry, what could possibly be inside? Is he about to reveal the one thing we both promised we’d keep secret? My skin fizzes, with every nerve ending jumping. I need to have some kind of story ready, just in case. I take a knife to DI Walker and while he slowly inserts the point beneath the edge of the envelope, I hover over him, holding my breath. I have the urge to close my eyes tight too, delay the inevitable, but I force them to stay wide. The saliva in my mouth dries up, causing a choking sound as I attempt to swallow. It’s the only sound in the lounge right now; I could literally hear a pin drop.
And then it’s open. And DI Walker is gently extracting what looks to be a page from a newspaper.
‘What is it?’ My voice is creaky, like it needs lubricating. I should’ve got a glass of water while I was in the kitchen. I stand with my arms crossed, my head tilted to try and decipher the words on the page as the detective, his eyes narrowed in concentration, carefully unfolds it.
