16

      Her parents, of course, overreacted.

      ‘Move in with us,’ her mum said. ‘Don’t go back to that house. You mustn’t go back there. It’s not safe.’

      ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Kate said, her teenage self bridling at her mum’s attempt to limit her freedom, to suggest that she couldn’t take care of herself.

      ‘Then why are you here?’ her dad said. ‘Your mum has a point, Kate.’

      ‘I need to stay tonight,’ Kate said. ‘That’s all.’

      Her dad didn’t reply, which was what he did when he didn’t agree but didn’t want to say so and risk being accused – as he often had been – of imposing his views on everyone else. He was a man of strong opinions, and at some point had realized that one of his more unattractive traits was his inability to change them. In an attempt to mitigate this, he had developed the strategy of remaining silent when he disagreed with someone, which, in many ways was worse. Kate had been on the receiving end many times. She remembered when she had declared that she was planning to buy her Mini, a plan that required getting a car loan.

      You should never borrow to buy something, unless it’s a house, her dad said.

       Dad, it’s fine. Everyone does it. I can afford the payments.

      No response. Not a Well, I’m sure you’ll be OK, no doubt you’ve thought it through. Just silence, which – ironically, since it was an attempt to say nothing – said a great deal. It said You’re totally and utterly wrong and probably not even functionally intelligent, but it’s your funeral and don’t come crying to me when it all goes to hell in a handbasket.

      Which was what the silent treatment she was now getting meant. Fortunately, her mum had no such inhibition about expressing an opinion.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re staying here. And that’s it.’

      ‘We’ll talk more tomorrow,’ Kate said. ‘But I’ll probably get Gemma to stay with me, or something like that.’

      Her mum shook her head. ‘Under no circ—’

      ‘Mum!’ Kate said. ‘Please!’

      ‘I’m only trying to do what’s best for you, darling.’

      ‘I know, and I’m grateful. But can we discuss this later? I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.’

      ‘Do you want something to eat?’ her mum said, which was her default question.

      ‘A drink?’ her dad said, which was his default question. ‘There’s white in the fridge. I think there’s a red open as well.’

      ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have a bath, then bed.’

      Lying in the bath, she googled serial killers. There was a lot of material out there on them. She scanned it, clicking between websites. It varied, but there were some key themes, one of which she found particularly troubling.

      There was, a lot of experts claimed, a strong ritualistic element in the activities of most serial killers. Often they were repeating the same murder over and over, each time trying to perfect it, each time getting a greater and greater thrill from it.

      There were other themes that emerged: many serial killers liked to engage in a game of cat-and-mouse with law enforcement agencies – often trying to insert themselves into the investigation in some way – in an attempt to prove their superior intelligence; the level of violence towards the victims often increased as the killer’s confidence grew; the serial killer would purge the desire to kill before it started to build again to the point where they needed release.

      But the one that stuck with her was the presence of ritual.

      Was the appearance of the victims part of the ritual in this case? She wasn’t sure, but it certainly seemed possible.

      Which gave her an idea. A way to put a stop to all this.

      The next morning she made some phone calls. Most places were busy, but eventually she found one that had an open slot.

      ‘Mum,’ she called, sipping the last of her tea. ‘I’m just popping out. I’ll be back for lunch.’

      Her mum came into the kitchen.

      ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘Out. And then at three I’m meeting Gem to go to the Trafford Centre.’

      ‘But where are you going now?’

      She didn’t want to tell her mum. She couldn’t face the conversation, didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing and then listen to her mum’s objections. It was easier to do it and deal with the fallout later.

      Gemma had a saying: Beg forgiveness, don’t ask permission. Kate thought it applied here.

      ‘Out. Maybe go grab a coffee somewhere. But mainly anything to get out of the house.’

      ‘Go and grab,’ her mum said. ‘Not go grab. You aren’t American, darling. I know you like to watch those television shows, but you don’t need to speak like them.’

      God, her mother annoyed her sometimes.

      ‘And anyway,’ her mum continued, her expression sceptical. ‘You had a cup of tea five minutes ago.’

      ‘Mum! I’m old enough to go out for a coffee!’

      ‘I’ll come with you. I could do with an outing.’

      ‘Mum, please. I’m only popping out. OK?’

      Her mum shrugged, evidently not believing a word she said. ‘See you at lunch, then.’

      She was back shortly after midday. Her dad was sitting in the living room, watching the news. She walked in and stood, waiting for his reaction. He studied her before he spoke.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell.’ He called into the kitchen. ‘Margaret, come and see your daughter.’

      Her mum appeared in the door frame. She blinked a few times, then smiled.

      ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That’s quite a change.’