Warren rose. Left. Abbie resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. There was still time. Even if Michael failed to get hold of Eddie, maybe the police would. Once they asked for him to verify Abbie’s alibi, he would know she was in prison. Surely such knowledge would dissuade him from visiting the Nightingale. From meeting Francis.
“Now your turn,” said Abbie. “Who did I supposedly murder.”
Sanderson finger-drummed the table. If he tried to put Abbie off again, if he so much as told her she had to wait until Warren returned, Abbie was likely to lose her cool. Right now, that was not something she could afford to do. Pressing her palms flat on the table, she took a breath and demanded calm of herself.
“Okay,” said Sanderson.
After drumming his fingers on the table again, he flipped open his file. From within, he produced an A4 photograph. He considered it a second, then slipped it onto the table towards Abbie.
“That was taken on a small common about five miles from where we now sit,” said Sanderson. “A young lady found the victim while walking her dog this morning around seven am. As you can imagine, she was in quite a bit of shock.”
Abbie could imagine. The body was on its back, limbs spread, eyes wide with what appeared to be terror. Maybe regret. The pale white skin contrasted with the dark red blood, which soaked into the vibrant green grass.
“Multiple stab wounds,” said Sanderson. “Like Danny.”
“Not the same,” said Abbie, without thinking.
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t, and neither do you.”
“Go on,” Sanderson said, nodding at the picture.
“Danny’s killer didn’t know what they were doing. Their stabs were wild, thoughtless. The signs of an emotional rather than a professional killer.”
Sanderson tapped the photograph. “And this?”
“More methodical. Multiple stab wounds, but you have stomach, heart, throat. The stomach’s an easy target. Hit there first to slow the victim down. At that point, a stab to the heart or throat would finish the job quick. Both reveals her anger.”
“Her?”
Abbie looked up, met Sanderson’s eye. There was no point lying about it—nothing to be gained by hiding what she knew.
“I didn’t kill him,” said Abbie.
“Not saying you—“
“But I know who did,” Abbie interjected. “I know who killed Travis.”
It was 10.54 am.
Twenty-Seven
Again, Warren reentered. The water was all gone. Sanderson offered no one a drink.
“Come on then,” he said to Abbie. “Let’s have it.”
Warren was confused. She didn’t know what she’d missed. Abbie’s claim that she knew who killed Travis. That gave Abbie some small satisfaction.
Directing her answer to Sanderson, Abbie laid out her thought process.
Some of it anyway.
“I’m not here as a courtesy,” said Abbie. “I’m under arrest, so you must have what you believe to be compelling evidence that I killed Travis. What’s that? You know I was out of my hotel at the appropriate times, but why ask Glenda about me in the first place? I can only assume you traced Travis’ movements last night back to Clarissa, from who you learned how I came to find Travis to reclaim my Eastenders book late yesterday evening.”
Sanderson tapped the plastic bag on the table, slid it towards Abbie. Inside was the black book Abbie had yesterday filled with names she had found after a Wikipedia search.
“This book?” said Sanderson.
“That’s the one,” said Abbie.
Having earlier checked the book, Sanderson from memory recited the first few names. “Jake Wood, Scott Maslen, Patsy Palmer, Steve McFadden.”
“Eastenders actors,” said Abbie. “I told you yesterday about my nightmares. From them, I often wake in the grips of anxiety. To stop anxiety becoming panic and panic becoming a panic attack, I often travel to new towns for a couple of days. Meet new people. Get wrapped up in murder investigations, that sort of thing.”
Sanderson did not laugh at the joke. Neither did Warren. Abbie continued.
“Any sufferer of anxiety will tell you it pays to have more than one method of combatting panic attacks. One of mine is filling books with the names of characters from popular soap operas. From memory, if I can. I smash it with Eastenders and Emmerdale. I’m crap with Coronation Street. I don’t know why.”
After hiding the actual black book in the hotel, Abbie had returned to her room, opened Wikipedia, and started writing down Eastenders actors in a new book. How glad she was to have taken the time. That book, full of the names of actors from a soap opera Abbie had enjoyed in her early teens, might just be her get out of jail free card.
“Travis stole this,” said Sanderson, tapping the book. “He believed it contained incriminating evidence.”
“He did,” said Abbie. “He used it to try solicit naked pictures from me. You’ve seen the texts?”
Sanderson nodded.
“Travis was an idiot,” said Abbie. “Sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn’t just me he’d robbed. Did Clarissa tell you about his relationship with Francis?”
Sanderson had planned to push on the book. Something nagged at him. Told him there had to be more to it than Abbie had revealed, but what could he do? It was full of Eastenders actors. Full stop. Beyond instinct, he had no reason to disbelieve Abbie’s account.
At the mention of Francis, both Warren and Sanderson leaned forward.
“Clarissa mentioned a bag,” said Sanderson. “She was cagey and upset about the boy’s death. It was difficult to get much sense from her. Why don’t you fill us in?”
Abbie was glad to. Without mentioning Clarissa and Michael’s involvement, she filled the detectives in on the job Travis had performed for Francis: stealing Leona’s bag.
“And why would Francis do that?” asked Warren.
Abbie shrugged. “One can only speculate, but it makes me think about Eddie’s claim that Danny and Leona were sleeping together.”
Falling quiet, Abbie let the officers draw their own conclusions surrounding this. She saw no reason to mention her belief that Francis cared not about
