Killing Kate - Alex Lake

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sure. They were driving close to me, flashing their lights. And now they’re stalking me.’

      Carl gave her a sceptical look, then shrugged.

      ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check it out.’

      He walked outside. As he did, there was a metallic noise from under the tree, then, seconds later, a hooded figure appeared, pushing a bike. It jumped on and rode away, legs pumping.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ Carl said. ‘You were right.’

      Ten minutes later the police – two male officers, one in his twenties, the other late thirties – were sitting in her front room, taking notes as she told them what had happened. Carl was home; he’d sat with her until they arrived, then left her to it. They were going to talk to him afterwards and get his account.

      ‘It sounds very unusual,’ the older one said, when Kate had finished. ‘Although we don’t know at this point that the two episodes are linked. It could have been nothing more than an aggressive driver, and maybe a teenager hiding away to have a smoke. You can’t be sure it was the same person both times.’

      ‘I know,’ Kate said, totally convinced that it was the same person. ‘But what if it is? What if it’s the man who’s killed two young women? If there’s a serial killer out there, I think I need to bear that in mind.’

      ‘It’s not officially a serial killer,’ the police officer said. ‘We’re still not sure about that.’

      ‘Serial killer or not, two women are dead,’ Kate said. ‘Which is enough for me. I don’t want to be next.’

      ‘Of course,’ the younger cop said. ‘We understand that, madam.’

      The older officer got to his feet. ‘I think we have all we need,’ he said. ‘There isn’t all that much we can do, I’m afraid. We’ll circulate the details of both incidents to see if they match any others. And I’m pretty sure that a detective is going to want to talk to you about what happened, in case it does have any bearing on the murder investigations. Do you have a number they could call? Perhaps a mobile?’

      Kate gave her number. ‘Who should I expect to call? So I know it’s the real thing?’

      ‘Detective Inspector Wynne,’ the older cop said. ‘It’ll probably be her. And if there’s anywhere you can go tonight – a friend, maybe – you might want to think about doing that. Just in case. It’ll be nice to have company, especially if you’re a bit shaken up.’

      ‘My parents,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll go to them.’

      ‘Good idea,’ the officer said. ‘We’ll be in touch if anything comes up, Ms Armstrong.’

      Kate showed them to the door. Then she picked up her car keys. There was no way she was staying alone in the house for the night, no way.

       15

      He couldn’t believe he’d been seen.

      He was sure that he was invisible under the tree; he’d looked from every angle before choosing it as his hiding place, but somehow she’d known he was there.

      He’d hoped that she would go inside, so he could sneak away, but then Carl – his old neighbour – had come out and he’d had no choice but to flee.

      Which meant that he would no longer be able to use the tree if he wanted to watch what his ex-girlfriend was up to. He’d have to find another place to hide, but for the moment he couldn’t think where.

      He’d find somewhere, though, if he had to.

      He biked along the canal towpath in the direction of the London Bridge pub. He needed a beer to calm his nerves, and maybe a cigarette. It had been years since he’d smoked, but all of a sudden the craving was back.

      He had to get a grip of himself. He was falling apart: all day long all he could think of was Kate. He had a constant low-level nausea, a sinking sensation in his stomach that was part anxiety and part disbelief that this was happening. Even worse was the feeling of lacking control; sometimes he felt like he wasn’t himself, that he wasn’t there, that it wasn’t him making decisions.

      Like that evening. He’d decided to go and see her after work. He needed to explain what he was going through, not in a desperate, please-have-me-back way, but so that she would know how bad this was for him.

      She needed to know: if this was a temporary thing, a break while she lived her life a little, then she had to understand the price he was paying for that break. If it was permanent, then so be it. But they needed to talk.

      Except she wasn’t there. And then he started to wonder where she was. Out with someone else? Another man? He couldn’t bear the thought of that, couldn’t accept it. He had to know, and in the end, like an addict with his dope, that need took over.

      So he ended up hiding under the tree, waiting for her to come home, imagining her walking down the street with her arm around another man, kissing him on the front step, then unlocking the door and going into the house.

      He was frantic the entire time, drumming his fingers on his knees, tapping his shoes on the ground, jiggling his legs, standing up and sitting down. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was hiding, he would have paced the street.

      And then she came, alone, and he was caught out, and he fled.

      Now it was over, he couldn’t believe he’d done it. Couldn’t believe that he’d acted so crazily. It scared him; the whole thing felt like a dream, like it was a different person. He thought about the time he’d spent under the tree. It was almost like he’d been watching it all unfold, an observer, but now, afterwards, he knew this was not the case. He had done it. He shuddered. It was very troubling.

      He walked into the pub and stood at the bar. The pub was warm and busy with the Friday-night crowd. He waited his turn. He ordered a pint of strong bitter and a double whisky, Bells. He felt faint, and dizzy.

      The barman looked at him. ‘You all right, mate?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Phil said. ‘I think so.’

      ‘You think so? You look a bit pale.’

      ‘I had a rough day.’

      ‘All right. Well, let me know if you need anything.’

      He paid and took his drinks to a table in the corner. He drank the whisky in one swallow, then swigged the beer.

      Even now, he couldn’t stop the thoughts coming. Where had she been? Was she planning on going out tonight? Alone? He wanted to go and see, go and knock on her door and lay himself at her feet, pour out everything he was going through, throw himself on her mercy.

      It wouldn’t work. He needed to pull himself together.

      But he couldn’t. He knew that she was there, that she was in the house, that she was available. All he had to do was go and knock on the door and he’d be with her. And knowing that – well, it was impossible to resist. He had to go and see her. It didn’t matter if it was a good idea or a terrible idea. He had to do it.

      He finished the last of the beer and got to his feet. His legs felt weak, drained. No wonder; he’d barely eaten all week. Most of his calories had come from the wine he’d been drinking himself to sleep with every night.

      He got on his bike and retraced the route to their – Kate’s, he had to stop thinking of it as theirs – house. He felt a mounting excitement: for the first time in days he felt almost happy. He was going to see her, face to face. They could sort this out, once and for all.

      A few minutes later, he turned into her street, and stopped dead.

      There was a police car outside the house.

      She’d called the cops.

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