she had work to do, emails to read, contracts to review. She looked at her inbox. Six hundred and twenty-four emails. She almost groaned.
She was about to sort them by sender so she could read the ones from her boss first when her phone pinged. It was a text message from Gemma.
Check out the news.
She typed a reply.
What is it?
They found another body in Stockton Heath.
It took Kate a few seconds to understand what Gemma was getting at, then it clicked. There’d been another killing. Another murder.
There was a link in the text message. She tapped it with her finger and watched as the story came up.
The body of a woman was found this morning near Walton Reservoir, on the outskirts of the village of Stockton Heath. Police were called to the scene by a local resident who spotted something unusual when out running.
This is the second body of a young female to be found in the vicinity of Stockton Heath. It follows the discovery ten days ago of Jenna Taylor, 27, not far from the location where the latest victim was found. Speculation is mounting that the two killings may be linked. When asked about the possibility that there was a serial killer at work, the police said it was too early to comment, but they would be pursuing all lines of inquiry.
A police spokesperson said that the woman was in her mid to late twenties, and named her as Audra Collins.
She blinked at the screen. She read the name again to be sure.
Audra Collins.
She knew Audra Collins.
She knew her because she knew everyone who was around her age and who had been at high school with her. That was how small towns worked.
But she also knew her because people had always said that Audra Collins could be her sister. Or your secret twin, they joked. Proof of human cloning.
May and Gemma had joked that the first victim – Jenna Taylor – looked like her. She was dead, and now Audra Collins – her secret twin, her clone – had joined her.
And the joke wasn’t funny any more.
She picked up her mobile phone and scrolled to May’s number. She was about to press call when a voice interrupted her.
‘Welcome back.’
Kate looked up; it was Michaela, her boss. She put her phone down, screen to the desk. She always felt guilty when she was caught reading the news or sending texts at work.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just checking the news. Someone sent me something.’
‘Oh? Anything interesting?’ Michaela said.
‘Did you hear about the body they found a week ago?’ Kate said. ‘Near Stockton Heath?’
Michaela nodded. ‘Did they find the killer?’
‘No. They found another body. Another woman in her twenties.’
Michaela’s mouth opened. ‘You’re kidding? Is it the same person, do they think?’
‘They don’t know.’ Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘But it seems a hell of a coincidence if it isn’t.’ Too much of a coincidence, she thought, especially since they look so similar.
‘Well,’ Michaela said. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around on your own, if I was you.’
‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘That’s what I need to hear when I’m newly single.’
‘Speaking of that, how was your holiday?’
‘Great.’ She repeated the bland formula from earlier. ‘Really great.’
‘Good,’ Michaela said. ‘It was a busy week. Glad you’re back. Are you free at ten? There’s some stuff I need you to work on. We can meet in the conference room.’
The small talk was over. Michaela was back in business mode.
‘Of course,’ Kate said. ‘See you then.’
At four p.m. – an hour or so before his normal departure time – Phil shut down his computer. He watched the screen go black, then put his laptop in his bag. He was leaving work early. An idea had come to him during the day. And it was a good one. An excellent one. It could not go wrong.
It went like this:
Kate had come home from holiday at midnight, after a week away, a week in which whatever food she had in her house would have gone off. OK, there might be some pasta and sauce and packets of soup and things like that, but there would not be any fresh stuff: no fruit, no vegetables, no bread, no milk, no cheese, no meat, no fish.
So he would take her some. Yes, they had broken up; yes, he knew that he was not handling it well; yes, she had made it clear that she wanted some distance between them, but this was different. This was merely a friendly, thoughtful gesture to help her transition from holiday to home. He’d knock on the front door, hand over a bag – or bags – and then, if she wanted him to, he’d leave. No problem.
Of course, if she saw that he was a standout guy, a caring, resourceful, loving partner and decided to ask him in to share the meal, then he would accept. As a friend. To provide some company; nothing more, nothing less.
And if they ended up having amazing, mind-blowing make-up sex, then that would be OK too.
Phil stopped himself following that train of thought. It was simultaneously too exciting and too upsetting for him to handle. He took a deep breath, and walked out to his blue Ford Mondeo.
Or his Ford Mundane-o, as her dad had called it. He was into cars and he always teased Phil for his choice. As Phil pointed out, it was practical and good value for money, and – above all – safe, which you would have thought would appeal to a father, but her dad had shaken his head and told him to get a Triumph Stag or something with soul. He knew he was only teasing him – Kate’s dad teased him all the time – but Phil hated it. It had probably contributed to Kate dumping him. He felt his resentment rise.
No – enough of that. That was the past. For now, he had a job to do.
Kate was normally home around six thirty – Phil knew her routines well, since he had been part of them up until a few weeks ago – so he timed his arrival at about fifteen minutes after she returned. He parked behind her Mini – British Racing Green; her dad had insisted that she get that colour – picked up the two Sainsbury’s shopping bags from the passenger seat, and walked to the front door.
He knocked. He didn’t want to use the bell; it was somehow too formal.
The door opened. And there she was.
Looking beautiful. Looking like Kate. She was barefoot. He glanced at her feet. They had tan lines from her flip-flops. They reminded him of the holiday they’d taken the year before in Mallorca. She’d had them then, as well as other tan lines in more intimate places. Despite her pale skin, Kate tanned heavily in the sun and he had a clear image of her white buttocks contrasting with the golden brown of her legs and lower back.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’
She stared at him. She looked tired, her eyes a little red. ‘Phil,’ she said. ‘Hi.’
‘I brought you some provisions,’ he said, and held out the shopping bags. ‘I thought you might need some fresh food. You probably don’t have anything in, coming back from holiday. This might help.’
She didn’t take them. ‘That’s so sweet,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t have to do it.’
‘I