Page 33 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

The car journey to Torquay police station passes in relative silence.

We both stare dead ahead, DI Walker focusing on the road while I stare blankly and think.

I want to ask more about the women who’ve been murdered – what their names were, what they did for a living, what family members they were forced to leave behind.

Did they suffer? My stomach twists as the images of death flash through my mind. Of course they suffered …

As much as I know that it’s Henry’s deep-rooted issues that made him do such heinous things to these women, I still can’t equate the Henry I knew with this one.

He hurt people back at Finley Hall, and his behaviour got out of hand, but he was a confused, hurt boy.

To think he’s done these things now, as an adult, tears my heart in two.

After such a terrible start to life himself, why has he then gone on to make others’ lives even worse?

I went the opposite way, going into teaching to try to impact children’s lives for the better.

‘You’re quiet,’ DI Walker says.

I don’t look at him, and I don’t offer any words of agreement or otherwise.

He sucks air through his teeth, then reaches into the compartment between the two seats, taking out a pot of chewing gum.

He flicks the lid with one hand and takes a piece out, popping it into his mouth.

Then, wordlessly, he shakes the pot in my direction, ejecting a small square of gum onto my lap.

I stare at it for a moment, then hold it between my fingers.

‘You’re meant to eat it, not play with it.’

‘Chew, you mean,’ I say, my voice weary. ‘You can’t eat them.’

‘Ah. Did your mother tell you it tangles around your windpipe if you swallow it, too?’

‘My mother barely spoke to me, detective. Not even to put the fear of God into me.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I forgot for a second.’

We fall back into an uneasy silence until he pulls up in the station car park and my tummy flipflops with anxiety.

I’ve not been in a police station for a very long time and I’d prefer not to be stepping inside one right now.

Somehow, I feel as though I’ll be under scrutiny – that all eyes will be on the serial killer’s sister.

It’s an appellation I’d rather not have.

I wonder what other siblings or children of killers feel about such titles.

Horrified? Embarrassed? Proud? I’m sure at least one or two will capitalise on it, use their link as a way of gaining attention, maybe even make money from it.

Books are written about killers, documentaries and films are made.

I shiver at the thought. People are strange.

But before this, didn’t I enjoy watching crime dramas?

Discuss theories and exchange gossip with people?

Does that make me strange too? If this all gets out, if my face is splashed on the front of tabloids, will my Netflix watchlist come under scrutiny?

Others will theorise – maybe even suggest that because of our shared backgrounds, I’m like Henry too.

And if my own secret comes out, they may well make documentaries about me.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ DI Walker says, opening my car door for me. I scan the area as I climb out, wondering if there’s anyone here to spot me walking inside with a detective. Anyone with their phone camera pointing this way readying themselves to snap a shot to put up on social media.

DI Walker takes me inside the police station with him and we sit in a tiny room while I go through my statement. My hand shakes as I sign it.

‘I swear I wasn’t trying to obstruct the investigation,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’ It’s partly true.

‘I’ll do the best I can to limit the fallout,’ he says, taking it from me. ‘But you cannot afford to lie to me again. Understand?’

‘I know. I really am sorry. Again,’ I say with as much feeling as I can muster, even though the reality is I’d do the exact same even if I had the chance to change it, and I know it.

And as DI Walker looms over me, his blue eyes piercing into mine, I get the awful feeling he does, too.

Thankfully, he drops it, goes to the door and holds it open for me.

‘I’ll get uniform to drive you home,’ he says, ushering me out into the corridor.

‘Oh,’ I say, my voice high with surprise. ‘Are you not taking me?’

He gives me an incredulous look. ‘I haven’t got the time to waste taxiing you around.

’ Then he strides off towards another room.

I smart, but then immediately feel sheepish.

He’s right, of course: not only is there a murder investigation in full swing, but there’s a time constraint too.

I’ve likely wasted them enough of that already.

I look around for the person tasked with being my driver.

I walk up and down the corridor a bit, trying to spot someone who appears free so that I can ask which officer I should be looking for. Everyone is busy and I feel stupid stopping them at such a time. It’ll be more helpful if I get the bus or a taxi.

As I turn the corridor towards where I think the exit is, I see a room with glass doors. A huge whiteboard covering one wall is visible, and I recognise some of the images stuck on it. I stop walking, and keeping out of sight, hover to the side so I can peek in.

DI Walker is standing pointing at one of the photos, and I can hear his deep voice through the doors.

Although I can’t make out what he’s saying, he’s addressing a room of people – the attention of the officers I can see in the front row is fully on him.

He looks stern, serious and – unless I’m mistaken – angry.

Shit. I wonder if he’s telling them about me.

How I went off without informing him. Removed evidence, made them lose precious time they didn’t have.

Tears sting my eyes as the reality of my selfishness hits home.

Those poor women – caught up in a game they had no knowledge of, were not willing participants of.

Was it bad luck that Henry chose them? Was it merely wrong place, wrong time, or had he stalked them for months beforehand to make sure they were what he wanted?

Something that happened years ago for Henry and me has caused these women to lose their lives now, and the fact it’s largely down, even if indirectly, to me sits like a heavy stone inside me.

As I turn and walk away, I make a promise to myself that I’ll be more thoughtful, put others first from now on. If I get the chance.

That promise makes me feel better for all of twenty minutes. Then, as I’m sitting on the bus being jiggled around, numbly watching the buildings and fields whoosh by, I realise I made that very promise before, when I left Finley Hall. Am I really just full of lies and broken promises?