she said. ‘It’s like hitting a wall. Everything stops. You realise that everything up to that point doesn’t matter and the one thing you want to do is to spend the rest of your life with that person.’
‘And Abbie felt the same?’
Zoe’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She moved in with you?’
‘I was a better choice than an abusive boyfriend, is that what you mean? She loved me, Jack.’
‘And she started studying?’
‘On and off,’ said Zoe. ‘She was at art school.’ She waved at the paintings on the wall. ‘Abbie did these. She’s very talented.’
‘You’re not a Goth, obviously.’
‘I am sometimes,’ said Zoe. ‘But it’s not a lifestyle thing for me.’
‘But it was for Abbie?’
She nodded. ‘Totally. But it looked good on her. Sexy as hell. She got into it about six months ago.’ She smiled, but her eyes were tearful. ‘I was sorry to see her blonde hair go, though. She had wonderful hair. But she wanted it black, so black it went.’
‘And you went with her to Goth bars?’
‘Sure. It made her happy. She went with me to galleries and museums, and even tried the opera. I went with her to Goth bars and concerts. I could never really enjoy the music, but I got such a kick out of seeing her enjoying herself. And the dressing up was fun, I suppose.’
‘Did you know any of her Goth friends?’
‘I’m not sure if I’d call them friends. More like acquaintances.’
Nightingale leaned over and took the photographs of the four other victims from his raincoat pocket. He spread then out on the coffee table. Zoe’s lips tightened and the blood drained from her face. ‘I can’t bear looking at them,’ she said, turning away.
‘You’ve been shown them before?’
She nodded. ‘And they’re all over the papers and TV whenever they mention Abbie. I hate the way they all get lumped together, as if they stop being individuals.’
‘You never saw Abbie with any of them?’
Zoe sighed. ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. We went to so many places. Abbie was pretty and fun, she always had lots of admirers around her. I’d buy them drinks but most of what they said went in one ear and out the other.’
‘Did any of them ever come around here?’
‘Sometimes. Abbie would get bored sometimes, so she’d get a few people around to drink and watch TV. Horror movies, mostly.’
‘Can you do me a favour and just have a close look at the photographs, just to make sure.’
Zoe nodded and wiped her eyes, then slowly went through the photographs. She held the picture of Stella Walsh close to her face and squinted at it. Nightingale realised she probably needed glasses. ‘This one, maybe,’ said Zoe. ‘Pretty little thing. How old is she?’
‘Eighteen,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s Stella Walsh. She was the first one to be killed.’
Zoe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I saw her in the Crypt,’ she said. ‘A few months ago, perhaps. But it’s hard to say, with the make-up they tend to look alike. That’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘The point?’
‘The whole Goth thing. They say they’re expressing their individuality but actually they all end up looking the same. Black hair, white make-up, black lipstick, black clothes.’ She handed back the photographs. ‘But maybe I saw her. I can’t swear on it.’
Nightingale put the photographs back in his raincoat pocket. ‘The night that Abbie died, she went out alone?’
‘She said she was meeting a friend. She wanted to see a film, some stupid sci-fi nonsense. I didn’t want to go.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Biggest mistake of my life.’
‘And you don’t know who the friend was?’
‘Either she didn’t say or she said and I forgot. I wasn’t feeling great.’
‘And she didn’t say where she was going to see the film?’
Zoe shook her head.
‘Because she was found in North West London. Five miles from here.’
‘In a stinking bedsit, that’s right.’ She blinked away
‘And Abbie felt the same?’
Zoe’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She moved in with you?’
‘I was a better choice than an abusive boyfriend, is that what you mean? She loved me, Jack.’
‘And she started studying?’
‘On and off,’ said Zoe. ‘She was at art school.’ She waved at the paintings on the wall. ‘Abbie did these. She’s very talented.’
‘You’re not a Goth, obviously.’
‘I am sometimes,’ said Zoe. ‘But it’s not a lifestyle thing for me.’
‘But it was for Abbie?’
She nodded. ‘Totally. But it looked good on her. Sexy as hell. She got into it about six months ago.’ She smiled, but her eyes were tearful. ‘I was sorry to see her blonde hair go, though. She had wonderful hair. But she wanted it black, so black it went.’
‘And you went with her to Goth bars?’
‘Sure. It made her happy. She went with me to galleries and museums, and even tried the opera. I went with her to Goth bars and concerts. I could never really enjoy the music, but I got such a kick out of seeing her enjoying herself. And the dressing up was fun, I suppose.’
‘Did you know any of her Goth friends?’
‘I’m not sure if I’d call them friends. More like acquaintances.’
Nightingale leaned over and took the photographs of the four other victims from his raincoat pocket. He spread then out on the coffee table. Zoe’s lips tightened and the blood drained from her face. ‘I can’t bear looking at them,’ she said, turning away.
‘You’ve been shown them before?’
She nodded. ‘And they’re all over the papers and TV whenever they mention Abbie. I hate the way they all get lumped together, as if they stop being individuals.’
‘You never saw Abbie with any of them?’
Zoe sighed. ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. We went to so many places. Abbie was pretty and fun, she always had lots of admirers around her. I’d buy them drinks but most of what they said went in one ear and out the other.’
‘Did any of them ever come around here?’
‘Sometimes. Abbie would get bored sometimes, so she’d get a few people around to drink and watch TV. Horror movies, mostly.’
‘Can you do me a favour and just have a close look at the photographs, just to make sure.’
Zoe nodded and wiped her eyes, then slowly went through the photographs. She held the picture of Stella Walsh close to her face and squinted at it. Nightingale realised she probably needed glasses. ‘This one, maybe,’ said Zoe. ‘Pretty little thing. How old is she?’
‘Eighteen,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s Stella Walsh. She was the first one to be killed.’
Zoe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I saw her in the Crypt,’ she said. ‘A few months ago, perhaps. But it’s hard to say, with the make-up they tend to look alike. That’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘The point?’
‘The whole Goth thing. They say they’re expressing their individuality but actually they all end up looking the same. Black hair, white make-up, black lipstick, black clothes.’ She handed back the photographs. ‘But maybe I saw her. I can’t swear on it.’
Nightingale put the photographs back in his raincoat pocket. ‘The night that Abbie died, she went out alone?’
‘She said she was meeting a friend. She wanted to see a film, some stupid sci-fi nonsense. I didn’t want to go.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Biggest mistake of my life.’
‘And you don’t know who the friend was?’
‘Either she didn’t say or she said and I forgot. I wasn’t feeling great.’
‘And she didn’t say where she was going to see the film?’
Zoe shook her head.
‘Because she was found in North West London. Five miles from here.’
‘In a stinking bedsit, that’s right.’ She blinked away
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