Synopsis

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.

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Praise

“This latest from best-selling Barton is a twisty and highly satisfying nail-biter that will have her fans and new readers burning the midnight oil.”— Library Journal, STARRED Review

“Artful.”—Publishers Weekly

“A compelling demonstration of the sad truth that there’s no neutral way to conduct a murder investigation. Everybody pays.”—Kirkus Reviews

Excerpt

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 . . .

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.

About the Author

Fiona Barton is the New York Times bestselling author of Local Gone Missing, The Widow, The Child, and The Suspect. She has trained and worked with journalists all over the world. 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. Born in Cambridge, she lives in England.

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