Read Online The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood - Free Book Online Page A

you write
     for an audience doesn’t mean you have to share their views.
    He shrugs. ‘Not really. Yes, sort of. But only because of what happened. I wouldn’t have remembered anything about her except
     for the fact that I found her body in among my dustbins.
Then
I remember her. Sort of.’
    ‘Was she with people? Alone?’
    ‘I don’t know. A lot of the time it’s hard to tell, especially on a Saturday. Sometimes they’re alone when they come in and
     not when they leave. They’re like animals on Saturday night. You’d think, what with them being on holiday, Saturday wouldn’t
     be such a big deal, but you’d be surprised. They still get dressed up, get drunker, stay out later. Don’t know how to queue,
     don’t know how to wait. Must’ve been twenty, thirty, hanging around, inside, dropping stuff on the pavement. Chips, chips,
     chips. Twenty alcopops and then they think chips will put them right. I’ve got CCTV. Something kicks off every Saturday. CCTV
     saves me hours giving statements.’
    ‘So she’s on it?’
    He nods. ‘Yeah. Like I say, nothing remarkable. She comes in, she gets her chips, she talks to some boys while she waits.
     She liked vinegar. Must’ve used up half a bottle. Fanta. She drank Fanta.’
    ‘And the boys?’
    ‘I don’t know. Ask the police. They must’ve told you anyway. It wasn’t them. They were too drunk to stand up, most of them,
     let alone strangle someone. Except by accident maybe. So she gets her chips, she leaves, I carry on serving. We’re open till
     four on Saturday. I can turn two hundred kilos of chips on a good night, high season. We’re the only shop that’s open when
     the clubs let out, and most of them would sell their aunties for a bag of chips.’
    ‘So then?’ she prompts.
    ‘Half-four I’m taking out the trash, waiting for the oil to cool down enough to drain the fryer, and …’ He shrugs again. As
     an obituary, it’s not much.
    ‘It must have been awful,’ she says sympathetically.
    ‘Yeah …’ He starts to wrap her kebab in paper. ‘It’s not something you see every day. You want chilli sauce?’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Thanks no or thanks yes?’
    ‘Thanks yes. Thanks.’
    ‘Open or closed?’
    ‘Closed, please.’ It’s only going to go into the first bin she passes when she gets out of sight.
    He slaps the bundle down on the counter.
    ‘Twelve pound fifty.’
    ‘Twelve
fifty
?’ she squeaks.
    ‘Twelve fifty,’ he says firmly. ‘And a receipt.’
    Kirsty suppresses an eye-roll and hands over the money. The press aren’t the only people for whom serial murder represents
     a business opportunity.
    She can’t get into Funnland. A notice on the staff gate, where a handful of cold-looking hacks and snappers huddles among
     piles of cellophane-wrapped carnations, says that it will reopen tomorrow. She’s worked with one of the photographers a few
     times before, and wanders over. ‘Anything much?’ she asks. ‘Seen Stan Marshall?’
    He shakes his head. ‘I should think he’s in the pub. Nothing much here. Managing director, that Suzanne Oddie, and some other
     suits.’
    ‘Anything to say?’
    ‘Blah blah unprecedented, blah blah sympathies to family, blah blah cooperating with the police to the fullest extent, blah
     blah reassure our customers. There’s a press release.’
    Jeremy from the
Express
hands it to her. There’s not much. Park open again asap, Innfinnityland closed, probably to be demolished. Heartfelt sympathy.
     She takes a picture with her phone. She’ll read it off the jpeg later.
    ‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought Dave Park was here for the
Trib
.’
    ‘He is. He’s Mr Hard News. I’ve got the colour feature. Town in torment. Lock up your daughters. Price of beer. You know.’
    ‘Ah, the Sunday stuffies,’ says a hack from the
Mirror
. ‘Nothing new to say, just more of it.’
    ‘Still,’ says the snapper, ‘nice work if you can get it.’
    ‘Someone’s got to use the