His & Hers

‘I don’t care who you sleep with, but he has a criminal record and I thought you should know—’

‘You had no right to look Richard up. It’s completely unethical. And if I were sleeping with him, which I’m not, then I really wouldn’t care if he had an unpaid speeding ticket, or whatever other trivial nonsense you’ve managed to dig up—’

‘It wasn’t trivial. He was arrested and charged with GBH.’

‘Grievous bodily harm? Richard assaulted someone?’

‘Yes. Now, I have work to do, and you need to go back the way you came and remove yourself, and your team, from school property.’

Priya walks through the doors towards us then, blocking my escape route.

‘The school is officially closed,’ she says.

‘Great, and you thought it would be a good idea to let a member of the press back here because?’

Priya looks from me to Anna then back again, confusion drawn all over her face in a series of lines that don’t belong there.

‘Well, I thought you’d want to see her.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because Ms Andrews was the one who found the body.’

Like most things in life, the more you do something, the easier it gets. The same rules apply to killing people, and the second murder was far less tricky than the first. All I had to do was be patient, and that’s something I’m rather good at.

Helen Wang loved power more than people, and that was her downfall. She was a smart cookie, but a lonely one too, often working late at the school when the rest of the teachers had long since departed for the day. I slipped into her office when she popped out, hid behind the curtains, and waited. My feet were sticking out underneath, but she didn’t notice. Some people use a filter on life as well as photos, which allows them to only see what they want to. When Helen walked back in, she sat down at her desk, and stared at her screen as though looking at a lover.

I presumed she was working on school matters, but was amused to see over her shoulder that she was trying to write a novel. After I slit her throat, I read the opening chapter while stroking her hair – sadly the words were less satisfying. Helen’s writing was disappointingly mediocre, so I deleted the whole thing and replaced it with some lines of my own:

Helen should not tell lies.

Helen should not tell lies.

Helen should not tell lies.

I used an antibacterial wipe from her desk to clean the keyboard when I was done. Then I put the drugs up her nose as well as in her drawer, to be sure nobody would miss them. I wanted everyone to know that the good headmistress was really a bad role model for young girls. Addicted to power, illegal substances, and secrets.

Her tailored suit looked expensive, so it was a little disappointing to unwrap her, and find a cheap tatty supermarket bra hidden beneath her blouse. The staple gun was not part of the plan, but I’d seen it on her desk, and it looked too tempting not to have a go. The letters made of staples on her skin were not as symmetrical as I might have liked, but it was easy enough to see that they spelled the word LIAR.

I tied the friendship bracelet around her tongue, before standing back to admire my own work; it was rather impressive. Then I borrowed a pen from the pot on the desk, to write a note on the back of my hand. A reminder to myself that I needed to make a quick call.

Her

Wednesday 06:55

‘Put the phone down,’ says the female detective.

She stares at me as though I just committed a hideous crime. Patel, I think he called her, and she’s not being nearly as nice to me as she was the first time we met. It was pretty easy to win her over in the woods yesterday. I didn’t really care about the shoe covers I asked to borrow, I just needed an excuse to talk to her. It’s amazing how much information I was able to extract. I may have repeated some of it, I suspect that’s why she is cross.

I swear she saw me reaching for the landline on the desk long before she said anything. I wouldn’t have picked it up in the first place if she’d told me not to, but I put the phone back down without further argument. I was never good at disobeying people in authority, even small ones. The two of us are cocooned inside the school secretary’s office, for reasons that make very little sense to me.

‘I’m due on-air in ten minutes. Your boss has taken my mobile, and I need to make a phone call to let someone know where I am,’ I say.

‘DCI Harper took your mobile because you said that someone called you on it, tipping you off about the latest murder. I’m sure you can understand the reasons why we need to check out that call and who made it.’

I regret giving Jack my phone, but didn’t want to come across as being unhelpful.

‘Fine, but I need to tell my newsdesk where I am.’

‘It’s been taken care of.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Your cameraman is aware that you’ve been delayed.’

‘Delayed or detained? Am I under arrest?’

‘No. As I have already explained to you, you’re free to go at any time. You have been asked to stay here for your own protection, and to assist with our investigation.’

I stare at her and she doesn’t look away. She might be small and young, but she is surprisingly confident. No wonder Jack likes her. I can feel myself falling in hate. It’s a lot like falling in love, but tends to happen harder and faster and often lasts a lot longer, too.

She steps outside the room, leaving the door open. I can hear her talking to someone further down the corridor, so I reach inside my bag, open a miniature brandy, and down it. Then I find my tin of mints and pop one in my mouth. When I look up, the detective is standing in the doorway staring at me. I don’t know how long she has been there, or what she has seen.

‘Mint?’ I ask, rattling the tin in her direction.

‘No, thank you.’

‘You do know I’m Jack’s ex-wife, don’t you?’

Her smile looks out of practice.

‘Yes, Ms Andrews. I know who you are.’

I’m not sure what makes me more uncomfortable, her words or the strange expression on her face. I told them both how scared I was when I got the call this morning, but it’s as though neither of them believe me. The fact that I contacted the newsroom before I notified the police didn’t go down particularly well either. I’m a journalist, so of course I followed up the tip-off and drove to the school. In hindsight, I can see how it might look a little foolish, dangerous even, but some stories are as addictive as success. Individual murders don’t make or save careers, but a story about a serial killer could keep me on-air for weeks.

I’ll never forget seeing Helen’s lifeless body for the first time though. The girl I went to school with had grown into a woman I barely recognised, but of course I had known who she was. Same hair, same cheekbones, for all I knew it might even have been the same stapler she used on the school newspaper sitting on her desk. It’s the kind of mental image you can never erase, and the sight of all that blood first thing in the morning would make anyone want a drink.

The young detective continues to stare at me, as though her big brown eyes have forgotten how to blink. I look away first, and feign interest in the pictures on the office walls. Staring at them brings back memories of being summoned to this room as a teenager. I was never in trouble at my first school, but when I moved to St Hilary’s everything changed. Not that it was my fault. It was almost always down to Rachel Hopkins or Helen Wang, both of whom are now dead.