“I still think it’s worth looking into the guy across the street.” She indicates the exterior wall, imagining Chris Appleton’s unkempt garden, his face at the window.
“Beverley”—Roger eases himself up on the bed, which tugs her neck into an awkward angle—“I’ve had a car on that guy for the past two weeks, okay? Because I care about you. But he barely leaves his house. He’s a loner, not a criminal.”
Beverley pushes herself out from under the sheets and crosses to the window, arms folded. Her skin itches with anger—but it is she who is the target of her own fury.
Sheknows,deep down, that it couldn’t have been Christopher Appleton. And yes, if she admits it to herself, she is ashamed to have judged someone so quickly, this strange, isolated, unusual man. She’s no better than the neighbors who spit inherdoorway after news broke about Henry.
Roger calls her back from the window, and reluctantly she goes to him. He smooths his hand across her forehead, pushing back the hair. “Don’t feel bad. A housewife can’t solve a murder,” he says gently. “Not even one like you.”
—
A while later, whenRoger is getting ready to leave for an impending visit from Enid’s sister, Beverley leans against the hallway wall, watching him. It’s part of their familiar dance, this long, drawn-out goodbye, Beverley scrambling to find reasons for him to stay just a little longer—a light bulb that needs changing, a bottle she cannot open, another twenty minutes in bed.
He pulls on his coat, and she reaches across to the sideboard to fetch his Lucky Strikes and a couple of papers she’d removed from his pockets when she was searching for his cigarettes earlier. She hands them all over, and Roger takes her face in his hands, tenderly kisses her on the forehead.
Once he’s left Beverley sees a scrap of paper on the floor. It must have fallen from the pile when she handed everything else over.
She bends to pick it up, realizing it is a Polaroid photograph.
The flash of the camera has bleached out most of the details, but she can still see the image that has been captured. She flips the picture over. Scrawled on the back:McKENZIE CRIME SCENE, SEPTEMBER 23RD.
There is a wailing sound in Beverley’s head. Her teeth feel as if they are vibrating. Captured in the grainy photograph, discarded on the grass at the scene where Kate McKenzie, girl number five, lost her life, is something Beverley has most definitely seen before.
Forty
“What am Ilooking at?” Elsie asks, frowning up at Beverley, who arrived at theSignaloffice early in the morning, red-faced and radiating energy. Elsie had rushed downstairs to meet her. Beverley had never visited her at the office before—something had to be seriously wrong.
“It’s the camera that was on Sharon’s kitchen table when we visited.” Beverley waves the photograph. “There’s the checked strap. The cops found it near the McKenzie murder site.”
Elsie stands, grabs Beverley’s shoulders, pushes her onto the street.
“There’s no way,” she hisses as they hurry away from the office, passing loomingThink Smallads for Volkswagen, posters of Bob Dylan with flaming, psychedelic hair. “We already discounted Hank.”
There’s a pause.
“Elsie, I’m not talking about Hank.”
Now Elsie looks confused. Beverley holds the Polaroid aloft. “Whose camera is this?” she prompts.
It takes Elsie just a second.
“Shit.”
Forty-One
Beverley picks upthe phone, turns the dial frantically. She needs to speak to Roger. The call rings out, unanswered. Frustrated, she slams down the receiver, casting her eyes around the newspaper office’s lobby. Elsie is upstairs, gathering her belongings and making her excuses. They have to be quick. Beverley lifts the receiver again, dials the main number for the police precinct.
Eventually someone picks up. She doesn’t recognize the voice.
“This is Beverley Lightfoot.” She knows she’ll get what she wants only by using her old name. “I have some information for Detective Greaves, on the Central Valley Slaughterer case. I need to speak to him. Urgently.”
“Detective Greaves is not in the office right now.”
Beverley grits her teeth. She knows what this means.
“Is there anyone e—” Beverley is cut off by the dial tone.
She groans. Now there’s only one other option. She really doesn’t want to do it. She knows it’s risky—if Roger’s off shift and at home, then Enid will be there with him—but she’s going to have to go there to tell him what she and Elsie know.
