Killing Kate. Alex Lake

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 wanted to. Got to keep your strength up!’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just – I just said it.’

      And I should have said nothing, he thought, but I’m so fucking nervous, which is ridiculous, this is Kate.

      ‘How was the holiday?’ he asked, his tone bright.

      ‘It was good.’

      ‘You didn’t call me back that day.’

      ‘We were busy. And I was enjoying myself, Phil. The point was to get away.’

      ‘I know, but I’m your—’ He stopped himself. He’d been about to say ‘boyfriend’, a status which would have given him the right to expect a call from his girlfriend when she was on holiday, but that was no longer correct. ‘I’m your friend,’ he finished.

      ‘I know. But I have lots of friends who I didn’t call from holiday.’

      ‘Right. So what did you do all week?’

      ‘Hung out on the beach. Went out at night.’ She shrugged. ‘Usual holiday stuff.’

      ‘Did you – did you meet anybody?’

      ‘We met lots of people.’

      ‘Right.’ There was a long, awkward silence. They both knew what he was asking, and they both knew that she wouldn’t answer. They both knew that it would be better if he didn’t ask again, but they both knew he would.

      ‘Did you meet any – you know – any guys?’

      ‘Phil, if you’re asking me whether I met any men, then the answer is yes. We met lots. If you’re asking me whether I went out on dates with them or kissed them or did whatever, then the answer is that it’s none of your business.’

      ‘It sounds like you did.’

      ‘Fine. Think what you like.’

      This was not going well. He needed to get it back on track. He held the bags out to her. ‘Are you going to take them?’

      ‘I’m not sure, Phil. You don’t need to feed me.’

      He opened one of the bags and showed her the contents.

      ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Smoked salmon. And crab pâté. And some white wine. Asparagus. A baguette.’

      ‘Phil,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to make—’

      He put the bag down and opened the other. ‘Vegetables: carrots, potatoes … parsnips – your favourite. They’re organic. And two steaks. Filet mignon. They’ll be delicious.’

      She folded her arms. ‘Why two steaks, Phil?’

      He stared at her, speechless.

      ‘I thought this was something to welcome me back, to make sure I had food in the house?’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘Then why two steaks? I only need one.’

      He blinked. He didn’t need to answer the question. They both knew why there were two: one for each of them. Which meant that this wasn’t a kind, selfless gesture, after all, but a desperate attempt to get back together with her.

      He put the bags on the stone step. The bottle clinked.

      ‘Do whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Sorry I tried to be helpful.’

      ‘Don’t guilt-trip me, Phil.’

      He looked at her, at the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, and he realized that it might be over, after all, that this might be for real, that he might be losing – have lost – her for good.

      That couldn’t happen. Not under any circumstances. He had to get her back. Had to.

      He turned and walked back to his car. Behind him, he heard the door shut. As he drove away, he saw that the bags were still outside.

       11

      Kate watched him leave from the window, saw him glance back at the bags on the front step.

      It was a kind gesture – typical of him, in many ways. He was thoughtful and caring and she loved him, she did, but not enough. Not in the way she once had. And, more to the point, the more this went on, the more she lost respect for him. She understood that he was hurting – she was, too, she missed him – but he needed to accept it and move on.

      And so she hadn’t taken his bags of food; if she did, she worried that it would create an expectation on Phil’s part that she owed him something. But now they were sitting on her front step.

      This is stupid, she thought, there’s no point wasting it. And I can’t leave it outside, littering the street. It’ll end up attracting foxes.

      She opened the door and picked up the bags. In the kitchen, she texted Phil.

      Sorry if I was short. I’m really tired. Thanks for the stuff – it’s very kind.

      Then she unpacked the bags, poured a glass of wine and switched on the television. It was the local news, and they were reporting on Audra Collins.

      Kate hadn’t seen much of Audra for a few years. She was a nurse, and, with her boyfriend, had a three-year-old daughter, so she wasn’t out and about all that much.

      God, her daughter. Kate had met her once. A sweet, blonde, curly-haired girl called Chrissie with large, soulful eyes and a quiet smile.

      She would never see her mum again. She’d grow up knowing that her mum had been out running early one morning before her shift started, and had been killed – dragged into the bushes and strangled to death – by some sick bastard. She would learn from an early age that the world was not safe, that she could never be sure that someone would not reach out and grab her and put her life to an end like they’d done to the woman – who she would barely remember – who had brought her into this sick world.

      The police were pursuing all lines of inquiry, and asked that if anyone had seen anything, however small, that might be of interest to them, they should come forward.

      Which meant that they had no idea what was going on.

      A reporter was on location at the reservoir, speaking to camera. She turned up the television so she could hear.

      Tonight, people are left wondering whether these two brutal murders are linked. The police are not confirming this, yet, but it certainly seems to be a strong possibility,