Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,52

spreading their shit around trying to sell papers, if you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t really read a lot of papers,’ I say. ‘And I promise you, I’m not a journalist.’

‘Still, probably best if you don’t go knocking on doors,’ he says, all traces of warmth gone from his voice now. ‘Not after what happened to her sister.’

‘OK, thanks.’ I hand the bag over the bar to him. ‘Who’s her sister?’

Without asking, he reaches out, snatches the handbag and stows it away under the bar, out of sight. He ignores my question.

‘And your name is?’

‘Ellen,’ I say. ‘Ellen Devlin. Tell Kathryn I said hello.’

I take my Diet Coke to a side table by the door and sit with it for ten minutes, pretending to be absorbed in my phone. If they’re going to return the bag to her, now would be the time, before the lunch-time rush kicks off. If they have a lunch-time rush. But neither the landlord nor the barmaid are going anywhere, although the landlord catches my eye a couple of times as if he’s still trying to get the measure of me.

My drink finished, I walk out of the Red Lion and back to my car. I’m parked on the street with a good view of the front of the pub, next to an old-style red phone box. A tractor passes, huge tyres thick with mud, squeezing between parked cars and the pavement in a rumble of diesel. Five minutes later, the barmaid appears with the garish purple-and-black handbag slung over her shoulder, thumbs moving over the screen of her phone. I slide down further in the driving seat but she doesn’t even look up, just turns towards the centre of the village and sets off down the footpath. I watch her progress as she walks away. I could follow her on foot but it would be conspicuous in this sleepy Buckinghamshire village on a Thursday morning. The car is a marginally better option.

Little Missenden has two main streets that meet at a staggered crossroads. I turn the car’s ignition and wait to see which way the barmaid will turn, watching her amble down the path, still absorbed in her phone. Once away from the pub she stops, checks over her shoulder and then casually unzips the bag, fingering quickly through the contents, taking things out and putting them back again. She takes out the purse and unzips it, checks up and down the street again, opens all its pockets and flaps. Frowns, drops it back in the bag and zips it shut again. Keeps on walking.

She reaches the crossroads and turns left, disappearing from sight. I put the car in gear and pull out to follow her.

25

Leon

When he was out, Leon wore two pairs of gloves: long fingerless gloves over translucent skin-tight latex underneath. It was hard to see the latex pair unless someone was really close up, and Leon didn’t let people get too close. At his own place he just wore the latex but it was better to disguise them when he was out – and in any case he preferred to leave no trace of himself behind. Better to move through the world like a ghost.

He washed his hands, snapped on a new pair of gloves and dimmed the lights a little. Sat back in the leather desk chair to study his victim board, covering most of the wall in front of his desk. Four unlucky women. Two blondes now, two brunettes. Leon liked to know about the victims – to really know about them – that was what set him apart, made him different from the rest. Not just who they were before they died, but who they loved, how far the ripples of their murder spread. To really appreciate the true impact on their families and friends, on their colleagues, on society. Especially when the cases remained unsolved, when the guy responsible was still out walking the streets, continuing with life as if nothing had happened. Continuing to hunt.

Leon smiled.

His eyes moved from one victim to the next, over the words and numbers beneath each picture. Dates of birth, of death. Place of discovery. Name. Age. Address. Occupation. An exclusive club with only four members. The third victim was special though, different – there was something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on.

So he did what he had always done, in time-honoured tradition. Maybe not time-honoured, exactly, but an updated version: emails and texts to family members from