Rick catches Philip’s gaze. Philip gives him a small nod. They’re both feeling it. This could be a solid lead on the girl, maybe also on the killer.
‘What time?’ asks Philip.
‘I saw it on a couple of my rounds. Must have been around one o’clock the first time, then again at about two. I’ll check my book when I get home and confirm.’
‘You see who was inside?’ says Rick.
Clint shakes his head. ‘No, sir, the vehicle was empty, both times.’
Interesting, thinks Philip. Two sightings of the beige station wagon within the week, and one that puts last night’s murder victim with the driver. The head of Wild Ridge Trail isn’t far from Manatee Park. The guy could easily have parked there, taken the trail part way and then looped back to the park and killed the young woman.
‘I got the plate here,’ says Donald.
‘Shoot,’ says Rick.
‘6JB7892 on a Maryland plate.’
‘Is that right?’ says Rick. He looks at Philip, his expression dead serious.
Philip gets what Rick’s thinking. That their potential murder suspect isn’t a resident, but someone who shouldn’t be able to access their neighbourhood and their homes easily – someone who should have been tracked from the moment they entered through one of the security-manned gatehouses and flagged if they overstayed.
An outsider.
9
MOIRA
As Lizzie opens the door, Moira’s struck by how different their homes are. She’d been too dizzy and nauseous to notice earlier, but now the contrast is striking. Not so much on the outside; they both own the same mid-range model – a Country Classic – one of the eight variations of home you can buy in the Ocean Mist district of The Homestead. But inside the feel is totally different. Whereas her own space is still cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and make-do furniture, Lizzie and Philip’s place is classically stylish and spotless.
Lizzie is like that too, thinks Moira. She admires her easy elegance: the flowing green maxi dress she’s now wearing, and the way her long white-blonde hair is twisted into a bun held in place with a paintbrush.
‘Come in, come in,’ says Lizzie, beckoning her inside. ‘Were your dogs okay? I hope they didn’t mind you’d been away longer than usual? My daughter, Elsa, the middle one, she’s got this cute little cockerpoo but it gets really stressed if she goes out for more than an hour or so and barks the place down.’
‘They’re fine, thanks,’ says Moira, turning back to glance along the street one last time. The anxiety is still there, twisting an ever-tighter knot in her stomach, the question repeating in her mind over and over: Am I being followed?
She holds her breath. Checks twice to be sure. Then, satisfied there’s no sign of the silver Beetle or the wiry blond guy from earlier, she steps into the hallway.
Lizzie closes the door behind her and Moira’s anxiety morphs into something else. She feels suddenly claustrophobic, like she’s just been caged. Because as Lizzie turns back towards her, Moira sees that although her dress looks carefree, there’s something else going on in Lizzie’s body language – there’s tension in her shoulders, rigidity in her jaw, and her hands are clasped together in front of her stomach as if trying to protect herself. The smile she’s giving Moira doesn’t seem to reach all the way to her eyes.
‘Are Philip and Rick back yet?’ asks Moira, trying to keep her tone light when in truth she feels anything but. She glances towards the window; sees no sign of the silver Beetle or the blond guy. Swallows hard as the knot in her stomach tightens. She can hear a radio playing somewhere in an upstairs room, but other than that the house seems silent.
‘No, not yet.’ Lizzie shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure when they’ll be back. Let’s go through to the kitchen.’