True Crime

Clare Newell-Stokes floated aimlessly around the flat. The seconds crawled by, slower than sludge.

"Come on, Imogen," she muttered. "Don't you dare work late tonight!"

The longer Clare waited, the more tightly wound she felt. When the key turned in the lock shortly after six p.m., Clare was pratically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was so relieved that Clare was finally home, she almost flew around the room like a balloon with all its air let out.

Of course, Imogen didn't come in and sit down in front of the TV. Having slipped off her shoes and trod into her slippers, she walked through to the kitchen shopping bags in hand. It became clear that she was going to put the shopping away and cook some dinner.

Scowling, Clare ground her teeth and paced the living room carpet, arms folded tightly across her torso.

"Hurry up!" she muttered.

Impatient, she stalked into the kitchen, and peered over Imogen's shoulder.

"Stirfry? You know I don't like stirfry," grumbled Clare. "I'd be happy with some popcorn or something," she added, but Imogen ignored her. "Sorry," Clare mumbled. "I don't mean to be rude. It's just... Well, I've been looking forward to this all day. Longer actually..."

Imogen swept past and adjusted the thermostat.

"Fine," Clare huffed. "I'll go and wait in the lounge, then. Get out of your way..."

Clare made herself comfortable, and forced herself to wait patiently.

When Imogen appeared at last, carrying her dinner on a tray, Clare beamed. "The TV remote is by your seat," she said.

Imogen sank, graceful and cross-legged onto the sofa.

Clare practically vibrated, and made no comment about the missing popcorn.

Netflix booted up, and the two women carried on watching where they'd left off the night before. The police had just found another body, and Netflix showed close ups of the ligature marks just like on the previous victims.

Both women were engrossed in the process the police followed: untangling clues, identifying the body (Heather Brightwell), and finally, making an arrest.

Imogen couldn't take her eyes off the screen. Devin Schultz had dark eyes, good cheekbones, and a charming Iopsided smile. He seemed to enjoy all the cameras clicking and flashing at him on his way into the courtroom.

During the credits, text appeared on the screen to inform them that Schultz had died in prison several years later.

A new episode began. Clare beamed. "I think you're going to love this one," she said.

Imogen was beginning to look a bit bored.

"What is this?" she muttered, sounding annoyed. "I've never heard of this one..." The narrator went on to describe the copycat killing, and where the body had been found.

"Look!" Clare pointed excitedly when the ligature marks were shown, and held up her wrists for a better view. The marks were still livid, even all these years later. "And on my neck!" she said, and sure enough, the next thing to be shown was the marks on the neck.

"This one is boring," Imogen muttered through a mouthful of spicy noodles. "Never heard of this one..." She aimed the remote at the TV and jabbed at the buttons. In a moment, she'd brought up the episode menu, and moved on to the next one. "That's better!" she said. This one is the modern Ripper case."

Clare gaped.

"Hey!" she said, indignant. "I've been looking forward to this for ages! Put it back on! That's my story, dammit, what do you mean it's 'boring'?!"