Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(40)

“Why?”

“I don’t have all the answers. Like I said: Bev liked her independence. So did Bill.”

“Did you know they’ve moved in together?”

Marnie stared at Kate and sat back in her chair. “No way. Really? Where?”

“Salcombe. Bill has a very nice house there.”

“Blimey. They took their time. I’m not surprised. He’s done well for himself, Bill. He worked his way up from being a hod carrier. Started his own building firm and patented a new kind of tarmac that resists water. His company was bought out by a big European firm about six years ago.”

There was a pause, and Marnie got up and filled their cups with fresh tea.

“What do you think happened to Joanna?” asked Kate. Marnie put the cups back on the table. “We’ve been over the evidence, and no one saw anything.”

“Honestly? I think she was the victim of a multiple murderer,” said Marnie. “And I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I read a lot of true crime fiction, and statistics say that there are several active serial killers in the UK who haven’t yet been caught. You caught a serial killer, though, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” said Kate, the comment taking her off guard.

“So many of them go on killing for years before they get caught. They think Harold Shipman killed two hundred and sixty people over three decades . . . Dennis Nilsen, Peter Sutcliffe, Fred and Rose West all killed people over several years and got away with it. In most cases, it was only a fluke or a stupid mistake that meant they got caught. Serial killers can manipulate people to see them as normal—nice, even. How long did Peter Conway get away with it until you worked out it was him?”

Kate was taken off guard again. “Officially, it was five years, but we think that there are other victims that have never been identified,” she said.

“Exactly.”

Kate suddenly felt chilly. The sky was growing darker outside the small kitchen window. She decided to change the subject.

“Did Joanna ever talk to you about her work? About stories she was working on?”

Marnie shook her head.

“No. We just used to talk about rubbish on TV, about the men in our lives. I got the impression that she liked to let off steam with me. I was easy to talk to.”

“Did she ever talk in any detail about the Noah Huntley article she wrote?”

Marnie frowned.

“We did talk about that because it was such a big thing and the story got picked up by the national newspapers, and then he lost his seat.”

“Did Joanna ever talk about meeting Noah Huntley again, or a job she was applying for in London?”

“No. Why would she have met Noah Huntley again? I should think she was the last person he’d want to talk to.”

Kate hesitated and thought about her next question. She didn’t want to lead Marnie.

“Did Joanna ever mention a story she was writing about missing people? Young men who’d gone missing?”

“She hardly ever talked about work. Like I said, she liked to have a laugh with me . . . Were these young men murdered?” she added, her interest piqued.

“I don’t know. We’re rather vague about the details.”

Marnie rubbed at her face. “I remember Fred saying they took away all of Joanna’s work stuff. They interviewed everyone she’d ever spoken to and combed through her whole life. And they came up with nothing. Like I said, I think Jo was abducted or killed by someone she didn’t know. That’s what happens with most of the victims of serial killers. Serial murderers are opportunists. Impulsive. Any number of creeps could have followed Jo and seen that she left her car in Deansgate. That was always empty and about to be demolished. It was the perfect place to grab her, stuff her in their car, and drive away. If you discount everything else, it’s the only logical conclusion,” said Marnie.

Kate was becoming irritated with Marnie, only because she could be right.

“Did you know about Fred having an affair with the neighbors’ nanny, Famke?” asked Kate.

“Yeah, afterward I did.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Not really. Jo was obsessed by work, and Fred was a bit lost. They’d just moved in together, and their lives were going in different directions.”

“Do you think he did it?”

Marnie laughed.

“Fred? No. He couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, let alone, I dunno, killing Jo and stashing her body somewhere so good that no one has found her in almost thirteen years. Unless he hired a hit man, but he was skint.”

“Did Joanna have any other friends from this estate, or enemies?”

Marnie shook her head.

“No, and Bev got on well with everyone. I know that this estate ’as got a bad name, but the people aren’t all bad. There are good people. There was a real community spirit, and people rallied around. Bev’s car got nicked the night Joanna went missing, right out on the road out front, and I had a crash the same day. And so many of the neighbors helped her out giving her lifts, and me too.”

“Was the crash you had bad?” asked Kate, her eyes moving to the crutch propped up against the radiator.

“No. That’s for early-onset arthritis,” said Marnie. “The crash was my own fault. I backed into a posh BMW parked on the road below. My shit-heap MINI was okay, but I ended up having to pay a five hundred quid excess on the owner’s insurance to have it fixed. I bet he could have paid for it easier than me, but that’s life.”