He hates women. The injuries inflicted on Lola’s body suggests some sort of punishment, although there is nothing in his behaviour to suggest that he gains anything sexual from his actions. Why does he hate women? Who has harmed him? He preys on women who are vulnerable: women who put their trust in him. They know him. For now, it seems likely they know him from the support group. He lures them, makes them feel safe then traps them.
There were no signs of a struggle in the downstairs of the pub, or on the stairs or in any other room of the upstairs flat other than the room where the victims were held. In order to get them into the pub, he must have incapacitated them somehow. Were the women drunk? Even drunk, it seems likely they would have put up some sort of a struggle against him. There was no evidence of any drugs in the post-mortem of either woman, but it might be worth considering the use of Rohypnol. It is tasteless, odourless, and a person’s system is cleared of any evidence of its consumption within twenty-four hours.
The victims would have been incapacitated long enough for him to transport them to the pub and get them into the upstairs flat. Neither victim was heavy – both were easy enough for a man of only average strength to move. The other implication here is that he owns or at least has access to a vehicle, possibly one that might allow him to conceal the women easily. What job does this man have, if any? Is he using his own vehicle, or someone else’s?
His taking of items from the victims’ bodies, as well as his apparently specific selection of his victims, is conducive with the pattern of a serial killer. He has found, wooed, lured, killed and collected from his victims and is likely to now be in what is known as the Depression Phase. I fear this man may kill again – in fact, it is likely he has already identified his next victim. It may well be another woman from the support group. If he fails in his attempt to trap and kill this woman, it is likely to result in a bitter disappointment that fuels his anger and he may attack at random in response to this. He is likely already upset – we have found his base, disrupted his plans; he will be anxious and angry and will therefore regard himself as forced to behave in ways that may not follow the pattern of his two previous crimes.
Chloe saved the document under the file name ‘EVANSTAYLOR’ before closing it. She logged into her email account and found Alex’s email address. She attached the saved document and clicked send just as the doorbell sounded.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Alex had been back at the house for less than ten minutes when she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. She had been upstairs changing from her work clothes into a pair of pyjamas, too tired to be bothered to take a shower before bed. It had been such a long and eventful day and she felt exhausted by it. The last thing she needed was to see Rob on the doorstep, waiting with the look of someone who wasn’t going to leave without much persuasion. She knew it was him through the frosted panes of glass, and she considered how easy it might be to ignore him and leave him standing there. Facing what was bound to come next was something Alex would have preferably avoided, although she knew that not facing it now meant leaving it for another day.
‘Can I come in? Please.’
Alex looked at him incredulously. She felt conscious of the pyjamas she had chosen, realising she was dressed like a lazy teenager. Yet again, she reprimanded herself for fickle thoughts of her appearance.
‘Who is she?’
‘Alex, please—’
‘“Alex, please,” what? I’m not allowed to ask?’
Rob glanced at the house next door, as though expecting to find the neighbours hanging out of the living room window and listening in on what was guaranteed to be an awkward conversation. ‘Can we do this inside?’
‘“This”? What is “this”?’
Rob sighed. ‘Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.’
Reluctantly, Alex stepped aside and let him into the house. She didn’t want him there – it was past ten o’clock and the only place she wanted to be was tucked up in bed – but neither did she want their dirty laundry aired on the doorstep for all to see. If she’d allowed herself the time to consider it, she might have had a chance to think about what she would say to him when she next saw him, but as always she had distracted herself with her work, ignoring the things that, if given a chance, might tip her over the edge.
‘How long have you been with her?’
Rob said nothing, his guilty face revealing everything he didn’t want to say. At least he had the decency to look ashamed. Alex didn’t need him to tell her that he’d been seeing this woman – she still didn’t even know her name – for some time. The boy sitting on Rob’s shoulders had seemed to know him pretty well: well enough to laugh with him, to keep his small hands clamped to Rob’s neck to stop himself slipping; well enough for the four of them to appear as any other family out together to do their weekly shop.
Family.
The word struck Alex, momentarily stalling every other thought.
She had lain naked with Rob, had let his hands undo all the bad things that lurked elsewhere in her life. She had showered with him, returning to his body for second helpings with the kind of thoughtless abandon she hadn’t experienced since their early days together; the kind of physical need that had kept her returning to him long after they had both known the emotional element of their relationship to be over. The very thought of it now filled her with shame and anger.
If he and that woman, that woman’s children, were in fact a family – if they had welcomed and accepted him as part of theirs – what did that make her?
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘It’s everything I think,’ she snapped. ‘What was your plan – you’d keep a nice little boil-in-the-bag family to go home to after shagging the ex-wife who couldn’t give you kids?’
The look on Rob’s face said she may as well have slapped him. A part of her wanted to.
‘That’s not fair, Alex. None of this is to do with—’
Her anger spilled into tears, hot and unexpected. They were rare, and Rob turned away from them as though embarrassed. Alex dragged the sleeve of her pyjama top across her face in a vain attempt to conceal the evidence of her frustrations.
What was she even crying for? She didn’t love Rob any more; she hadn’t been in love with Rob for years, not in any way more than the kind of love borne of mutual respect for the shared time that keeps couples together far longer than their expiry dates. Her tears were for her own wounded pride. They were for everything she might once have had, but would now never know. They were for everything she had no control over.
They were for Lola Evans and Sarah Taylor. They were for Chloe.
‘It’s always been you, Alex.’
She was glad he said it: the laugh it prompted helped to get rid of the embarrassing tears. He sounded like some bad male lead in a two-star romantic comedy, doling out clichés with all the sincerity of a double glazing salesman.
‘Please. Don’t make things worse than they already are.’
‘It’s true. I know you won’t believe me; I know I don’t deserve it. But you’ve pushed and pushed and now everything is on your terms, and is that fair, really?’