Kiss Her Goodbye: The most addictive thriller you'll read this year Read online

  The ‘missing posters’ on the lamp posts have alerted most people to Kirsten’s disappearance and it’s not difficult to work out why we’re here.

  ‘We’re looking into something,’ I reply.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve found her. Right?’

  She stares at my face and tilts her head. We both know the answer.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Why?’

  It surprises me. She doesn’t look like the type to talk back, but she tells me anyway.

  ‘Hayley Reynolds, what’s yours?’

  ‘DS Beverley Samuels,’ I reply, with a look behind her. The area is overgrown, with trees to the side, and Kirsten could have been moved from here. I decide to speak to the drivers from the industrial estate to see if anyone noticed anything.

  ‘What you looking for, Bev?’ Hayley asks.

  ‘It’s Beverley. Is the park open?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Despite what Nick says, I don’t think it’s a suicide. My instinct tells me that someone knows exactly what happened to Kirsten Green.

  ‘This isn’t the best place to come. It’s isolated,’ I tell her, with a glance behind at the huge grass field, known as the Bowl, that curves up behind her. It’s where the Bleachworks laid out cloth and now the dog walkers use it. Kirsten could easily have gone there to sit on one of the benches or met someone down here. It’s edged by trees and secluded in parts.

  She leans forwards. ‘I’m here to get away.’

  It isn’t the response I was expecting. Another day I might have asked her what she wanted to get away from, but I have other things on my mind.

  ‘This leads up to Didsbury Road, yes?’

  ‘Straight up the hill.’

  I walk past her. I don’t have time for teenagers today. I make my way up the steep, cobbled path towards the houses with the distant sound of laughter coming through the trees by the park.

  We’ll be lucky if there were any witnesses. The houses are too far away for anyone to have seen anything, but I will knock on them later anyway. I write the words ‘Park Row’ on the top of my notepad. My mind is all over the place with possibilities about what could have happened that day. Every path that leads into the undergrowth reveals another option.

  The park is on two levels and the top one looks out over the Cheshire Plains; the wooded area and hilly inclines below offer more places she could have gone. I will suggest that we search this area too. At the bottom of the park is a pond where the reservoir from the Bleachworks used to be. Kirsten could have been attacked here and her necklace be lying in the undergrowth nearby. It would have been an easy drive up the cobbled incline to move her body to the river.

  On the way back to Nick, my head is focused with every step. As I reach the road, the girl is still sitting on the gate where I left her.

  ‘Get yourself home soon. Stay safe,’ I say to her.

  She half smiles. ‘How do you know that home is safe?’

  It seems an odd thing to say and I walk past her and over the road. I hear the crunch of feet on gravel as she jumps down from the gate.

  She shouts from behind me, ‘Hope you catch the bastard.’

  I nod back as though we’ve both agreed that Kirsten Green’s death was not an accident and as she walks away, in her baggy trousers and fitted jacket, I write her name down in my notebook.

  I think about Hayley Reynolds afterwards, not just because she was so alive while Kirsten was under that white tent, but because of the way she acted. I was too busy with my own questions to pay her any attention at the time, but afterwards, the way she looked at me, as though she knew something, kept coming back to me.

  4

  Hayley Reynolds

  When I get home, the news is on and Mum is cleaning the living room.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  ‘Can you not walk that muck through the house?’

  Jan Leeming is talking about riots in Brixton after a woman was shot. Shops are on fire and lines of policemen are on the streets in riot gear. A building falls to the ground and a man screams. Petrol bombs fly through the air and people cheer through barricades of burning cars. It looks as if the whole world is on fire, but it’s irrelevant to me. The flames and the screams are another world away. All I care about is Kirsten Green. When the local news comes on and they show the river and I know what’s coming.

  Alison Andrews, the local news reporter, is on the television. She stands in the farmland on the other side of the river and smiles a perfect smile. The faint trace of goose pimples on the top of her chest are the only sign that she’s cold and I realise that she’s good at hiding things, just as I am.

  The camera cuts to a man in white overalls by a plastic tent and I try to see the policewoman that I spoke to by the gates, but she isn’t there. Alison Andrews says that they found Kirsten half in the water and half out, next to the sewerage pipe, and the man in the studio calls it: ‘A terrible tragedy.’ As a picture of Kirsten flashes up onto the screen, Mum switches off the television.

  ‘I was watching that. Do you mind?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘The world’s gone mad. I just can’t listen to it.’

  She smooths her skirt over her belly and looks at her reflection. Her blonde hair is gelled into a quiff and her lips shine with pink gloss. She’s younger than the other mums at college and still gets wolf-whistled. She’s beautiful: on the outside anyway.

  ‘Put it back on,’ I say, with a nod at the television, but she turns away and sprays the table with polish instead. She tidies up when she’s upset about something, but I know it’s not about me this time; I’ve not been around enough to annoy her today.

  ‘I didn’t think Mike would be out so long today,’ she says, more to herself than me.

  When I switch the television back on, the news report has changed to Grandstand, but she’s oblivious. She doesn’t care that I was watching it, because she’s never cared about anything I want. The smell of polish is so strong that it’s hard to breathe and by the time Mike comes home the house is spotless.

  Mike kisses Mum on the lips when he comes in. He stands with a stoop, because he’s so tall, and there’s a look in his eye that’s different when he’s been working on a Saturday. His ginger hair is tussled as he holds a purple weedlike flower out to Mum. She tilts her head and bites her bottom lip as she takes it from him.

  ‘You’re so romantic.’ She smiles as he winks back.

  Mum puts the flower in a glass on the window ledge where it hangs, head bowed and dying. They make me want to vomit. He puts his hand out as though he’s about to pat my arm, but strokes his neatly trimmed beard instead. When he smiles at me I don’t return it.

  ‘Thought you’d be back earlier today, because of the police,’ she tells him.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The missing girl they found at the river?’

  ‘She switched off the news so we don’t know what happened,’ I say, but she doesn’t look at me.

  He coughs. ‘I was further up. Didn’t see anything.’ He kisses her on the cheek. ‘I’m going to get showered.’

  His jeans are clean and he’s wearing a white shirt under the emerald-green jumper that he bought a few weeks ago: smarter than he would usually dress for work.

  He goes upstairs and I hear the water from the shower through the ceiling.

  ‘You should ask him where he’s really been.’

  She turns away from me. ‘That’s a sure way to lose a man.’

  That’s another thing she does: gives me advice on relationships, which is a joke, considering her track record.

  ‘I hope they don’t think Mike had anything to do with it,’ says Mum. ‘He’s never away from that river.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mike,’ she repeats, sounding annoyed. ‘I hope he doesn’t get dragged into it because of that job of his.’

  ‘Maybe it was him. He looks like the sort. You can’t trust him. Didn’t even know the
police were there. Look at his shoes. He’s not even been to the river today.’

  She looks over at the spotless brogues by the door and then back at me.

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous,’ she says, going into the kitchen, but I can tell by her face that she knows I’m right.

  I shout through the kitchen at her, ‘And her name is Kirsten, not “that girl”.’

  ‘Just give it a rest, will you?’ she shouts back.

  This is how I get the idea. I’m going to plant a seed of doubt in her mind and let it grow. I’m going to make her believe that Mike has been getting away with all sorts behind her back and I’m going to do it properly this time. I’m going to get rid of him for good.

  *

  That night I don’t sleep, but I never sleep these days. I either put my lamp on to read or sit up in bed to watch the clouds move across the darkening sky. Sometimes I watch her and Mike while they’re asleep, but not tonight. Tonight, I listen to the cars outside and wonder if things will be different now that they’ve found her.

  The way that Mum looked at me flashes into my head. It won’t be too hard to convince her that Mike isn’t what he seems, because I can tell that he’s hiding something already. She doesn’t deserve to be happy. It’s her fault that Dad left and she didn’t think about me when she locked herself upstairs, day and night, after the baby had gone. I didn’t matter to her at all. As the wind shakes the autumn leaves outside, I think about tongues wagging and the way that people will believe anything you tell them. I’m pleased with myself, but the thing with rumours is that they take on a life of their own. It’s their way.

  I open the window and let the cold creep in. Through the gap in the curtains, the tree branches are a mesh of black lines that crisscross against the sky. I listen to the click of the leaves in the wind and the far-away rumble of car tyres. As I lie there, I imagine Kirsten’s body sealed up in a bag, being taken away from the river in a van. I picture her long blonde hair in a curl over her shoulder like a pig’s tail, her face as pale as the moon and her eyes open against the plastic. The curve of an orange earring against her cheek and a smile on her face, because she’s free. They’ll take her to a building far away to lock her up in a morgue and I don’t like the idea of it. I pull the duvet over my ears and hope she isn’t claustrophobic. I only ever wanted nice things for her.

  The church clock makes three deep and distant chimes from the top of the hill and my eyes are heavy. Through the open window, I smell pondweed and rotting reeds. I don’t need to put my album on now for it to happen. She just comes. I try not to imagine Kirsten’s muddy eyes watching me from the gap behind the wardrobe as I drift into sleep, even though I know that she’s there. I can feel her.

  *

  I’ve got used to Kirsten being a part of things, the way that I’m used to me and Mum not talking. It’s just one of those things I can’t change and it’s normal to have her in my thoughts or see her in the dark muddy corners of the garden now.

  It’s nice to have my best friend, Leila, round at my house to take my mind off it. She sits on my bed, with her checked shirt pulled tight around her waist by a thick elasticated belt, and licks the end of her index finger before turning the pages of Cosmopolitan. We’ve been friends since school, but recently she’s been different, as if she’s changing, or maybe it’s just me. Her long red hair is loose down her back and she pulls on a single curl while we listen to New Order on the stereo. As the songs play it feels as if I’m sharing what happened at the river with her.

  ‘I saw Stefan before,’ she says, glancing up, ‘at the bus stop.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Have you…’ she raises an eyebrow and smiles ‘…you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Barbara reckons he only went out with you cos he was on the rebound,’ she says. I bite the inside of my mouth as she continues, ‘It’s OK. I don’t.’

  I don’t care what Barbara thinks. Since they watched Live Aid at her barbecue they’re always together. They act as if they’ve changed the world when all they did was sell a few home-made badges outside the canteen.

  ‘It says here—’ she taps the magazine with a polished fingernail ‘—that boys don’t like to be challenged.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Boys are more sensitive than you think too. You should read this. It might give you some pointers.’

  ‘Boys are just people. There’s no big mystery.’

  ‘They’re only interested in one thing.’

  ‘And aren’t girls?’

  She laughs to herself and I smell the spearmint on her breath. I don’t get the joke. She’s a virgin and has no idea what she’s talking about. What she doesn’t realise is that me and Stefan had something good. When his nan was in hospital we stayed up all night and watched the sun rise over the river. That night was special, but Leila doesn’t understand. We’ve shared things that she won’t find in her magazines. She tilts her head as she looks at a picture of Madonna and waves her hand to make her nails dry faster.

  ‘You look like her,’ she says, and glances from the magazine to my cropped top and back again. ‘Sort of, anyway. Just your clothes, I mean, obviously.’ She snorts through her nose. ‘I couldn’t wear the kind of clothes you do. You’re lucky. I don’t even know what to do with my hair.’ She points at her curls in disgust. ‘Still, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to wear the stuff you do.’ She pauses, to look me over again. ‘I’d be embarrassed.’

  I know how to make the best of what I’ve got, because I’ve learnt from Mum. I’m not great-looking, but I’ve got a flat belly so I show it off. I look at Leila’s thick eyeliner and shiny blusher. She looks better without it, but she never believes me when I tell her.

  ‘You look fine,’ I say. ‘You should stop believing magazines. Anyway, you can always borrow my stuff if you want.’

  I wouldn’t change one thing about her. She’s got red curls that bounce when she walks and pale skin that goes freckly in the sun. She’s perfect, even if she does buy her clothes from Oxfam.

  ‘Nar…’ she pauses ‘…you’re way skinnier. There’s nothing on you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft – we’re the same size.’

  She clears her throat. ‘Your mum’s boyfriend seems OK now.’

  ‘He’s gross. He tests river water.’ I roll my eyes. ‘He was down there the day Kirsten was killed.’

  Leila frowns. ‘He might have seen it.’

  ‘He might have done it. Mum even said the same thing.’ I pause, and lick my lips. ‘He comes in my room sometimes when he thinks I’m asleep.’

  ‘I feel sorry for him…’ she stands up and drops the magazine on the floor ‘…having to live with you.’ She laughs. ‘You should give him a chance.’ She looks around before turning to face me. ‘He doesn’t really come in your room, does he?’

  I nod my head. ‘Twice last week.’

  She frowns and pretends to shudder.

  ‘Pervo.’ She shakes her head and laughs. ‘Get a lock.’

  That’s the start of it. It’s as easy as that. She doesn’t even question it. She notices the newspaper cutting of Kirsten that I’ve stuck on the wardrobe door, next to the flier from last year’s carnival, and a frown crinkles in between her eyebrows. The headline above the picture says, ‘Local Girl Drowns’. That’s what they’ve decided: she just fell in and drowned. Like I said, people believe what they need to. It’s easier for them that way.

  ‘What have you put that up for?’ she asks as she leans in to get a closer look.

  ‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘It just seemed wrong to bin it.’

  ‘It’s creepy,’ she says, and moves closer to read the article. As the album continues, the frog noises at the end of ‘The Perfect Kiss’ take me to a place by the river that she couldn’t begin to understand, a place where Kirsten’s sobs won’t ever be heard again.

  ‘If you want to see creepy you should come for a sleepover.’ I smile, but she’s too busy reading to listen. I’d giv
e anything to know what she’s thinking.

  *

  After Leila has gone, I go back downstairs to get a drink. Mum is doing her lipstick in the mirror in the hall. Her stripy dress is like one piece of material she’s wriggled into and her white leather jacket sits above the curve of her behind. She clips the lipstick shut and turns to look me over.

  ‘You forgot your skirt,’ I say.

  ‘It’s with your manners.’

  She thinks she’s funny, but she isn’t.

  ‘I won’t be long at Karen’s,’ she shouts to Mike, through the door.

  ‘Stay off the wine,’ he shouts back, from the living room. He’s spread out on the sofa, shirt flat against his belly as if he owns the place, but I smile anyway.

  ‘There won’t be any boozing,’ Mum replies.

  ‘Yeah right,’ I say quietly, with a roll of the eyes as I walk into the living room. He looks up at me, surprised, because I usually ignore him, but things are going to be different from now on. This is the start of us. We’re going to be close.

  He coughs. ‘I’m going for a walk to the river while your mum’s out, to blow away the old cobwebs. Come with me if you like? Not a bad day for it.’

  By his tone of voice, he’s worried about asking. He wants us to be friends so he can impress Mum, but he’s useless. While he’s talking, his eyes flick down over my legs and back up to my face again. It’s going to be easy to get her to think the worst of him.

  Mum laughs. ‘She doesn’t want to go for a walk. Right, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Enjoy,’ he tells her.

  As the front door slams I turn to him. I want to go to the river to see what it looks like now Kirsten’s gone, but there’s another reason: to pretend to like him. It won’t be difficult; I’ve been pretending my whole life.

  ‘OK, then.’ I flick back my hair with a smile. ‘I’ll come.’

  He looks delighted. He’s an idiot.

  5

  Hayley Reynolds

  As we go down the hill, past the Bowl and towards the industrial estate, I have to walk quickly to keep up with his long-legged strides. We reach a curve in the road and just as I’m about to step off the kerb he puts his hand out to stop me and it bumps against my chest.