As Good as Dead: The Finale to A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

Pip found it, the itch at the back of her head, the one that scraped forward and back, sounding like two hissed letters. HH.

She stared at the file open in front of her. Andie planner photo March 12 – 18 2012.jpg. A photo she’d copied and pasted into Production Log – Entry 25 of her project last year. One of the photos she’d taken of Andie’s school planner when she and Ravi broke into the Bell house, just under a year ago, searching for a burner phone they’d never find.

The full photo, the original before Pip had cropped it, showed more of Andie’s cluttered desk. A make-up case with a pale purple hairbrush resting on top, her blonde hairs still wound around the bristles. Beside it was a Kilton Grammar academic planner for the year 2011/12, open to this mid-March week, little more than a month before Andie had died.

And there it was. HH scribbled in on this Saturday, and in the other photos they’d taken – the weeks before and after. Pip thought she’d worked out Andie’s code at the time. That HH referred to Howie’s House, just as CP meant the train station car park, where Andie would meet Howie Bowers to pick up a new stash or drop off money. But she’d been wrong. HH had nothing to do with Howie Bowers. HH meant Harriet Hunter. Whether it was a phone call or a meet-up, it was hard to say. But it had been Harriet all along, and here was proof. Andie reaching out to the sister of the DT Killer’s fourth victim.

The itch in Pip’s head became an ache, sharpening at her temples as she tried to understand what this meant. The idea thrashed against her as she tried to make it make sense. What did Andie Bell have to do with all this, with DT?

There was only one place she might find the answers. Andie’s other email address, one Pip suspected had been a secret. Andie had had lots of those in her short life.

Pip finally looked away from the planner page, opening her browser instead. She logged out of her account on Gmail, and then clicked sign in again.

She typed in Andie’s address [email protected] and then paused, her mouse hovering over the password box. There was no way she’d be able to guess it. She guided the mouse instead to the prompt that said Forgotten Password?

A new screen popped up, asking Pip to Enter the last password you remember. The cursor blinked in the input box, mocking her. She traced her fingers down the trackpad, skipping over the password box to the Try a different question button.

Another option blinked up on screen, offering to send a code to the recovery email address [email protected]. Pip’s stomach lurched: so, Andie did have another email address, likely her main one. The one people knew about. But Pip didn’t have access to that one either, so she couldn’t recover the verification code. Andie’s secret email address might just remain a secret forever.

But her hope wasn’t all gone yet. There was another option, another Try a different question at the bottom of the page. She clicked it, closing her eyes for a half-second, begging the machine to please please please work.

When she re-opened them, the page had changed again.

Answer the security question you added to your account:

Name of first hamster?

Below it was another input box, asking Pip to Enter your answer.

That was it. There were no other options, no try again buttons on the screen. She had reached the end. Stalemate.

And how on earth was she supposed to find out the name of the Bells’ first hamster? A hamster that, presumably, existed pre-social media. She couldn’t exactly knock on their door again to ask Jason; he’d told her to leave them alone for good.

Wait a second.

Pip’s heart kicked against her chest. She grabbed her phone to check the day. It was Wednesday. Tomorrow, at 4 p.m., Becca Bell would call her from prison, like she did every Thursday.

Yes. Becca was the solution. She would know the hamster Andie had been referring to here. And Pip could ask her if she knew anything about Andie’s second email address, and why she might have needed one.

But 4 p.m. tomorrow was twenty-five hours away. Twenty-five hours felt like an entire lifetime, which it might just be. Hers. Pip didn’t know how long was left, only DT knew that, or the person pretending to be him. A race against a timer she couldn’t see. But there was nothing she could do about it except wait.

Becca would know.

And in the meantime, she could chase up the other open leads. Send a follow-up message to those ex-Green Scene employees about the security alarm. Arrange an interview with the now retired DCI Nolan. He’d replied to her email this morning saying he would be happy to discuss the DT case for her podcast. There were still things Pip could do, moves she could play against him in these next twenty-five hours.

Her hands were shaking now. Oh no. Next would come the blood, leaking from the lifelines across her palm. Not now, please not now. She needed to calm down, slow down, take a break from being inside her own head. Maybe she should go out for a run? Or… She glanced at the second drawer down in her desk. Or maybe both?

The half-pill was bitter on her tongue as she dry-swallowed it, tried to chase it down with air. Breathe, just breathe. But she couldn’t breathe because there were only two and a half pills left in the little clear bag and she needed more – she needed them, or she wouldn’t sleep at all, and if she didn’t sleep then she wouldn’t be able to think, and if she couldn’t think then she wouldn’t win.

She didn’t want to. Last time was supposed to be it, she’d promised. But she needed them now, to save herself. And then she’d never need them again. That was the deal she made as she picked up the first burner phone in the line and turned it on, the Nokia symbol lighting up the screen.

She navigated to her messages, to the only number saved in any of these phones. She sent Luke Eaton just three words: I need more.

Pip laughed at herself then, hollow and dark, as she realized this very thing in her hands was yet another link back to Andie Bell. Walking in her footsteps, six years behind. And maybe secret hidden phones weren’t the only thing she and Andie Bell would share.

Luke replied within seconds.

Last time again is it? Ill tell you when I have them.

There was a flash of rage up the skin of her neck. Pip bit down on her lower lip until it hurt, as she held down the off button and returned the phone and Luke to their secret compartment at the bottom of her drawer. Luke was wrong. This was different; this really would be the last time.

The Xanax hadn’t kicked in yet though; her heart was still hummingbird fast in her chest, no matter what bargain she tried to make with it. She could go for a run. She should go for a run. It might help her think, help her work out what Andie’s connection to Harriet Hunter and DT was.

She wandered over to her bed and the window behind it, glancing through the glass at the afternoon sky beyond. It was a slow, churning grey, and there were spots on the driveway from another bout of rain. Never mind, she liked running in the rain. And there were worse things someone could find on their driveway, like five headless stick figures, coming for her. There’d been no more; Pip checked every time she left home.

But there was something else out there now, a flash of movement pulling at Pip’s gaze. A person, jogging on the pavement past their house, past their driveway. It was only three seconds before they were gone, out of sight again, but three seconds were all Pip needed to know exactly who it was. Blue water bottle gripped in one hand. Blonde hair pushed back from his angular face. One quick glance over his shoulder at her house. He knew. He knew this was where she lived.

Pip saw red again, an eruption of violence behind her eyes as her mind showed her all the ways she might kill Max Hastings. None of them were bad enough; he deserved much worse. She cycled through them all, her thoughts chasing him down the road, until a sound brought her back to the room.

Her phone, vibrating against the desk.

She stared at it.

Fuck.

Was it No Caller ID? DT? Was this it, the moment she found out who was doing this to her? The CallTrapper app ready and waiting to go, to turn the disembodied breath into a real person, into a name. She didn’t need to learn what Andie Bell’s connection to all this was; the final answer would be in front of her.

Quick. She’d hesitated too long already, darting across the room to pick up the phone.

No, it wasn’t No Caller ID. There was a sequence of numbers scrolling above the incoming call: a mobile number she didn’t recognize.

‘Hello?’ she said, holding the phone too tight against her ear.

‘Hello,’ said a deep, crackling voice down the line. ‘Hi, Pip. It’s me, Detective Inspector Richard Hawkins.’

Pip’s chest loosened around her too-fast heart. Not DT.

‘O-oh,’ she said, recovering, ‘DI Hawkins.’

‘You were expecting someone else,’ he said with a sniff.

‘I was.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb you.’ Now a cough. Another sniff. ‘It’s just that, well, I have some news, and I thought it best to call you right away. I know you’d want to know.’

News? About the stalker he didn’t believe in? Had they made the connection to DT at their end too? She felt a new lightness then, starting from her gut and working up, bare heels lifting from the carpet. He believed her, he believed her, he believed –

‘It’s about Charlie Green,’ he said, filling the silence.

Oh. She sank again.

‘Wh-what…’ Pip began.

‘We’ve got him,’ Hawkins said. ‘He was just arrested. He had managed to make it to France. Interpol have him now. But we’ve got him. He’ll be extradited back and officially charged tomorrow.’

She was still sinking. How was she still sinking? There was only so deep she could go, until she fell right through the ground into nothing.

‘I-I,’ she stuttered. Sinking. Shrinking. Watching her feet so they couldn’t disappear down through the carpet.

‘You don’t have to worry any more. We’ve got him,’ Hawkins said again, his voice softening. ‘Are you OK?’

No, she wasn’t. She didn’t understand what he wanted from her. Did he want her to thank him? No, this wasn’t what she wanted. Charlie didn’t belong in a cage; how could he help her from a cage, tell her what was right and wrong, what to do to fix it all? Why would she want this? Should she want this? Was that how a normal person would be feeling right now instead of this black hole inside and her bones caving in around it?

‘Pip? There’s nothing to be scared of any more. He can’t get to you.’

She wanted to scream at him, tell him that Charlie Green was never a danger to her, but Hawkins wouldn’t believe her. He never believed her. But maybe it wouldn’t matter, maybe there was still a way here to fix herself, to safely step off this spiral before it reached its end. Because that was where this was all heading, she could feel it, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. But maybe Charlie could.

‘C-can I…’ she began, hesitating. ‘Can I please talk to him?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘To Charlie,’ she said, louder now. ‘Can I please talk to Charlie? I’d really like to speak to him. I-I need to speak to him.’

A sound came down the line, a croak of disbelief from Hawkins’ throat. ‘Well, um…’ he said, ‘I’m afraid that that won’t be possible, Pip. You’re the only eyewitness to a murder he allegedly committed. And if there’s a trial, obviously you’ll be called as the prosecution’s lead witness. So, I’m afraid it’s not going to be possible for you to talk to him, no.’

Pip sank even further, bones fusing with the structure of the house. Hawkins’ answer was a physical thing, sharp and lodged inside her chest. She should have known.

‘OK, that’s fine,’ she said quietly. It wasn’t fine, it was anything but fine.

‘How’s the… how’s that other thing going?’ Hawkins asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. ‘The stalker you came to me about. Have there been any other incidents?’

‘Oh, no,’ Pip said flatly. ‘Nothing else. That’s all sorted now. That’s fine, thank you.’

‘OK, well, I just wanted to let you know about Charlie Green, before you saw it in the press tomorrow.’ Hawkins cleared his throat. ‘And I hope you’re doing better.’

‘I’m fine,’ Pip said, and she hardly had the energy to even pretend. ‘Thanks for your call, DI Hawkins.’ She lowered the phone, her thumb finding the red button.

Charlie was caught. It was over. The one possible salvation she’d had left, other than this dangerous game against DT. At least she could officially cross Charlie’s name from the list of people who might hate her enough to want her to disappear. She’d always known it wasn’t him, and now it really couldn’t have been: he’d been in France all this time.

Pip glanced at her computer screen again, at the page asking her to name Andie Bell’s first hamster, and it was almost funny just how ridiculous it was. Just as funny, as ridiculous, as the notion of decomposing bodies and the way we all become one. Disappearing wasn’t mysterious, it wasn’t thrilling; it was cold bodies with stiff limbs and purpling patches as the blood inside pooled. What Billy Karras must have seen when he found Tara Yates. What Stanley Forbes must have looked like in the morgue, though how could he have had any blood left in him when it was all over her hands? Sal Singh too, dead in the woods outside her house. Not Andie Bell, though; she was found too late, when she was almost entirely gone, disintegrated. That was the closest thing to disappearing, Pip supposed.

And yet, Andie hadn’t disappeared, not at all. Here she was again, six and a half years after she died, and she was Pip’s only remaining lead. No, not a lead, a lifeline: some strange unknowable force connecting them across time, though they’d never met. Pip wasn’t there to save Andie, but maybe Andie was there to save her.

Maybe.

But still, Pip had to wait. And Andie Bell would remain a mystery at least for the next twenty-four and a half hours.