“I can see what you’re saying, Geoffrey,” said Catherine. “It seems a little bit of a stretch to me, but you could be right. I’msure that if she was involved, the police will catch her soon enough.”
“Catherine. It gives me no pleasure to say this but the police force are, in my opinion, too politically correct to solve this crime. They should be at Sheldon Oaks right now, scouring the place for evidence, pinning Carol up against the wall, extracting the truth. But where are they? They’re back at the station. Most likely putting the final touches on some rainbow flag bunting for their weekly parade. Or…or…” He scrambled, looking for another made-up scenario. “Or practicing a dance routine for the Notting Hill Carnival or…”
“Geoffrey, is this because they wouldn’t let you get involved?” asked Margaret.
“No! Absolutely not.”
“I think it is,” teased Catherine. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man look so sad.”
“They are failing to see what they have at their disposal,” said Geoffrey. “A man on the inside!”
“So what are you suggesting?” asked Catherine.
“I think we should investigate it ourselves. This is important. If Carol did do it, then it’s unlikely to be a one-off event, is it? Any one of us could be next.”
“I really don’t think this is the sort of thing Margaret and I want to be getting ourselves involved in.”
“You speak for yourself,” said Margaret. “I think I could have a lot to offer the investigation. And Geoffrey’s right. We may need to act quickly before it turns into a…what’s the word?”
“Killing spree?”
“Yes, that’s it. Killing spree! We need to prevent a killing spree! Thank you, dear. We’re ready for the bill now, if you are.”
The waitress cleared the table. Margaret thought she had seen her double take at “killing spree,” but she was far too excited to stop her train of thought. “So what do you two think we should do, then?”
“Well, I think it’s obvious,” said Geoffrey. “We need to do what the police have thus far failed to do. Question the chief suspect.”
Ten
Americans were soover-the-top. Just kill people and be done with it. Why all the hullabaloo?
Since leaving prison, Carol had found herself enjoying true crime documentaries. She was beginning to realize she had become a serial killer without really knowing anything of the genre. She was entirely self-taught. Carol wasn’t one for letting her gender prevent her from doing what she wanted, but perhaps if she had known just how male-dominated the sport was, she’d have paused before trying it.
Sex. So many of the other practitioners were obsessed with sex! For Carol, sex and murder just didn’t go together. Like orange juice after brushing your teeth. Yuck. But it seemed that nearly everyone else who’d ever dabbled in a bit of multiple murder was killing and shagging like it was sausage and mash, which, she supposed, well, the way they did it, it was.
One channel, somewhere in the mid-hundreds, showedepisode after episode of one of those trashy American true crime documentaries—Women Who Kill.
“WOMEN WHO…KILL!” the bass-y, over-the-top, American narrator would say every five minutes or so.
Then they’d tell the story of some lady in Kansas who’d finally lost it with her husband and shot him with his own Colt .45. You’d watch the police interrogations with the women and they’d be crying, saying sorry, saying they loved him, saying they’d lost their mind.
Own it, thought Carol. These men had all beaten the shit out of their wives or cheated on them or stolen their money. The bastards deserved it.Own it.
One time Carol had been sitting in a train carriage, with only a disgusting slob for company. He had belched loudly and proudly. Scratched his arse, farted the most awful farts. He had been proud of it. He’d known she was behind him. This was an intentional assault on her person. He’d done it because he’d enjoyed it, because it had made him feel big and because he’d known he could get away with it.
At least, he’d thought he could.
Carol had seen the station approach and slowed her breathing, slotting herself into the appropriate state. She’d taken a newly sharpened flick-knife from her coat pocket, released the blade, and pushed it into the back of his neck.
By the time the train had arrived at the platform, Carol was standing by the doors, looking directly into the man’s eyes, his life already leaving him.
He was pleading with her.What have you just done?
“Don’t burp in front of ladies,” she’d said, in a motherly tone. “It’s rude.”
—
Carol heard aknock and went to her front door to find Geoffrey, Catherine, and Margaret staring at her. They each had a defensive weapon in hand. Geoffrey held a cricket bat, Catherine a sock with a snooker ball in it, and Margaret a large cookery book.
