DAY FOURTEEN — The Incident Room
Saturday, 29 April 1978, Late
Kizzy’s bedroom looked more like an ops room in the New Avengers than a teenage girl’s bedroom retreat. The Form Photo is pinned to a wardrobe door; dart holes and threads of string connect the suspects. On the bed, Momo curled her legs under her borrowed pyjamas, a mug of tea beside her. Kizzy stood by the board, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Kizzy points at the photo. “Back row. Five girls: Jane, Katie—though she’s set dressing—Cece, India, Julie-Anne, and Hilde. Who isn’t even in the country?”
“Hilde?” Momo squinted. “Wasn’t she the exchange student? Something about… socks?”
“Given to us for the week because of her age,” Kizzy nodded. “Everyone calls her Dingsbums. German for ‘Thingy.’”
“Wait, she got hit by a dart?”
“Twice.”
Momo blinked. “Robbie believes in Fate.”
Kizzy ignored her. “Front row: Me—exempt. Ruth—also accounted for. You’re off-limits too. You two are more like brother and sister. Then, Helen, Diana, Donna, and Tracey were all in the game. Miss Rowbotham – exempt, for obvious reasons. And Sharon, who should come with a hazard triangle.”
Momo smirked. “Well, I’m feeling very left out.”
Kizzy shot her a grin. “What about you and Colin? Still a thing?”
Momo didn’t answer. Instead, both girls looked at Cece’s face in the photo.
“It starts and finishes with Cece,” Kizzy said quietly. “First dart. Last kiss.”
“And a few in between,” Momo murmured.
Kizzy exhaled. “It’s been a lot of ducking and diving. But Robbie wasn’t hesitant. Or hard to read. He went full tilt.”
“She doesn’t talk about him,” Momo said.
Kizzy frowned. “Not all holiday?”
“Not since Tuesday.”
“That’s five days. Not even a week.”
Kizzy shook her head, confused. “Diana was a dead end. She mentioned her boyfriend mid-slow dance. Poor Robbie, he probably thought he was in with a chance.”
Momo added, “Boyfriend wants her on the Pill. She’s not ready.”
“So that leaves…” Kizzy flipped through her notes. “Off-piste—Fenella Penny. Sweet. Intense. Too into clay pigeon shooting for Robbie’s taste.”
“That’s who he saw Close Encounters with,” Momo said suddenly. “I saw them. His arm eased over her shoulder. No kissing.”
“He tried the Tarot on her. I think she saw through him.”
“And India?”
“She’s gone. London. The boys there are falling over themselves. Or under her.”
“Julie-Anne?”
She called him. They had matching anoraks when they were fourteen. If they haven’t kissed by now, they never will.”
“Spoken like Desmond Morris,” Momo said, gesturing to the annotated Manwatching on Kizzy’s desk.
“Exactly where I got it,” Kizzy smirked.
“And Sharon?”
“Robbie’s baptism by disco. She taught him to dance—barely. India danced like that. Tracey, maybe. Cece? Never.”
“And Helen?”
“Cece introduced her. Don’t know why. Helen had a promise. No follow-through.”
“Jane?”
“She’s the referee.”
“Tracey?”
Kizzy’s eyes darkened. “We’re getting there. I’m saving her for the fallout.”
Momo leaned forward. “Katie—irrelevant. Ruth—too innocent. Hilde—imaginary. That leaves Donna.”
Kizzy went still. “She got the dart. I set it up. Got him to hers for an all-nighter.”
Momo’s eyes widened. “And?”
“He stayed. She set the rules. He respected them. But—he keeps a diary. Let’s find it.”
“Won’t he have it with him?”
“Nope. He’s onto hardbacks now. The old one’s possibly here somewhere.”
ROBBIE’S ROOM — TEN MINUTES LATER
They knelt by the bed. Kizzy pulled the green Collins Five-Year Diary from the drawer as if it were radioactive.
She flipped pages.
“Donna’s fine,” she muttered. “He’s told no one. Which is exactly how she wanted it.”
Momo’s voice dropped. “What about Tracey?”
Kizzy froze. Looked up slowly.
“I daren’t. What have you heard?”
“That she was full volume. No brakes.”
Kizzy sighed and opened the diary again.
“She got what she wanted,” she said. “Despite my warning him off.”
Page after page. The pattern emerged.
Momo recoiled. “Cece will be appalled.”
“Will she find out?”
Together, they said it:
“Tracey.”
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