TALKING TO STRANGERS by Fiona Barton.

 Welcome to my showcase for TALKING TO STRANGERS by Fiona Barton which is been hosted by Berkley Book

Talking To Strangers 

Author : Fiona Barton 

Berkley Books

Book 2 of 2: Elise King

Buy link: Talking Strangers

Pages : 400

August 27,2024

One 

 

Kiki 

 

Saturday, February 15, 2020"We've got a body!" Miles shouts, bouncing on his chair as if he's won the lottery. I stand up from behind my computer screen and try not to hate him. My news editor is twenty-four and skinny, and his crazy hair makes his head appear too big for his body. 

 

"He looks like a lollipop that's been left in someone's pocket," I told a friend during one of my regular venting sessions. But I keep the peace at work. Miles thinks someone taking a dump in a changing room is newsworthy, but he's still my boss. And I need the job. 

 

"Where's the body?" I ask, going to stand beside him. 

 

"Some wood down the coast. Ebbing, according to this tweet. Hey, you were there the other day for your Desperate Housewives thing, weren't you?" 

 

Desperate Housewives? I scream in my head. My boss clearly hasn't done the company's diversity and inclusion course. But then, nor has anyone else. One of the suits in advertising had decreed we needed to "reach out" to older people with disposable income, to bring adverts for river cruises to the Sussex Today website. He-it must have been a bloke-thought an investigation into middle-aged women looking for love would be a draw. 

 

"Like Love Island for the perimenopausal" was how Miles tried to sell it to me two weeks ago. I put on my barely-tolerating-the-situation smile and saved my roar of disbelief for later in the staff toilet. 

 

"Don't let him get to you," I fumed into the mirror. "You can't afford to lose this job. And he probably doesn't even know what perimenopause is." 

 

My hair was a mess, and I dampened my hands to press my fringe flat. And sighed. What's the point? The only person who's going to see me is Miles. And he won't notice. 

 

"Shut up and get on with it!" I issued the order. "Let's go and clock up some mileage expenses." 

 

Actually, it was fun in the end. I ended up meeting some great women with some brilliant tales. That's why I'm here on one of my precious Saturday mornings instead of having waffles with my daughter. I should crack on and get finished so I can take Pip blading, as promised. 

 

But the body in the woods is a real story. I can't walk away from it. My heartbeat thrums against my bra wire as I try to read the screen over Miles's shoulder. 

 

"Don't crowd me!" he snaps, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Okay, it's a woman, found in a place called Knapton Wood. No identity. Come on, we need to be all over social media. You take Facebook-you are on that, aren't you? I'll do the rest." 

 

"You're joking," I snort, one arm already in my coat sleeve. "I'm on my way over there. You can hoover up the rumors and TikTok theories while I talk to people who actually know something. The police, for a start. They'll be at the scene, and I need to speak to them face-to-face. It's basic journalism, Miles." 

 

But he's stopped listening and has disappeared into his screen like my thirteen-year-old does. Blank eyes, slack mouth. 

 

"I'll call you," I say. 

 

"Yeah," the bot mutters. 

 

As I walk, I text my mum to let her know I'll be late picking up Pip and stumble on the stairs as I scroll down to a saved number. No answer. I leave a message and try another. 

 

Mina Ryan picks up immediately. 

 

"Mina, it's Kiki Nunn. The reporter from the other night. I interviewed you for my dating feature." 

 

"Kiki? Oh, right, yes." Mina's voice is hoarse, like she's been crying. 

 

"Are you okay?" I say. "Sorry if I've caught you at a bad time." An apology never hurts to get people onside. 

 

"You've heard, then?" Mina says. "About what's happened?" 

 

"Well, only that a woman's body has been found in a wood. Do you know any more?" 

 

"I think it's Karen." Mina gulps for air. And so do I. 

 

"Oh, Mina, I'm so sorry," I murmur, trying to keep my voice even, but my hands are trembling, making my phone jump against my ear. Karen Simmons, a sparky hairdresser from Ebbing, was to whom I'd placed my unanswered call. I know the victim-I met her last Monday with some of the members of her singles group, the Free Spirits. 

 

"Her mobile is off and she's not opened the salon," Mina says, weeping. "Look, I've got to get off the phone-the police are on their way round to talk to me. I was with her last night." 

 

There's a beat of silence, and I wait for Mina to say it. The regretful friend's refrain. 

 

"I should never have let her go home on her own, should I?" Mina sobs. 

 

"It's not your fault," I say softly. "Can I call you later?" But she's gone. 

 

Poor woman. I almost did the same last week. Karen had wanted me to stay for one last drink after Mina and the others drifted off. 

 

I wasn't sure-her eyeliner was slipping sideways, and there was more of her red lipstick on the empty glasses in front of her than on her mouth. 

 

I sipped my soda water-"I'm driving . . ."-and watched enviously as Karen finished her glass of Chardonnay. 

 

"I wish I had your energy," I said, laughing. "And your social life." I couldn't remember the last big night out I'd had since Pip. 

 

"I'm having the time of my life," Karen said loudly. "I just wish I hadn't waited until now." 

 

A young bloke at the bar glanced over. "Look at the state of her," he jeered to his mates. 

 

If Karen heard, she didn't react. It was time to go-before the atmosphere in the pub soured any further. I ushered Karen out and got her into my car. 

 

I'd counted on being home and in bed by ten thirty, but Karen's wine buzz was fading fast and she had a little weep in the car. I couldn't just leave her at the door. So I ended up staying for a coffee while she slipped off her heels and told me why I was a fool not to do online dating. 

 

She'd hit the jackpot in week one, apparently. "We danced on the beach," she said, with a watery smile. "A bit of a cliché, I know, but nothing beats kissing for the first time under the stars, does it?" 

 

I nodded. "Nothing wrong with a good snog," I muttered, wondering if I would ever have one again. I looked at my watch-I needed to leave. I'd have to pay an extra hour to the babysitter as it was. But Karen was in full flow. 

 

"He was wonderful. A little older than me, separated, and ready to try again. Mina thought it was all going a bit fast-she didn't want me to get hurt. But I really thought this was it. God, I even started reading articles about fertility in your forties." And she fell silent. 

 

"What happened?" I prompted gently. 

 

"His wife," she murmured. "She came back. And he said he had to give it another chance. Just my luck, really. Still, I haven't given up. There is someone out there for me. Whenever I feel a bit down, I go online and read all the amazing love stories that have resulted from people meeting on apps, and look at photos of their beautiful weddings. It'll be my turn one day. And I've met some nice men along the way." 

 

"And some horrors, I bet?" I tried to lighten the mood. 

 

She laughed and moved on to the man in the world's worst toupee-"Why do they even make them in ginger?"-and the one who'd brought his mum on the date. "He said she didn't get out much. She drank us under the table and went home with a darts player." 

 

My coffee had gone cold and Karen had stopped smiling by the time she got on to the date with a goatee and gray teeth. 

 

It was off the record at the time-of course it was-but what about now? Karen's dead. Almost certainly murdered. Does it still count? Can I use it? The private stuff? God, I could write a brilliant piece. Take the reader right under the victim's skin. Show them what it's like to be a woman, alone and loveless in her forties. Like you rings in my ear, but I bat it away. 

 

Maybe I don't have a relationship, but I don't have time to be lonely-every minute of my day is accounted for. But the idea trips me up. And I see myself piloting my sad little boat alone. Don't be so dramatic, I tell myself. You've got Pip. And I wonder if she's a lonely girl, too. 

 

This is all getting too depressing, and I make myself stop. Instead, I let my mind slide to the possibility that this story could get me noticed again by the big boys in the national media. 

 

Something to think about . . . 

 

Two 

 

Elise 

 

Saturday, February 15, 2020 

 

The body had been found by walkers. It's always walkers, Detective Inspector Elise King told herself, struggling to zip her forensic suit over too many layers. Running is far safer. Move fast and you don't risk being drawn into random horror. 

 

She nodded to the constable manning the freshly stretched blue-and-white police tape, ducked under, and headed into the gloom. Shreds of mist clung to her legs and aching cold seeped through the soles of her boots as she walked through the trees toward the flash of a camera. 

 

Detective Sergeant Caro Brennan was already there, holding the flap of the pop-up tent open for her. 

 

The scenes of crime officer inside put down his camera and stood to one side so Elise could take it all in. The victim was sitting against the trunk of a tree under arc lights. Thin, bare legs sticking out like one of the Barbie dolls Elise's niece loved undressing. Flesh waxy with death. Red strappy dress. Not out for a walk, then. Hair glittering with frost under the lights. Two false nails torn off, lying on the ground like exotic beetles. Head angled down to the right. Elise half knelt to look into her face. Dirt blackened the nostrils and the corners of her mouth. The hairs on Elise's arms suddenly rose. 

 

"Oh, Christ," she said, voice muffled by her mask. She leaned forward to be sure. "It's Karen Simmons." 

 

"Who?" Caro asked. 

 

"She's a hairdresser here in town. Her salon is a few streets from my place." 

 

"Is there a partner?" Caro inquired. "I'll get someone round there." 

 

"No, Karen lived alone," Elise said, standing too quickly and having to steady herself on her sergeant. "She started a singles group in town recently. Walking, pub evenings-that sort of thing. The Free Spirits, she called it." 

 

"Did you sign up, then?" 

 

Elise gave Caro a warning look as the scenes of crime officer sniggered into his mask. 

 

"No, Sergeant. Well, I went on a walk she organized, once. For the exercise." 

 

"Right." Caro grinned, making her own mask slide down. She hitched it back up and straightened her face. "Were there men in the group? Maybe she found someone? Not Mr. Right, obviously." 

 

"Some," Elise muttered, groping for the faces who had been on that freezing hike along Ebbing beach in late December, just a couple of months ago. But her memory was still warming up. The legacy of chemo brain lingered six months on. She squeezed her eyes shut. It helped sometimes. She'd hardly known anyone-most had been like her, curious first-timers-and they'd all been lagged into anonymity by huge coats, hats, scarves-eyes the only distinguishable features. But when Karen and some of the other women had taken off their outer layers in the pub at the end, they'd been dressed up to the nines with a thumb-smear of glitter in their cleavage and lippie in their pockets. This was what they'd come for. Elise felt completely wrong-footed. It's a singles group, you idiot, Elise had berated herself for judging them. For a second, she'd wished she had their confidence but had shrunk farther inside her coat to escape interested eyes. She wasn't ready to be on display yet and had left after the first drink. 

 

"Any names?" Caro prompted. 

 

"Er . . ." Elise floundered, each face slipping back into the fog in her head. "I'll have a think, okay? Anyway, I can't see a bag," she said, changing the subject. "Let's start searching the immediate area. We'll scale up once it's properly daylight. No point stumbling about in the murk-we'd do more harm than good." 

 

"There are other things missing, though. Look," her DS said, shining her penlight up the mottled legs. "No knickers. I wonder if she was wearing any when she arrived?" 

 

"You'd have taken my name if I'd said that," the SOCO muttered from behind his camera. 

 

"I wasn't judging her," Caro snapped. "I was just looking at the evidence." 

 

"Yes, let's get on with that," Elise muttered. "It looks like she's been posed against that tree, doesn't it?" 

 

Elise went to squat again but stopped mid-bend. She couldn't face another undignified judder back to standing. "But she's been face down on the ground at some point, to get that amount of muck in her nostrils and mouth. The rest of her face has been wiped clean, though-look at the streaks of mud near her hairline." 

 

"Someone's tidied her up," Caro said. "Have you got that?" she snarled at the SOCO. 

 

"Yep," he said sullenly and carried on placing a red marker next to the false nails. 

 

"The pathologist is on her way," Elise pushed on. "She reckons another thirty minutes or so. Thank God it's Aoife Mortimer on duty this weekend-she'll whistle through everything without any nonsense." She sighed. The intense cold was draining her energy too fast. She used to be able to stand in freezing woods all day long. But she had to pace herself now. "Keep going," she whispered to herself under her breath. 

 

"Sorry, what was that?" Caro muttered, giving Elise a concerned frown. 

 

"Nothing. Okay, let's talk to the couple who found the body. Who are they?" 

 

"Noel and Evelyn Clayton. They own a local DIY shop," Caro said as they made their way back through the trees. 

 

"Right. Clayton's. It's tucked away behind the library. I've never been in-I don't really do hammers and nails," Elise murmured. "How are they doing?" 

 

"He's making a fuss about getting home to open his shop, and she's hardly said a word." 

 

The couple was sitting in the back seat of a parked police car, shivering despite their matching puffer coats. "Turn up the heating, for God's sake," Elise told the constable in the driving seat. She slid into the passenger seat and twisted round to face the couple. She'd seen him in the street before, but not her. 

 

Excerpted from Talking to Strangers by Fiona Barton. Copyright © 2024 by Fiona Barton. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. 

Detective Elise King’s investigation into a woman’s murder is getting derailed by a reporter who insists on doing her own investigation in this nail-biting mystery from the author of Local Gone Missing.

When Karen Simmons is murdered on Valentine’s Day, Detective Elise King wonders if she was killed by a man she met online. Karen was all over the dating apps, leading some townspeople to blame her for her own death, while others band together to protest society’s violence against women. Into the divide comes Kiki Nunn, whose aggressive newsgathering once again antagonizes Elise. 

A single mother of a young daughter, Kiki is struggling to make a living in the diminished news landscape. Getting a scoop in the Simmons murder would do a lot for her career, and she’s willing to go up against not just Elise but the killer himself to do it.

About the author

Fiona Barton's debut, The Widow, was a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller and has been published in 36 countries and optioned for television. Her second novel, The Child, was a Sunday Times bestseller. Born in Cambridge, Fiona currently lives in Sussex and south-west France.

Previously, she was a senior writer at the Daily Mail, news editor at the Daily Telegraph, and chief reporter at the Mail on Sunday, where she won Reporter of the Year at the British Press Awards.

While working as a journalist, Fiona reported on many high-profile criminal cases and she developed a fascination with watching those involved, their body language and verbal tics. Fiona interviewed people at the heart of these crimes, from the guilty to their families, as well as those on the periphery, and found it was those just outside the spotlight who interested her most . . .