“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I’ve not killed anyone.”
“Waste of words,” said Abbie. “You’d say that if you’d killed him or if you hadn’t, so what’s the point? Know what you should say?”
“What?” said the woman, then bit her lip, angry she'd engaged.
“Your name, your favourite colour, your favourite passtime. Once we get to know each other, it’ll be easier for me to believe you’re innocent.”
“Who the hell are you?” said the woman.
“Keep returning to that well, don’t you?” said Abbie. “Well, you know my name. Taken, not given. As to who I am…” Abbie shrugged. “Stranger, wanderer, interloper. Interferer, many people would say. I’m Miss No One. My identity is irrelevant, it is my purpose that matters.”
“And what’s that? You like following strangers, or did someone send you?”
“Did someone send me?” Abbie mused. “Interesting question. Did you suspect someone would have you followed? Are you entangled in some kind of nefarious plot? Go on, tell me you are. I love a nefarious plot. Gives me something to quash."
The look on the woman's face suggested she would never become Abbie's friend, but Abbie chose not to believe it. People always gave her that look, first time they met, and only some of them later tried to murder her.
"Well?" asked Abbie. The woman shook her head.
“I asked first.”
“Oh, that’s childish,” said Abbie. “But I like it. It’s fair. So I'll confess: I’m in town because I have reason to believe a little girl is in serious danger.”
“What little girl?”
"Which little girl," Abbie corrected. Then moved on when the woman looked as though she might pick up the bloodied murder weapon and start stabbing.
“She's young. Six, seven, eight. Dark skin, probably African or of African descent, with lovely straight black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes. She seemed bright. Worthy of saving. I love it when they’re worthy.”
“What’s her name?”
“Good question. I’ll let you know once I find out.”
The woman, who still hadn’t given her name, stared at Abbie. There was a dead body between them, but somehow Abbie’s verbal sparring partner had forgotten. Given how panicked and hung up she’d been a couple of minutes ago, Abbie felt a sense of triumph that her conversational weaving had shifted the woman’s focus.
“This is insane,” said the unnamed lady.
“Says the murderer.”
The woman flushed. “I’m not a killer.”
Abbie smiled. “Don’t worry, I know.”
She stepped forward again, so she was right over the dead guy. He was between forty and fifty, overweight. Greying, thinning hair. His skin was greasy, but his hands smooth. Not a labourer. He wore a shirt and brown trousers. Boring, inexpensive. Unlike his watch, which might have been a fake. If it wasn’t, it probably cost more than the combined value of all the clothes in the office, on all three of its occupants.
“Who is he then?” said Abbie.
“What do you mean, you know I'm not a killer?”
“I asked first,” said Abbie.
“I don’t give a toss,” said the woman. “What do you mean you know I’m not a killer?”
“You know that’s a double standard, making me answer first. It’s hypocritical, too. Not good traits in a person so far as I’m concerned. I may have to reconsider our burgeoning friendship.”
“Just answer the damn question.”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “So demanding.” She hesitated, looked at the corpse, then shrugged. “I misspoke, okay? You happy?“
“You misspoke?”
“Right.”
“You do think I’m a killer?”
“No. I just don’t have the information to say with any degree of certainty if you are, or you aren't. Dig up your back garden, I might find fifty bodies, all killed within the last week. Which would be good going. Not just all that murder but the digging. Your arms would be bigger, which probably rules out so many bodies in such a short time. Unless you have an accomplice. Or a JCB.”
“Are you for real?”
“Are any of us? Anyway, I didn’t mean to imply I knew you weren’t a killer because I don’t. I meant to imply I know you didn’t kill this particular man.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Because you can’t have.”
The woman gritted her teeth. “And what makes you say that?”
“Look,” said Abbie, “before we continue, can you just tell me your name? I hate to rabbit on when I don’t even know what to call you. What do you say? I’m not asking for your address or even your surname. I’m not even asking for the truth, just something to call you.”
The woman considered. She’d had enough of Abbie—that much was clear—but they were already a long way down the rabbit hole. Travelling a little further made sense.
“Christine,” she said at last.
“Do your friends call you Chris?”
“What my friends call me isn’t relevant to you and never will be. You can call me Christine.”
“Well, Christine, you may not be holding the knife but turns out your tongue’s plenty sharp. I need to check if I’m bleeding.”
“How do you know I didn’t kill this man?” Pushed Christine.
Abbie lowered to her haunches. “I don’t. I misspoke again.”
Christine’s eyes blazed with fury. Abbie raised a hand before the younger woman could Hulk-out, pick up the desk, and smash it over Abbie’s head.
“I’ve been right behind you since you jumped the fence,” said Abbie. “No way you could have killed this guy without me hearing. Even if you were a Ninja and did assassinate him in silence, you didn’t do it since I saw you arrive.” Abbie pointed to the stained carpet. “That’s not fresh blood, spilt within the last few minutes. It’s already dried, stained the carpet. I’m no mortician, but my guess is this guy’s been dead at least an hour.”
Abbie rose, stepped away from the corpse. There was nothing to be learned from his body, and Abbie didn’t want to slip and get her prints on his skin. The cops would take a dim view of that.
“That’s not to say it wasn’t you,” she said. “The cogs are still turning up here,” she tapped her head. “It’s possible you came here earlier tonight, got in a
