Outside the forensic tent it was a glorious autumn day: grotesque in comparison to the grisly scene Sergeant Vance and DC Hayes had just seen. This was the third murder on or around Foster Avenue in just a few months, and the public were frightened.
"Tell you what we need to do," said Vance, "is talk to that woman at number 57."
"Who's that?"
"Nora something. The neighbourhood police all know her. And you know the sort, believe me. Thinks she works for us. Busybody. And more to the point, she's got CCTV all over her house."
"Net curtain type?"
"Do people still have net curtains? I reckon they'd spoil her view."
It was a short walk from the crime scene to number 57, where - as Vance indicated with a satisfied nod - the front windows were clear of nets. There was a sticker on the front door warning about the Neighbourhood Watch, another sticker forbidding the posting of junk mail, and another discouraging salespeople or canvassers from knocking. The mat said WELCOME and the doorbell played a little tune.
When the door opened - just a crack, with the chain still on - DC Hayes was surprised. He'd been expecting a woman in her 80s, but Nora - if this was her - looked about the same age as his mother.
That's how you know you're getting old, he mused to himself. When the neighbourhood busybodies start looking younger.
"Hiya, Nora," said Vance, as both coppers showed their ID. "We were wondering if we might be able to take a look at your CCTV."
The woman looked distraught. "I only wish you could, Sergeant. But I'm afraid to say it's not working. My equipment was vandalised several weeks ago. It's the most terrible timing, I know."
They took a statement and went on their way.
"She was very upset," remarked Hayes.
"Wouldn't you be? Spent her whole life hoping to be at the centre of a police drama and then when one finally happens on her street she's got nothing. Must be gutted."
"Maybe she'll find a new hobby now."
"Maybe."
Alone inside her house, Nora sank onto the bottom step of her stairs. Her CCTV really was broken - she'd smashed it herself. She'd had no choice.
She'd checked it the morning after the first attack, of course - she was a responsible member of the community. And besides, it was exciting to have something to look for besides which of the student houses had had a party last night and who'd dropped nitrous oxide canisters all along the pavement on their way home.
Her excitement had grown when she'd realised her cameras had caught the attack. A young woman, walking alone down the middle of the road at 2am, not in a particularly straight line - Nora was forever making the point at residents' meetings that young people shouldn't put themselves at risk like this, walking drunk in the dark - but she’d gasped with horror as a figure in a long coat had stepped out from the shadow of a parked car and fallen upon the girl with a terrible savagery. Even the noisiest student on her street probably didn’t deserve this.
It was a good CCTV system. You could even zoom in. Which was just what Nora had done, to try to get a look at the face of the figure in the coat, as it looked down at the horribly still body of the girl, and then turned away -
- and then she’d gasped again. She’d rewound the tape and paused it again and again but there could be no mistaking it. The killer had her face. Nora’s face.
After her visit from the police all was quiet for a week or so, but one morning Nora woke again to the news she'd been dreading: another young person had been attacked, again in the middle of the night, again only minutes' walk away from Nora's house.
That evening, when the local paper thumped onto her mat, Nora picked it up and then had to sit down on the bottom step again. There on the front page was a picture, captured by someone's Ring doorbell, of a person the police 'wanted to speak to'. And though the image was blurred and grainy, the sight of it made Nora's blood run cold. It was the same face she'd seen on her own CCTV. Who was this murderous lookalike? And how long until the police came back to Nora's door?
It was only a matter of time. The killer was sure to strike again - the crimes were getting closer together. Nora needed an alibi.
"Fenella! I was wondering if you and the girls might like to come and stay for a couple of days." Nora didn't have a precise plan. But if she could get her daughter and granddaughters to stay in the house with her overnight, surely they could vouch for her with the police, and confirm that she definitely wasn't sneaking out at 2 in the morning to murder local youngsters? Even better would be if Nora could get out of the house for a while - out of the area altogether. But she rarely went to Fenella's house in London - there was just always so much to do here, on Foster Avenue, so many planning meeting and licensing meetings and residents’ meetings to go to, so many emails to send - and she couldn't quite bring herself to angle for an invitation.
"We're at Dad's this weekend," said Fenella, with only the barest hint of an apology in her voice. Nora's heart sank. Ten years ago, when Gerry had packed his case and left, declaring that he couldn’t live like this anymore (like what?), their daughter had insisted she wouldn’t take sides. But Nora had known it wasn’t true.
She sat by the phone, wondering who else she could ask. It wasn’t as though she was alone in the world - she talked to dozens of people every week, mostly at all those meetings. But who did she know well enough for this?
She couldn’t think of anyone.
There seemed to be no alternative. She couldn’t sit and wait for the police to arrest her for crimes she hadn’t committed. She was going to have to confront the attacker herself.
Wrapped up in her thickest coat but still shaking with cold and fear, Nora left her house at one in the morning to pace Foster Avenue and the streets around it, night after night, until light bled back into the sky and she was safe, for another day, from the killer with her face.
She went past all the things that used to cause her so much distress. Student houses with their loud parties, music and weed smoke billowing from the windows. Knots of young people walking home, drinking from cans and shrieking with laughter. Once Nora would have stopped on the street to berate them - why can’t you be quiet? Why are you so inconsiderate? - but now she only put her head down and hurried past, intent on her own trembling heart.
Back and forth she went, a frightened, one-woman Neighbourhood Watch. All the way to St. Joseph’s in one direction, then back the other way towards the square of impenetrable darkness that was the park at night. In one pocket she had a phone with 999 already entered, ready to press Call if she needed to. In the other she gripped a kitchen knife.
And then, on the fourth night, it happened. She was back on Foster Avenue, only a few doors down from her own house, when she heard footsteps ahead. She looked up the length of the dark, empty street to see a figure in a long coat on the opposite side of the road, coming towards her.
She stepped into the shadow of a parked car, tightened her grip on the knife, and waited.