Kiss Her Goodbye: The most addictive thriller you'll read this year Page 2

  A police car has parked at the end of the road and I sit on the metal gate next to the Bowl so that I can watch what’s happening. While I’m there, a third one goes past with mud splattered across the doors and two policemen inside. I glance back up the road to check if Stefan is coming this way, but he’s long gone.

  I wait for ages on the cold metal gate, until a policewoman walks down the road towards me. Her raven-black hair shines in the sun and it crosses my mind to run, but I don’t. As she gets closer, I get a rush of adrenaline at the thought of telling her that I am the person who killed Kirsten Green.

  2

  DS Beverley Samuels

  Kirsten’s mum, Mrs Green, is a small woman with a soft Irish accent. There’s a quiet dignity about her as she waits in her armchair in an olive dress and matching shoes, while we pretend that Kirsten will be home soon. When hope flickers in her eye I have to look away. I know that time is running out and my head is filled with past cases. It’s been a week since Kirsten went missing and the focus of the investigation has changed. I glance at the small ornaments that she has neatly arranged on the shelves in front of me: glass owls, pottery rabbits and other creatures. She is a meticulous woman, a woman who likes things in place, but there’s no way to make sense of this. It doesn’t fit in a neat place on a shelf; it is unthinkable. A waft of cooking comes from the kitchen: a smell of onions and gravy that makes my stomach rumble, but even that seems wrong. The homely smell in a broken place.

  ‘It’s just not like her, Beverley,’ Mrs Green says, but I already know that. I’ve spoken to her teachers at college and the girls in her form. I’ve built up a picture of Kirsten from everyone who knew her and she wasn’t the type to run off and disappear.

  The last sighting we have of her is when she walked out of college in tears. There’s been nothing since. I glance at the clock, wanting this to be over. I’m not just here for her, I’m here for the case and I need to know everything about Kirsten that I can. As I look at Mrs Green I wonder if she had anything to do with her daughter’s disappearance. She offers me cups of tea and my eyes are on her body language and mannerisms whenever I mention Kirsten’s name. I ignore her looks of hopeless desperation as though it’s a mask she’s worn for my benefit, but there’s nothing to suggest that she’s anything other than a worried mother.

  ‘Any friends that she may have gone to? Relatives? Boyfriends?’

  We’ve been through these questions before, but I need to make sure that the answers are the same.

  Mrs Green sighs and wipes the underside of her eye with her finger so that she doesn’t smudge her mascara. She keeps herself as ordered as she does her house.

  ‘She didn’t have any friends. A few from Guides that she kept in touch with.’

  ‘Anyone she’d confide in? Anyone at all?’

  Mrs Green looks towards the window and inhales. Talking to her feels like digging out a splinter, both necessary and painful.

  ‘She was close to her cousin. They moved down south six months ago.’

  ‘Do you have a phone number?’

  Mrs Green’s eyebrow furrows as she turns to look at me. ‘They know she’s missing. My brother would tell me if she was there.’

  ‘She may have confided in her cousin about something.’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ she replies. ‘I’m just not myself.’

  It’s me that should be sorry and I shake my head to dismiss it. She could be at her cousin’s house, but I don’t think she will be.

  ‘I’ll get the phone book,’ she replies, getting up.

  While she’s gone, I look around the room. There’s a framed picture of Kirsten on the mantelpiece. She’s in a field with an old man that may be her granddad and they’re laughing. I imagine that one of her parents took it, but her dad isn’t around any more. He died when she was a baby.

  The room is too warm and I glance over at the locked windows. The stuffiness in here, along with smells from the kitchen, makes my head ache. Mrs Green returns with a piece of paper with the phone number on and a photo album.

  ‘This is the picture of the necklace she was wearing too,’ she says as she sits down and opens the red leather-bound book. As she flicks through the album, she presses her lips together and blinks as though trying not to cry.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ she says, with a shaking hand.

  Mrs Green stops on a page and lifts her index finger as though she’s about to touch the photo and then passes the book to me. ‘You can see it best in this one.’

  She gives it to me quickly, as though she doesn’t want to hold it any more. It’s a good photograph and the silver locket is clearly shown. The engraved initials KG in beautiful scroll are edged in ivy leaves.

  ‘Can I take this?’ I ask.

  Mrs Green’s eyes open wide and I can see that she doesn’t want me to have it. She blinks rapidly and holds her hands tightly together.

  ‘I’ll get it straight back to you,’ I tell her.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She winces as I take the photograph out. It comes off the backing in one easy peel and I place the book face up on the coffee table, next to me. Mrs Green’s eyes stay fixed on the photograph in my hand as she closes the book over the now empty space.

  ‘I gave it to her for her birthday. She never takes it off.’

  I hold the photograph by the edges and nod. ‘There’s nothing engraved inside or on the back?’

  ‘Ivy leaves on the back too and a baby picture inside. From when she was about six months.’ Her voice wavers, but she clears her throat and continues. ‘I don’t know if I have a copy of it. I’ll let you know,’ she says, with her voice back in control, pre-empting me.

  ‘Right. Thank you. This has been very helpful.’

  We sit opposite each other for a minute in silence and I decide not to ask for another look at Kirsten’s room. We’ve been through it before and I’m worried that she’ll break down.

  ‘Have you looked near the church? She may have gone there if she was scared.’

  ‘We’ve been there. We’ve checked the embankment by the bridge and the areas on the bus route back from college.’

  Her face drops. ‘The embankment? Why?’

  ‘We need to cover everything.’

  Mrs Green stiffens. ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘No. You’ll know as soon as we do.’

  She stays seated as I stand. Her frame is small and birdlike, but she’s made of stronger stuff than most. Kirsten was a similar build. In her old school photographs she was always sitting near the front, hands on knees, with the taller children behind her, a petite and skinny girl who couldn’t have weighed much.

  ‘I’ve done her favourite dinner on in case she comes back. Lamb stew with arctic roll for afters.’

  I remember the smell of stew cooking from the kitchen the last time I was here. The thought of her making that same dinner over and over makes me nauseous. I wish I were better at comforting people, but I’m not. I prefer facts to emotions and while various replies come into my head I dismiss them all.

  ‘Did I give you the number for our counsellor the other day?’ I ask, already knowing that I did.

  She looks disappointed. ‘I don’t need counselling, Beverley. I just need my daughter back.’

  I pick up the photograph from the table.

  ‘You should try not to be on your own too much. Perhaps have someone to stay so you’ve got company for a few days?’

  She nods and doesn’t reply. It’s something that I’ve heard other people say, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing. I imagine that she wouldn’t want anyone else here. I picture her polishing the tiny ornaments as soon as I’ve gone, cleaning the windows as she waits for her daughter to come home.

  ‘I’ll have this back to you as soon as I can.’

  I stand in the living room and wait for her to show me out, but she stays where she is and I’m grateful for the fresh air when I get outside.

  The scent of the
roses on the breeze reminds me of my mother’s garden as a child and it’s hard to imagine how she would have reacted if this had happened to me as a teenager. My mother doesn’t have the quiet restraint of Mrs Green and it makes me realise that I haven’t spoken to her or my sister for months. The last time she phoned she told me that she knew Tom and I wouldn’t last. When they both moved to Spain on Gran’s inheritance it was the final proof to me that I wasn’t important. They stuck together like a limpet and a rock and I could never get in between them. Now they ignore me from further away instead. I would never tell them that this job nearly broke me, because Mum would love to be right about that too.

  As I make my way out of Kirsten’s road and down the lane, I have a feeling that Kirsten Green isn’t going to turn up at her cousin’s house. I try to remain open-minded, but something tells me that this girl will be found in the woods at the back of her house or in the undergrowth on the common that’s currently being searched.

  I walk past a mess of bracken and have to stop myself from bending down to see what’s underneath. There are so many places that she could be. She’s only a year younger than Moira Timperley was and I can’t help thinking about her too. I can still see the look in her eye when she asked me to stay, the smears of black under her eyes where the mascara had smudged. The same eyes that were just slits in swollen skin when she lay in the hospital bed. The bleep and sigh of the ventilation machine as she wheezed her last breath. A cat runs from underneath a parked car and stands purring at my feet. I ignore it and walk on. I need to get away from this road and I head towards the new estate.

  *

  After work, I put on my tracksuit and trainers. It’s dark and the air is warm. There’s an immediate release as my feet hit the pavement. I run through the common, where the old clay pits were, and on to the housing estate, before I end up at the river. Two bats fly over the water, their black bodies silhouetted against the inky blue sky as they flutter between the trees. My feet make a steady beat on the sandy path as I run towards the weir, past the industrial estate.

  I stop by the wooden sculpture of the fish to get my breath back, while a solitary bead of sweat runs down my back. The water rushes over the weir and the river is streaked with white light as the moon reflects on the water. I look back at the sandy path, bright under the moonlight, until it leads back into blackness. I turn and run along the concrete pavements away from the river and towards the cobbled hill.

  I run towards the pub, along the uneven ground, until my hair is stuck fast to my forehead and adrenaline pumps through my body. Closer to home, the orange street lamps light the pathway in front of me and I feel every beat of my heart, every breath and every muscle. I am more alive than I have been for days and this case feels like my second chance.

  3

  DS Beverley Samuels

  On Saturday morning, a dog walker reports seeing what looks like a hand stuck up from the reeds by the river near to Mrs Green’s and when I hear about it, I know that it will be Kirsten Green’s body. As a branch is lifted away from the side of the bank I see a curl of blonde hair and know that it’s her. I immediately think of Moira Timperley and although I want to forget her, I can’t. Even the way she wore her leg warmers – one pink and one yellow – is imprinted on my mind. What happened to her has become a part of what I am. It was unforgivable. I am unforgivable.

  As I avert my eyes upwards the sky is surprisingly beautiful: pastel lines of mauve and pinks under a band of soft grey cloud. I say a silent prayer for the girl below me as my thoughts go to Mrs Green in her kitchen, carefully chopping the carrots for another soon-to-be-uneaten stew.

  As the other police officers secure the area I picture Kirsten blowing out her birthday candles, the awkward smile in her school photograph and the snapshots of bleak-looking beaches from Mrs Green’s photo album.

  As a large branch is removed it looks as if her arms are reaching out to me. Her T-shirt is slightly ripped and weeds from the river have stuck to her body like tentacles. Her neck is bare and there’s no sign of the pendant that her mother said was so precious to her. I avert my eyes from her bloated face. There aren’t any obvious wounds. As the current bubbles in the middle of the river, I wonder if the necklace is sitting on the riverbed amongst the discarded rubbish and decaying weeds.

  ‘She had a pendant,’ I shout over, but I know that they’ll sweep the area.

  My partner, Nick, walks over to me. ‘It’s her. Same clothes.’

  I nod. There’s a momentary silence from the team as they work around her and only the faint sounds of the motorway can be heard from across the fields behind. Nick’s been insistent that we’d find her in the river from day one, but even he doesn’t speak. The wind blows his hair and it falls forwards across his forehead and I’m glad that he hasn’t mentioned suicide again.

  In an odd way I don’t want to stand close to her and discuss it. I walk to the top of the bank and he follows.

  ‘That’s not an obvious place for her to jump in,’ I say. ‘There’s a barbed-wire fence running along the field.’

  ‘Current’s been strong the last few days after the rain,’ he replies as we both look into the swirling water in front of us. ‘She could have gone in by the weir.’

  ‘Yeah, but they usually end up near the fields,’ I reply, looking back towards the bridge. ‘More likely she went off the bank further up.’

  ‘She could have stepped off the bank up there.’

  ‘Or was dumped there.’

  He doesn’t argue the point, but there isn’t any need. Once the reports come back, we’ll know. We stand together at the edge of the bank as we wait for the next team to arrive. Mrs Green told me that her daughter cooked the dinner on a Sunday and always told her if she was going to be late home. I think she’d have left a note.

  My thighs ache from last night’s run. I recall the reflections of the crooked trees on the water and the darkness of the sewerage pipe when I passed by.

  Nick stares over at the far bank. ‘Steve’s going to speak to the mother. You want to go?’

  ‘No. I’m going to look around.’

  Seeing Mrs Green is the last thing I want to do.

  ‘Coffee?’ Nick asks.

  ‘No. I’m going up there while they finish up.’ I point towards the weir.

  ‘Want some company?’ he asks, and I shake my head.

  ‘I’ll see you in five.’

  He used to know when I needed space. Since Moira Timperley’s death we’ve lost that intuition. He never understood why I blamed myself, but that’s because his conscience was clear. I shouldn’t have gone that day. I dismissed her as an attention seeker and went home to pour myself a glass of wine while her stepdad hammered her face to a pulp. Nick can say what he wants, but I was too distracted to see what was in front of me and I can’t let that happen again.

  I already know the area, but I can’t concentrate. It seems odd that she’d go into the shallows and not off the bridge further up or near the weir.

  ‘Bev, you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ll see you in five.’

  He walks over to Debbie on the side of the bank and she giggles as he starts one of his anecdotes. I continue further along the path until they are out of sight. I don’t want to watch his flirting. I’ve had it with men. Even though I finished with Tom six months ago, that time has slid away like water through my fingers. The day I threw him out, he accused me of seeing someone else when he was the one who’d stayed out all night. Men are all the same.

  The river’s high after last week’s heavy rainfall and as it pours over the weir I make my way down the concrete steps to the bank. The broken red bricks, from the town’s past, that sit under the surface have been smoothed into red pebbles by the power of the water. Emerald green weeds stretch in the current and point to Kirsten’s body as I take a twig and drop it into the river. The twig floats on the current towards the officers and I imagine Kirsten sitting here. The trajectory is right and it’s a possible p
oint of entry. This river once powered the waterwheels for the Bleachworks and the mills. The currents are strong and dangerous and she’d have struggled if she’d fallen in, accident or not.

  I walk back up the steps and sit on a bench as a pair of mallards float past on the water. The smell of damp weeds is strong and I think about the unfairness of it all: that a young girl’s life is lost while I’m still here.

  Steve will be at Mrs Green’s by now. I picture him on the doorstep with a hand on the brass doorknocker. These are her last moments of hope before her world changes forever. I try to put her out of my mind and focus on Kirsten. It is four o’clock and the bell from St. John’s church chimes like a death knell as she walks down Vale Close towards the industrial estate and onto the river path from the bus stop. Her head is full of the things that have happened and her heart is heavy. I try to imagine what it’s like to be a girl on the outside that no one understands, a girl who is picked on, but I don’t know how to put myself there. It’s not somewhere I’ve ever been.

  When I get past the industrial estate, there’s a girl sitting on the metal gate facing the road. She is around the same age as Kirsten Green and I stop, because seeing her there unnerves me. The loose curls of her brown hair are tied up in a headscarf and her lipstick is dark mauve. She swings her legs as she holds onto the top of the gate and, by the many silver necklaces over her cropped red tee shirt, I guess that she’s from the new estate: the more affluent side of town.

  As I walk towards her she gives me a knowing look, as though she knows that I left Kirsten amongst the coiled branches when I jogged past her last night.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asks, with a nod towards the river.