into doing on dating shows. It’s what psychopaths learn to do.
Ostensibly Valerie was seeing Katrina’s parents because the mother, Adele, had called to say she’d found something that might be significant. In reality, the visit was just to let them know they hadn’t been forgotten. That their daughter hadn’t been forgotten. That the hunt for the man or men who killed her was still live. There were, of course, victims’ liaison officers, who kept all the families updated, but Valerie had spent a lot of time with the Mulvaneys in the early months. Too much, according to Will, who’d warned her about victim surrogacy. It wasn’t Valerie he was worried about – Will was one of the people she caught looking at her with a little sadness these days – it was the parents.
‘We found this in the basement,’ Adele Mulvaney said, handing Valerie a plain black shoebox. ‘It should have been in one of the plastic crates when she moved, I guess, but it was under a pile of Dale’s junk. I thought you’d want to take a look at it.’
Dale was Katrina’s father, and he wasn’t home. The victim liaison officer had told Valerie he’d been drinking a lot. No surprise: one murder took more than one life. Adele was trimly dressed and her greying hair was still cut in its nifty bob, but you could see the wreckage in the light brown eyes, the broken world, the loss from which there would be no recovery. The house was cursorily decked for Christmas (they had grandchildren from Katrina’s older brother, and the family would huddle to get through the holidays) but you could feel it had nearly killed them to do it. Even the tinselled tree had something strained and plaintive about it.
‘It’s just oddments,’ Adele said. ‘Ticket stubs and pens and some jewellery she’d outgrown. But there are some photos, and I thought… I knew how much time you spent going through the photos on her phone and computer. I don’t know. I just…’
‘You did right to call,’ Valerie said. ‘Would it be OK if we looked through this at the station? I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.’
They stayed for a half-hour. Drank the obligatory coffee. Did their best to sound as if investigative energy was high.
Dale Mulvaney staggered onto the porch as they were leaving. Raw bourbon breath. To her own disgust, it made Valerie want a drink. Again.
‘How many is it now?’ he said.
‘Dale, honey—’
‘How many?’
‘Seven,’ Valerie said. ‘Mr Mulvaney, this is Special Agent York. I know it must seem—’
‘Special Agent? What’s special about her?’
‘Dale, stop it.’
‘You told us you’d get him,’ Dale Mulvaney said. ‘Except now it’s two of them. Now it’s
them.
You stood right there where you’re standing now and told us you’d find him. And now seven girls are dead. What are you doing? What the fuck are you
doing
?’
‘You should just go,’ Adele said. ‘It’s better if you just go. Dale, come on inside.’
Dale Mulvaney put his back against one of the porch posts and slid down to his bottom with a bump. ‘It’s a rhetorical question,’ he said. ‘I know what the fuck you’re doing. You’re doing nothing. Absolutely fucking
nothing
.’
In the car on the way back to the station, Carla said, ‘Don’t let it get to you.’
‘What?’
‘The father.’
Valerie bristled. The assumption that it
was
getting to her. For a moment she was so annoyed she couldn’t reply. Then she said, very calmly, ‘I don’t let it get to me.’ She’d almost said: It
doesn’t
get to me. Altered it at the last second. Then wondered which version was the truth.
‘Well,’ Carla said. ‘It’s the brutal part of the job.’
Again, Valerie found herself unsure what the right rejoinder should be. Everything that came out of Carla’s mouth sounded like part of an elaborate mental sting operation, innocent remarks designed to expose the guilt of your responses. It was the woman’s self-containment. She
Ostensibly Valerie was seeing Katrina’s parents because the mother, Adele, had called to say she’d found something that might be significant. In reality, the visit was just to let them know they hadn’t been forgotten. That their daughter hadn’t been forgotten. That the hunt for the man or men who killed her was still live. There were, of course, victims’ liaison officers, who kept all the families updated, but Valerie had spent a lot of time with the Mulvaneys in the early months. Too much, according to Will, who’d warned her about victim surrogacy. It wasn’t Valerie he was worried about – Will was one of the people she caught looking at her with a little sadness these days – it was the parents.
‘We found this in the basement,’ Adele Mulvaney said, handing Valerie a plain black shoebox. ‘It should have been in one of the plastic crates when she moved, I guess, but it was under a pile of Dale’s junk. I thought you’d want to take a look at it.’
Dale was Katrina’s father, and he wasn’t home. The victim liaison officer had told Valerie he’d been drinking a lot. No surprise: one murder took more than one life. Adele was trimly dressed and her greying hair was still cut in its nifty bob, but you could see the wreckage in the light brown eyes, the broken world, the loss from which there would be no recovery. The house was cursorily decked for Christmas (they had grandchildren from Katrina’s older brother, and the family would huddle to get through the holidays) but you could feel it had nearly killed them to do it. Even the tinselled tree had something strained and plaintive about it.
‘It’s just oddments,’ Adele said. ‘Ticket stubs and pens and some jewellery she’d outgrown. But there are some photos, and I thought… I knew how much time you spent going through the photos on her phone and computer. I don’t know. I just…’
‘You did right to call,’ Valerie said. ‘Would it be OK if we looked through this at the station? I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.’
They stayed for a half-hour. Drank the obligatory coffee. Did their best to sound as if investigative energy was high.
Dale Mulvaney staggered onto the porch as they were leaving. Raw bourbon breath. To her own disgust, it made Valerie want a drink. Again.
‘How many is it now?’ he said.
‘Dale, honey—’
‘How many?’
‘Seven,’ Valerie said. ‘Mr Mulvaney, this is Special Agent York. I know it must seem—’
‘Special Agent? What’s special about her?’
‘Dale, stop it.’
‘You told us you’d get him,’ Dale Mulvaney said. ‘Except now it’s two of them. Now it’s
them.
You stood right there where you’re standing now and told us you’d find him. And now seven girls are dead. What are you doing? What the fuck are you
doing
?’
‘You should just go,’ Adele said. ‘It’s better if you just go. Dale, come on inside.’
Dale Mulvaney put his back against one of the porch posts and slid down to his bottom with a bump. ‘It’s a rhetorical question,’ he said. ‘I know what the fuck you’re doing. You’re doing nothing. Absolutely fucking
nothing
.’
In the car on the way back to the station, Carla said, ‘Don’t let it get to you.’
‘What?’
‘The father.’
Valerie bristled. The assumption that it
was
getting to her. For a moment she was so annoyed she couldn’t reply. Then she said, very calmly, ‘I don’t let it get to me.’ She’d almost said: It
doesn’t
get to me. Altered it at the last second. Then wondered which version was the truth.
‘Well,’ Carla said. ‘It’s the brutal part of the job.’
Again, Valerie found herself unsure what the right rejoinder should be. Everything that came out of Carla’s mouth sounded like part of an elaborate mental sting operation, innocent remarks designed to expose the guilt of your responses. It was the woman’s self-containment. She
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