Page 31 of The Unforgiven

The echoes of guilt rattled through my ears. “And I’m sure I will. It’s something to look forward to.” And it would take my mind off who my pen pal could be.

Her expression morphed into one of pure bliss. She sat up straighter. “Good. I’ll sort everything and do the clean up on Saturday, so you don’t need to worry about anything. And Cavan will be around.” Her smile was too forced, her eyes not showing it.

“I need to phone him, actually. I’ll give him a call this evening.” I hadn’t really been in touch much beyond a couple of texts since Saturday afternoon.

“How are things between you?”

“Okay. No change really. We have fun when we’re together.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’d told my foster sister, Heidi, more when I spoke with her briefly, that I wasn’t sure I was putting enough into it, and he was a nice guy who was very pretty, but something had felt off on Friday. Heidi had suggested I bin him off and find someone at the gym, which made me think of Jalen, but I’d been thinking of Jalen for years and never done anything about it.

“He’s a nice guy. You don’t spend loads of time together though. Why’s that?”

I wasn’t in the mood to discuss this with Lucy, as well meaning as she usually was. “I don’t have the time. I’m not like you with a holiday every seven weeks and no weekend shifts.”

“True. I couldn’t do your job. I took a taxi back from Manchester today instead of getting the tram because they’re saying online for women in the area to be extra vigilant. Do you think that was wise?” She closed her menu and placed her elbows on table arranging her arms so she looked like she was interviewing me.

“You should always be extra vigilant, but I don’t think you need to think you’re the next victim.” Although if we were looking at someone who affiliated themselves with the incel ideology, Lucy would be categorised as a Stacey, attractive and would consider unattractive men beneath her. She had an online profile, although it was kept private with her being a teacher, but then there was a separate profile where she, a bit like Brooke, did the whole ‘get ready with me’ reels, which got her a few samples to try out.

They were a bonus for me, as she was quite happy to share.

“Avoid walking by the canals and rivers, especially if you’re meeting up with anyone new. That’s probably the most sensible advice I can give you.”

She sat straighter, her colour a little paler. “You think I could be a target?”

“At the moment, any woman could be.” We had the phone records of both women now; there had been no shared contact who they’d been in touch within the last couple of weeks, but there were too many other ways to communicate with someone. Getting into Brooke’s social media had been easy so far, but we weren’t as far forward with Chelsea’s. Her phone hadn’t been found, despite the area where it’d last pinged off a cell tower being searched by Jenna and her team.

So far, there was no clear connection between them, but it still didn’t feel like it was unmeditated, which suggested they’d been picked for a reason. Stalked.

Watched.

Sought out.

Like I had been with the receipt of the email. I’d text Jalen later and book another session with him.

We were going to have to look again at that email. Why me? I didn’t stand out any more than Vinny or Nick other than for being female.

“Okay. I’ll be vigilant.” She gave a shudder, looking around the restaurant. “The killer could be in here now.”

Lucy had a flair for the dramatic.

“I hope not. I’m not on duty.” Luckily the waiter came over and took our order, and the conversation moved on to the wedding she’d been at the previous weekend, and how drunk the best man had been, which I’d thought was pretty standard for a wedding.

Chapter Fourteen

While I was eating linguine and discussing bad choices for wedding guest outfits with Lucy, a nineteen year old boy was stabbed in inner city Manchester, a bit more than a kid who’d been taken with gang culture rather than what the education system had to offer, the path of the butterfly taking him to the wrong place at the wrong time and to the wrong end of a knife.

Overnight, the media interested in the Manchester Push-Her diverted to knife crime in the city, and the waste and wasted youth, calling for tighter controls and more support for education in schools, which was the whole point of them anyway – if only there were exams on life skills and bad choices.

Immediately, our team was lightened, some of the analysts moved over to that, along with one or two of the constables we’d seconded when Brooke’s body was found. There were promises of a revenge attack and a protest in the city centre, a gathering at Piccadilly Gardens on Good Friday, arranged on social media via messages that disappeared just as quickly as someone’s observation skills.

Stan wouldn’t be involved or interested. This was too far down the pecking order for him to have any investment, thegames of children seeking specks of power not even on his radar, and what had happened would be nothing new to him. There may be different cultures and countries involved now, but the motivations hadn’t changed.

They were as old as time.

“Mac, have you got five minutes?” Wrigley poked his head out of his office, a brew in his hand, which boded well. You knew you were in for a bollocking when he was empty handed, because that meant he’d just had a meeting with someone who’d bollocked him.

I headed over to Wrigley, poking Vinny in the back of the head on the way, making him jump. We’d all been looking at the two firm lines of enquiry – the two separate killers working together and Neil Hunt. The former had meant watching countless hours of CCTV from around the crime scenes that we had identified so far, checking forums where incels might linger, and trying to build up a timeline for Neil Hunt’s whereabouts, although he was in the clear for Brooke’s murder – his alibi was tight.

“How’s it going, Mia?” Wrigley sat down on his favourite chair that really needed replacing.