Killer Move

I cautiously stuck my head around. The door hung open, revealing the corridor beyond, bleached out by the light from the glass balcony door at the end.

I walked down into the living room. Before I stopped in the middle of last night’s cigarette ends, near the two empty wineglasses, I already knew something was different. We ignore smells a lot of the time. We’re all about what we can see and hear. But before either of these cut in, part of my brain had caught onto something else. The place didn’t smell like Cass anymore.

I looked at the bathroom door. It was a little chipped and could do with a lick of paint—but it no longer had a word daubed on it.

I turned on the spot, being careful not to knock over the nearest glass, and stepped carefully over to the bedroom door.

It was here that the loss of scent was most obvious. Whatever it was that Cassandra had worn, probably something cheap, it had gone. The bed had been made, too. Not excessively neatly, either, but exactly how it might have been made by a girl in a rush, setting the room vaguely to rights before hurrying out to a shift she was already running late for. I pulled the comforter back. The sheet underneath was white, a little crumpled. It could not have looked more normal. It was not soaked with blood. It was not suspiciously clean.

Back in the living area the effect remained seamless. A low-rent apartment the morning after two people had made a night of it. Only one thing had been erased from this space’s experience—whatever had happened to Cass.

I’m not dumb. I didn’t doubt my sanity for a second. I knew what had happened. Somebody had cleaned it up, removing all evidence that a murder had taken place—a murder that had been finessed and staged for my benefit.

Suddenly afraid that the cleanup had extended further, I went over to the desk. My thumb drive was still sticking out of the USB port on the side of the laptop, thank god. I stuck it in my pocket.

I took a few steps and sat heavily down on the sofa. I was relieved, terrible though that may sound. Cass was still dead—but I was now the only person who knew this. The evidence had disappeared. Whatever the world and its authorities might want to grill me over in the future, a murder scene was no longer one of them. I’d told Deputy Hallam to come meet me here, but now there was nothing to see.

I wondered—was that why he wasn’t here? I couldn’t imagine the cop being involved in what was happening, but . . . what if his absence hadn’t been caused by his being otherwise engaged? What if he hadn’t come because he knew there was nothing to see?

I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. Or at least I had no evidence for it, and I needed to stick to things that I had some reason to believe or I was going to lose track of everything, including my mind.

I realized that there was actually one other person who knew what had taken place here, and I believed the time she had spoken of had now come. I got out my phone, found her number in the INCOMING log.

“So,” Jane Doe said, when she answered. “Does this mean you’re ready to listen now?”

I was waiting out on the walkway when I saw her pickup park down in the street. It was a little after five and the air was softening. I was out there watching in case Hallam turned up. I was out there to smoke. I was out there because being in Cass’s apartment was making me feel wretched and confused.

The woman walked quickly across the courtyard below without looking up, and I heard her feet pattering up the spiral staircase. The rhythm was even and fast. When she arrived at the third story and strode up the walkway she wasn’t even out of breath.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, though her face was pinched and she looked wired. “What the hell happened to you? You didn’t look great this morning, but now you truly look like shit.”

I turned and walked into the apartment. When we reached the living area I stopped and looked at her.

She looked back at me. “What’s your point?”

“Look in the bedroom.”

“No need,” she said. “I trust the guys I put onto it.”

“Pardon me?”

“When you did your dumb split-and-run from Burger King this morning? This is what I was organizing.”

She stuck her head around the bedroom door, appeared satisfied.

“Her smell is gone,” I said.

“Solvents. Blood is a bitch to clean up. They did it right, though, if all you’re noticing is a lack of something else. Seriously, what happened to you? You really don’t look good.”

“I got hit on the back of the head,” I said. “I woke up in a disused building within a few yards of a dead woman. There was a guy with a gun. I thought he was going to kill me, but then he disappeared.”

“What guy?”

“Don’t know. Never offered me his card. He was very informal during the entire encounter. All I know is he killed a woman called Hazel Wilkins.”

“Fuck,” she said urgently, but not in surprise. “What happened to him? Where’d he go?”