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She hovers slightly above the floor, dressed in her winter clothes, her face caved in like the last time I saw her. “Hi, Ashley,” I say. “Emma,” she says.
remember what it felt like to be nineteen and alive. I don’t know what it feels like to be fifty and still alive.”
“When was the last time you looked for news of his other girls? I know that you can do that now, even here from this apartment.”
I cannot lie to her because she always knows, so I say, “I haven’t looked for a while.” “Maybe you should look tomorrow.” “Do you know something?” I say. She smiles her terrible smile, and says, “I know everything.”
There are several pictures of her. She was blonde with a wide forehead and a slightly pointed chin, and she looked like Joanna Davies and Ashley Smith (and like me too, of course, when I was that age). She also looked like the other murdered women that I’ve read about over the past years, all found in various locations across the north of England.
They are never too close to Huddersfield, where Adam Chapman is now a Member of Parliament,
“Might this be the work of the cleverest serial killer in British history?” I wonder if Adam read that piece too, and if he was secretly pleased.
And it is here at the office, trying to ignore the season, that my life changes. I am scrolling through news stories from our appalling world, when I see that Adam Chapman, Huddersfield MP and mainstay of the Yorkshire smart set, has just been found dead at his family’s manor house in Clevemoor. This story has followed closely on the heels of a report that he was a person of interest in a string of unsolved murders from the past thirty years. I read everything I can find on the story, going back through news archives. Two weeks ago, Diya Advani had broken the story that police had zeroed in on
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